Sad Eyed Lady

Way back, zillions of years when I was in high school, I had a friend named Keith. He was as close as I ever got to having a friend way back then in the pre-Kevin days. We were both in marching band. Keith was one of those smart science type guys—you know, the sort who goes on to Caltech and world domination (AKA career satisfaction and financial security). He was also extraordinarily comfortable to be around.

Like any 16 year old boy he was a mass of horny hormones—at least I imagine he was. What was different about Keith was that he seemed to get, to understand and appreciate that his fellow, female classmates were people too—not just tits on parade. He listened, bantered, joked—he hung out and was supportive, nonjudgmental and there when needed.

Perfect, right? Yes, yes he was. Sadly high school girls (**cough**me**) aren’t any more mature than our male counterparts. Keith wasn’t dangerous enough—not edgy or obviously complicated. He was just good. And available—I think the teen years (maybe all years) are about chasing after the unattainable.

 I don’t think Keith dated much, if at all, back then. Now he’s happily married with two gorgeous daughters heading off to college. Lucky wife. Lucky daughters.

In any case, I often saw him waiting for the bus after school, standing with this tall, willowy, beautiful blond girl in a white rabbit fur jacket. She was stunning, fashionable, pleasant and a half but not zoomingly popular. Warum? Dunno and maybe/probably my memory’s faulty here.

Lynn always, always it seemed, had this sad, vague look on her face like someone had just slapped her and spit on her shoes. From my POV she had absolutely everything goin' on. She should have been a teen celebrity and owned all happiness everywhere — right? But she was ever appearing just inches from tears.

I recall being concerned even though I didn’t know her beyond a waved hello. Being a social neanderthal I never asked “hey Lynn, what’s up? You seem low.” I never attempted to breach the wall of her melancholy.

It occurred to me years later that maybe she was being abused at home or had been the victim of some pack of wilding jocks. I should have held out a hand to her but, overwhelmed by asswipian bully girls and predatory boys, I was barely staying afloat. Just surviving.

The rapacious young men, the jocks of our high school, were likely no different than anywhere else. Entitlement rose off their very skin like smoke from burning buildings. I remember two boys in particular — identical twins. They had matched gimlet gazes which communicated, to me at least, all they intended to do before discarding me with the used condoms and innocence.

A kind upperclasswoman warned me about them. No need. Though I was a bit slow on the uptake, there was no mistaking their narcissistic, vulturine stares and the monster movie egos rolling over all in their path like The Fog.

Check please!

Back to Lynn though, she seemed so innocent, so trusting, so fragile — I expect that someone, whether it was family or classmate, broke her. I’ll never know but the image of her at 16 in that bright white rabbit fur coat, looking as though she’d tearfully just stepped off the runway, has stayed with me.

Flash forward 500 years. Yes, I googled her as well as the raptor twins. She appears to be happy or happy-ish now. Lynn’s the president of a Louisiana housewares company and the mother of two young men. The Wolf Brothers? I found just one — he lives in LA, seems to be serially single and is bald, bald, BALD!

I do like a wee dose of schadenfreude on my Saturday mornings.