Back in 1999 or so, when I was 24 and bored and dumb, I went through a phase that involved a lot of first dates and a lot of…discovering my sexuality, we’ll say. (I think I jokingly called it my Slut Phase at one point, but have since reconsidered that classification.) Anyway, one night I went on a date with a guy that I knew was not the right guy for me, and I knew I was not the right girl for him. But we were in Old Town and had dinner and some margaritas and then decided to head down to a local pub that served beer by the yard in these ridiculous tall glasses.
And so we drank a couple yards of beer and talked shit to each other and flirted despite ourselves. Eventually we’d had enough to drink so we went out and started wandering around Old Town trying to clear our heads enough to drive home. It was cold and a little foggy and around 1am so there wasn’t anyone around when we wandered into the little cemetery that is right smack in the middle of Old Town. We ended up sitting on a bench, bullshitting and flirting and being drunk. One thing led to another (as it does when you are 24 and dumb and drunk), and then we quickly progressed from making out to searching frantically through my purse for a condom.
Afterwards, we were wandering back to our cars and Nick (that was his name, by the way) was walking the opposite direction when suddenly he stopped, turned around and said “I’m going to tell my grandkids this story someday.” Creepy, yet flattering.
I, of course, told my best friend a mere 6 hours later. (It would have been sooner but she objected to 2am phone calls if I wasn’t bleeding or in jail.) Laura was positively shocked, because in the 16 years we had been friends I was always the Good Girl. Scandalous liaisons in shadowy public places were more likely to be a story from Laura.
Fast forward 10 years to last week. I’m at work and my cell phone rings.
“So I’m down in Old Town with the kids,” Laura said “and I’m in this little cemetery….” (Here’s where she started snickering.)
“You are such a brat!” was all I could say since I was at work. She just laughed and laughed.
“I want to see the famous spot where it happened!” (Insert peals of laughter here.)
So I told her, because it was kind of funny that 10 years later, she’s down there with her stepkids telling them “Oh, let’s go look at this cemetery” just so she can taunt me about a hilarious, stupid, daring thing that I did when I was young and dumb. The bench isn’t there anymore, but Laura still is.
This summer, she and I created yet more memories to add to the pile when we drove across the country to bring her back to San Diego, just us and the pug. Sophie has been having play dates with Auntie Laura and Ike and Tina, the Puggletarys. We started working out together with Sheila, and she’d make me lunch once a week or so. She’s pregnant with her first baby, my little niece or nephew.
She and her husband are moving to Kansas City for a year, so he can do school at the Army War College. It’s the third time she’s moved since she met him; such is the price of being a Navy officer’s wife. They leave in two days, the morning of New Year’s Eve.
I know we’ll still make time to call and make fun of each other, because we always have despite living miles and miles apart for the past 10 years. And I know I’ll see a lot of Kansas City over the next year, but my heart is still breaking, just a little.
At least she won’t be able to call me from any memorable cemeteries in Kansas City.
