Meet Cute

 

The Meet Cute

"K-J-R Seattle, Channel 95," Bluebug's radio speaker sang out cheerfully, cutting through the hum of the VW's engine whine. Then came The Doors—that opening guitar, Morrison's voice dropping low and prophetic: "This is the end, my only friend, the end..."

My hands tightened white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

Thinking about Hawkeye. Crazy motherfucker. The LT would get pissed at him because he would play that fucking song over and over on his portable tape deck he'd bought in Bangkok on his R and R. The song would echo night after night until we were all sick of it. Smitty finally stole the cassette one night during Charlie's nightly mortaring—just grabbed it and chucked it into the darkness. The LT thought the song hurt morale. Maybe it did. But that fucking mortar interrupting our precious sleep hurt more.

The DJ's voice came back, morning chipper. "Hello, all you lovers out there! It's Friday, February 14th, 1969—Valentine's Day. Your special day. Let's get your morning started with a little something from the Beatles. Here's 'Lady Madonna.'"

"Lady Madonna. Children at your feet." Paul McCartney's voice filled the car.

Valentine's Day. Fuck me. A year ago, I'd been outside Kon Tum, Viet Nam, sitting tired and dull in the red dirt of the airfield, listening to Armed Forces Radio playing from the mechanics' shop, waiting for a chopper to take me to Saigon and then back to the world. Utterly thankful to still be in one piece after my stupid decision to extend my tour for thirty days to get an early out. Turned out that while being short and out in the field was a bad trip, deciding to extend a week before Tet kicked off was brutal.

I shook my head and repeated what the doctor at the VA told me. "Sergeant, you just got a case of nerves from the transition. It's a big jump from the Central Highlands back to civilian life. Give it time, get back to a routine, and it'll pass."

So stop it. Forget it. Get your shit together.

At Snoqualmie Summit, I decided I needed a piss break and coffee. Bluebug's heater, always a hit-or-miss thing, was barely working. My feet had gone numb fifteen minutes out of North Bend.

I saw the girl as I walked out with my to-go coffee.

She was pacing around, muttering to herself while the February wind whipped her long dark hair across her face in tangled streamers. She wore a field jacket and a bright red scarf. The jacket was way too big for her. She had her arms wrapped tight around herself, hands disappearing into the sleeves.

It was starting to snow. Not the fat, lazy flakes of a Christmas card, but hard, windblown blizzard snow that stung when they hit exposed skin.

The girl was a small, forlorn figure, and something in my chest tightened. Not attraction, though she was pretty in an unpolished way—no makeup, freckles visible across her nose and cheeks. Maybe it was because she looked young. Maybe it was just that I had a thing about people left behind.

Fuck.

"Hey," I called out, "You okay?"

She turned, and I could see her eyes were red-rimmed, her nose pink from crying or cold or both. "No," she said flatly. "I got in a fight with my boyfriend. The asshole left me here." Her voice cracked on the word "asshole," revealing that she'd been crying not long ago and might start again.

I glanced around the parking lot. It was packed with cars with ski racks on top, a semi idling near the gas pumps. All white and gray and the sound of wind.

"Left you? As in drove away?"

"As in drove away, yeah." She wiped at her nose with her sleeve. "We were supposed to be going to Spokane together for the weekend. Happy Valentine's Day to me."

I took a sip of my coffee, considering. The smart thing would be to tell her to call someone from inside, wish her luck, and keep driving. I had my own shit to deal with. But the wind gusted again, she hunched deeper into the field jacket, and I heard myself saying, "Well, if you're headed east, I can give you a ride."

She looked at me warily. "Yeah?"

"Sure," I said, gesturing toward my Bug with the coffee cup. "Bluebug's not much, but she runs."

The girl walked closer, leaning down to peer through the passenger window at the cluttered interior. A duffle bag lay across the back seat, a balled-up sweater, a green blanket, and empty Styrofoam coffee cups rolling on the floor.

She smiled. "Miss Bluebug, huh? Okay. Sure. Thank you."

"My little sister named her. I'm Joe," I said.

"Sarah." She pulled the door open and climbed in, bringing cold air and snow with her. She had a small backpack that she held on her lap.

I got in and set my coffee between my legs. Bluebug's engine turned over after a moment of protest. I pulled back onto Highway 90, heading east into the blizzard.

