Historical February–March 2020 article. Dates, prices, services and contacts describe the source period; current availability has not been established.
My quest to graduate college nearly became folklore.
The journey took long enough, the Greeks and Romans both have names for it.
An epic odyssey, Odysseus, and his Latin counterpart, Ulysses, would need to walk another five years to match my matriculation. Someone once remarked to a roommate of mine, “I’ve never seen him awake.” That perfectly encapsulated those somnolent, Rip Van Winkle years.
It wasn’t until I met my wife that I became woke.
We met in a bar in St. Louis.
She was with her friend, and they came in after work. Both were dressed in white; old school nurse’s uniforms, with Nurse Ratchet caps and clunky shoes.
I ambled over, slicked back my hair and said, “Are you guys nurse’s or something?” I’d like to tell you the fairy tale ending, but she just said, “No shit Sherlock.” I saw her again and struck up a conversation.
She mentioned she was a recent graduate of the University of Wisconsin in Madison. Instinctively, I lied to her.
It was a little white lie, barely a fib, without a malicious bone in its body.
I told her I had also gone to the University of Wisconsin in Madison, which was practically the only university in the state I hadn’t dropped out of, or actuallly attended.
But I had partied there plenty, and knew enough street names, bars and buildings, to make her think I was on the Dean’s List.
On our first date, she brought a newspaper with her.
It never came up, but later I asked her, “Why did you bring a newspaper on our first date?” She said, “I thought if it didn’t work out, at least I’d have something to read.” Sometimes I rue my charm, my wit, and sparkling soliloquies, to have missed the chance of watching her noodle the crossword puzzle between appetizers.
During this period, I was at Saint Louis University, my fourth university and second state.
I had to write a philosophy paper to finally earn the coveted Bachelor of Science in Communication.
My response, like most of my college career, was to get really stoned, say, “F#&@ it”, and fall asleep.
But this time she wouldn’t let me off the hook.
She poured black coffee down my throat, hid my stash and typed the pages that eked from my pen.
We pulled an all nighter and, after fifteen years, it was cap and gown time.
It dawned on me, that she might be the one, so I had to come clean.
I said, “Molly, I have to tell you something.
When we first met I lied to you.” She said, “I knew it. You’re gay.” If I was I’d be the luckiest guy in the world, but I was a little puzzled why she would think I was.
It had to be the tight Ocean Pacific shorts I wore on our first date. “No”, I said. “I never went to the University of Wisconsin in Madison.” She replied, “Well, no shit Sherlock.” After all those years wandering the wilderness, I came to realize that home was somewhere over the rainbow, just ignore the pot at the end of it. And sometimes you need a woman to kick you in the butt to help you get over.
Originally published in The Times of Skinker-DeBaliviere, February–March 2020.
Read this article in the original newspaper issue.
Original source: SD_Times2020_02.pdf, printed page(s) 4; PDF page(s) 4.
