8/25/2011 High School Drama

The concern over drunken driving was, by the early 90s, growing, but it had yet to reach the current hysteria.  So when our waiter at the Cat and Fiddle whisked up to our table to ask if Wendy and I wanted a third round, we gave him a quick nod.  Wendy was in mid-story; we didn’t need any bill-calculating interruption.

As Wendy told it, she was with another women in a locked bathroom snorting coke when Barbel barged in.  It didn’t help that the woman, Monique, was the painter whose work was being exhibited at this particular gallery opening, or that a lot of her art hung on the walls of the restaurants that Barbel owned in the Bay Area.  Wendy and Monique should have been flattering Barbel, not flirting with each other.  In the habit of swinging first and apologizing for it later, Barbel aimed a punch at Wendy’s gut.

“Only this time,” Wendy explained, “Monique tried to get between us, and Barbel

clocked her.  Pop!“  Wendy smacked a fist into her palm.  “She got her right on the chin and launched Monique like a rag doll, scooting across the bathroom tile on her back.  We both stood there, like what the…?  Then Barbel ran over to Monique.  I think she thought she had killed her or something, but I could see her coming to, so as Barbel was bending to help her, I kicked Barbel as hard as I could right in the butt.  Snapped the heel right off my pump and pitched her head right into the wall.  Bam!  She hit the floor right next to Monique.  I threw my other shoe at her and ran out of there, ran all the way back to our apartment, like some barefoot hooker being chased by her john.”

“And then you left town,” I surmised.

“That night.  I had some getaway gear stashed in the shrubbery behind the apartment.”

“I’ve heard of serious relationships, but this—“

“I was left high and dry in San Francisco by my high school P.E. teacher.  Jane.  Great volleyball coach.  So in Wisconsin—what do they know in Wisconsin?  My parents are like administrators.  My dad counts beans for the state, and my mom works for the local school district.  I’m excelling at volleyball, well, swimming, softball, and track too, but volleyball’s my love.  Jane’s not that much older—maybe ten years?  She could see I wasn’t chasing any guys, so I don’t know who made the first—it must have been her, I wouldn’t have known—anyway, by the time I was a Junior we were sneaking around doing all the good stuff.”

The waiter came by with the third round.  The sun was getting lower and the traffic on Sunset beginning to thin.  Happy hour was still in high gear, but people were beginning to sign their tickets and head off for dinner. 

“It was insane,” Wendy continued.  “We were both insane.  If they had caught us Jane would not have only lost her job, but probably gone to jail.  But I was seventeen and it was all about sex, sex and volleyball, I don’t think I cared about much else.”

Wendy took a sip from her wine.  “We came in second at state.  I wanted to play volleyball for University of Wisconsin, but they didn’t have any scholarships, so I ran off to San Francisco with Jane instead.”

“No scandal?”  I asked.

“My parents didn’t know.  I told them I wanted to major in theater at San Francisco State.  They had no clue.  I remember once Jane and I were on the floor of our den.  The lights were off and we were lying there naked when my mom came in.  She was just on the other side of the couch; I could smell her perfume.  She had just gotten back from a PTA meeting.  Clutching each other, Jane and I both held our breath.  All she had to do was turn on the lights and we were busted.  Maybe she knew we were there and didn’t want the drama, or the scandal, or maybe she decided she had been hearing things, but she turned around and went back up the stairs.”

Right, I thought, Wendy’s mother might not have wanted the drama, but her daughter sure did.  Getting naked with your gym teacher in your own house?  I could see why Wendy wanted a life in the theater.