For a while, neither of us spoke. On the radio, the Beatles gave way to Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Proud Mary," then to some news about Nixon's inauguration last month, then to an ad for McKay Ford.

The girl, Sarah, stared out the window at the white-covered pines sliding past.

"So," she finally said, "Spokane, huh? You from Seattle?"

"Yeah," I said. "Heading to Montana. Thinking about going to school in Missoula."

She nodded like that made perfect sense. Maybe it did. "Why Montana?"

"No idea, just wanted to get out of Seattle."

Sarah smiled a little at that—the first real expression I'd seen from her. "Yeah. I get that."

The blizzard was getting heavier. I leaned forward, peering through the windshield as the wipers struggled to keep up. It was going to be a long drive if it kept snowing like this.

I noticed her shivering. "You warm enough? I got a blanket in the back." I reached around without looking and grabbed a tattered blue blanket, handing it to her.

"Thanks." She tucked it around her legs.

The road curved ahead, white and uncertain, disappearing into the falling snow. I gripped the wheel and drove on, two strangers heading east into a blizzard.

For the first few miles, Sarah was quiet, just holding the blanket around her legs and staring out at the snow. The wipers made their rhythmic squeak across the windshield. Then, like a dam breaking, she started talking.

"I'm an idiot," she blurted out.

I glanced over at her. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." She laughed bitterly. "I always do that. Pick the wrong guy. Every single time. You'd think I'd learn, right? But no, not me. I've got a gift for finding assholes."

"What kind of assholes?" I asked, keeping my eyes on the road.

"Oh, you know. Losers. Musicians, mostly. Guys with guitars and big dreams and no money." She pulled the blanket tighter. "First one, Derek, he was a bass player in a band called The Electric Prophets. But I thought he was deep, you know? Sensitive. Turns out he was just a jerk and a thief."

"He take your money?"

"Three hundred dollars." She said it flatly, like she'd come to terms with the loss. "I was saving up. Had it in a coffee can in my sister's and my apartment. He knew about it. One day I came home and he was gone. The can was empty. Left me a note that said, 'I'll pay you back, babe.' Sure, Derek. I'm holding my breath."

I shook my head. "That's shitty."

"I know, right?" She laughed again, and this time there was a little more humor in it. "My mom says I have a radar for losers. My sister Julie says I'm a masochist. I think I'm just dumb."

"I doubt you're dumb," I said. "Maybe...just optimistic."

"That's a nice way of putting it." She turned to look at me. "What about you? You got anybody?"

"Nope."

"Smart man."

We drove in silence for a moment. The snow was letting up a little, and I could see the road better. I relaxed a bit. A green highway sign flashed past: Cle Elum 15 miles.

"What are you gonna major in at Missoula?"

I hesitated. I hadn't really thought about it much. "No clue. Maybe forestry. Something that keeps me outside."

"Forestry." She seemed to consider this. "That's good. Better than sitting in an office."

"That's what I figured."

"I'm going to be a writer," Sarah said suddenly, like she'd been waiting to tell someone. "Fiction. Novels, maybe. Or short stories. I don't know yet."

"Yeah? You any good?"

"I don't know. Maybe." She tucked her hair behind her ear. "I was going to Gonzaga. Was there for two years. English lit. But then I met Derek. He convinced me to drop out and move to Seattle. Said we were going to be artists together. He had a place in the Fremont." She rolled her eyes.

"You thinking about going back? To Gonzaga?"

"Maybe. I could live with my sister. Maybe I'll go back in the fall."

"I bet you'll make it okay," I said.

"How do you know?"

"I don't. You just seem like the kind of person who lands on her feet."

Sarah was quiet for a moment. "I don't feel like it most of the time."

The highway stretched ahead of us, straighter now as we came down the eastern side of the pass. The snow had mostly stopped, and patches of blue were starting to show through the clouds.

"What do you want to write about?" I asked.

"People, mostly. Regular people in weird situations. I like figuring out why people do what they do, you know? What makes them tick." She turned to me. "Like right now. Why'd you stop for me? You don't know me. I could be crazy."

"Are you?"

"Yes, absolutely," she grinned. It transformed her face. "But that's not the point. Most people wouldn't have stopped. You could've just kept driving."

I shrugged. "You looked cold."

"There's more to it than that."

"Maybe." I didn't elaborate, and after a moment, she let it go.