I don’t think I could ever forget this story. After all, it was an unforgettable date. With a girl I hate to remember. Debbie. Ah, Debbie.
It was a Sunday afternoon, just at the end of the summer—just when the heat of August begins to subside, and students begin to trickle back onto Penn’s campus, and I realize I’m probably not going to wash my shorts until next summer.
I had made plans to meet her at a restaurant RIGHT at 6:30 p.m., and I was running late. I remember because it was downtown and there was a ton of traffic on the way down, since it was almost the weekend. So actually...it must have been...a Friday?
Yes, it was! I know it was because I always make up a short song for the dates I set. And this one went “Don’t forget, oh don’t forget/You’d be ever so upset/If you don’t remember me say/Be there 6:30 on Friday.” It’s a great way to remember when I have to be places. The only problem is that most days of the week fit into the rhyme scheme.
But I’m positive this was on a Thursday, right at noon. Once I finally made it to the restaurant, Debbie was already there. Ah, Deb. There she was, sitting at the table outside. And did she look gorgeous.
Did she look gorgeous?
Yes, of course she did! She was wearing a beautiful, tight black dress. Ah, Debbie. I used to call her ‘Big Sunshine’ and ‘Libby’ before I knew her actual name. The way the moonlight hit that face of hers that night, I’ll never forget it. And her...heart shaped face? Well, the light hit it, and it was kind of in this playful way. It made her red hair so much more vibrant!...or her dark hair...so much darker. You know what, the dress was red, her hair was black. That’s it.
And she looked so beautiful set against the interior of that coffee shop, first thing in the morning on that fateful Wednesday. She was holding a wrench. I remember because I said, “Why are you holding that wrench? This is a coffee shop.” And she looked at me, through those thick horn-rimmed glasses, and said “Your car’s almost finished.” Ah, Debbie. Always...talking about cars. In coffee shops?
Wait—you know what? Scratch that, I met her at an auto shop.
I could never forget the way she looked in that grease–stained jumpsuit. Working on that car. Her blonde curls kind of bouncing playfully against her forehead. Man, she was working the hell out of that car. I remember thinking, “Wow. Do you put quotations around thoughts in stories?” But before I could say something she slapped me right across the face. She screamed, “Where have you been, Greg?!” That stuck out in my mind because I’d never been slapped before. And my name’s not Greg. And then the WORST part was—
Wait. I’ve never been to an auto shop. And I don’t know any Debbie’s. Hmm.
Oh, you know what? I’m thinking of the wrong story. The real story begins long, long ago, in a little town called...
Ah, I just lost it. Totally blanking. This usually doesn’t happen. But the moral of the story was very profound. And it changed my life forever. And I hope it changes yours too.
I’ll always love you, Deb.
Sincerely,
Joe
