Tag Archives: young love

Sometimes a Cigar…

The Day My Cigar Went Out in the Rain

It was a rainy, March day in 1973 — a little like this rainy, March day.

My ex-GF was wrapped up in the ratty old full-length mink we’d bought for a few bucks at a Purple Hearts Veteran Thrift Store. When the sun started poking out from the gray clouds, she’d pulled her long, jet black hair out and now it was down, hanging across the damp and mottled fur… she couldn’t possibly have looked any cuter. As we walked the wet and puddled streets, we talked, our shoulders bumping together. I chewed a soggy, rum-soaked cigar that kept going out.

We’d been broken up for a while. She’d taken up with an old drinking buddy of mine, one of her teachers at the state university we both attended. Her new boyfriend had taken a teaching job in Germany and she was waiting to finish school (or something… damn, how fast it does all fade away) and in a few weeks, she too, would have packed up and moved to Germany.

It was the seventies, of course, and there was no such thing as a simple relationship in those days — at least not among the college hippies and disaffected bohos that formed our extended social set.

With our relationship officially over for many months, we’d drifted into a relatively easy and comfortable friendship… a complex one, to be sure… still deeply shot through with longing on my part — yet it had been my insistence on a completely open relationship (in order to pursue what I’m positive we both thought at the time was the “great lost love” of my life) that had finally heaped enough pain on that relationship that it finally shattered in a devastating explosion of raw emotion and pain… I realized for the first time that it was pain that I had caused.

It sounds, I suppose, impossibly callow, but until that moment it had never completely sunk in that I was capable of causing pain to my loved ones… it was, I suppose, my portal into adulthood… a transition I’m not sure that I’ve really completed. (And I’m sure that regular AYoS readers are nodding their heads knowingly right now.)

But on that day, the memory of the pain was submerged a little… though we were walking the same streets around the neighborhood we’d shared for several years — the same streets we walked obsessively the day some months before when she finally managed to communicate the pain I’d caused her.

Early in the relationship, she had moved across the street from the tiny bungalow I’d rented for a few years in college. It wasn’t my idea and it had made those open relationship, free love early 70s sometimes awkward and, on one pivotal night, deeply, deeply painful for her — and for me, as well, as, over the years, the memory of that night and all that flowed from it burned ever deeper into my memory… like an acid tear eating always, ever deeper into my soul.

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Monday, December 05, 2005
Saturday, February 04, 2006

The Day My Cigar Went Out in the Rain

You were wrapped up that day
in an old fur coat
we were splashing in puddles
in the lane

That was one day
I won’t ever forget
the day my
cigar went out
in the rain

I was going to send
for the letters I wrote
to see what life
was like in the past

The times that we laughed
and the times that we cried
fall away from the light
so fast

Truck stop, french fries, ketchup on your cheek in the pale moonlight…

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Truck stop, french fries, ketchup on your cheek in the pale moonlight

How many of us have the kind of memories we thought we’d have, growing up?

I remember the day I decided, once and for all, to find the malt shop. On bus trips and car trips through downtown, I’d kept my eyes peeled, convinced that I’d find that centerpiece of teen culture (that I saw on TV, in the movies, even in comics) among the other one-off exotica (a bookstore, a music store with sheet music, a fancy men’s store with elevators… the height of the urban sophistication in a county that had gone from farms and orange groves to suburban tracts almost overnight in the postwar boom… sure there was a single elevator far in a corner of the new Sears, there seemingly for the panic-stricken escalator-phobes who would freeze in panic in front of the then-new-fangled electric stairways).

Surely, there must be a malt shop full of bobby-soxed and pony-tailed teen girls with their pompadoured boyfriends.

I spent most of a day riding my bicycle up one urban street after another. There may have only been two business drags downtown in those days (still are, come to think of it) but there were a slug of side streets, at least five or six with fingers of business running off toward the old, 20’s and 30’s housing tracts that trailed off toward the eastern hills. I went up one, down the other, peering into every storefront.

Several times I thought I’d scored.

There was an old fashioned pharmacy with a short counter. Not a teenager in sight. I stuck my head in anyway to ask if they had malts. No, came the answer. But the pharmacist might remember how to make a cherry phosphate. It sounded like medicine to me, so I moved on.

There was an ice cream parlor… part of what would later become a massive chain. And they did have milkshakes. They also had a no loitering policy aimed squarely at the very teen scene I sought.

I never found that malt shop.

But I kept looking for it and other iconic cultural landmarks I thought were my birthright.

Even after I was deep in my teens and knew full well that I was chasing fantasies, I kept looking. Getting a car in that long ago era when gas was cheap (a car with virtually no backseat, frustrating yet another teen fantasy, but one with, for the era, great mileage) meant I could extend that search out over wider and wider geographic areas.

I found myself driving for… sorry my environmental brothers and sisters… the hell of it, often deep through the night, crossing counties, driving ever eastward into the hills, then through them into the inland empire that lay between and beyond our low coastal mountains.

Eventually I found myself late one evening in San Bernardino… San Berdoo as it was more often known. It was a Saturday night. By then I had long hair and looked like the other body surfers I hung out with… torn jeans, faded flannel shirt, hiking boots.

So when I pulled into a drive-in truck stop diner with sullen, beehive haired waitresses teetering out to rows of parked cars on red high heels, thick hose disappearing into particularly unsexy red shorts (with matching vests) I felt like I’d finally found the space and time warp that would take me to lost but not forgotten dreams of my youth.

And, yes, there were teens.

Pompadored dudes, complete with cigarette packs rolled in left sleeves of sharp white T’s and tight, pressed jeans, and pointed toe shoes. No lie.

The girls were… not the girls of my dreams. Instead of pony tails and poodle skirts they had thick masks of makeup, vampire eyes, and stiff, elaborate stacks of teased and ratted hair. When they’d get out of their boyfriend’s lowered Chevies, it became apparent that few of them would soon be recruited as runway models. Too many malts, was my guess.

But I see the Rose of this song more as a girl from my earlier dreams… a pretty little thing just a few months shy of adulthood, her dark eyes filled with both love and passion, her small hands holding her boyfriend tight, her trembling lips seeking his.

And I see that boyfriend — the singer of this song, if you will — filled with passion of his own… longing — and a primal, terrifying fear of the fiery love in this young girl’s eyes.