Letter to V.

Seems to me, every life has one true  love. But, also one great infatuation. For me, the former, not sure. But the latter, oh yes, and how. Here is the story. From long ago.

During my obligatory 1970's-era motorcycle sabbatical in California, I went to a matinee showing of American Graffiti. I left the movie in a dumbstruck and amazed reverie. My poor date could not, did not,  know what had come over me. Why? The movie featured a evanescent blonde in a Ford Thunderbird. What I realized was that, years before, my life had spectacularly foretold art.  Almost a decade prior, fate had treated me to a mystery girl in a car -- a red-haired ravishing beauty in a blue convertible.

You.

In the late 1960s, I struggled to stay enrolled at Tufts. The alternative was the draft and Vietnam. It was for me, and many, a time of angst and anxiety, tumult and torment. I felt little solace, comfort or confidence. I had gone to a small prep school and had no inkling on how to deal with big city college life. I seemed overwhelmed and marooned on a vast plain with no path. I still have bad dreams of this messy, confounding, disconcerting, lonely  era.

But then one midwinter day, I chanced to encounter You. You lost your footing on an icy path to class. Right before me. I winced to see how hard You fell in a flurry of beautiful long read hair. I rushed to help You up, brush the snow off Your coat, gather Your strewn books, say something kind and make everything right again. Then, You vanished. But as I sat afterwards in Multivariable Calculus (which I was flunking), this warm aura of discovery, of belonging, came over me. A thunderbolt from the blue had delivered to me a fleeting but marvelous wonder.

After that telling day, I began to see You around campus. It was not long before interest grew into infatuation. I was smitten from afar as only a young and very immature man can be. You represented something to believe in, a feeling to anchor me. Even if only in my mind, it was enough - a fantasy to relieve the tribulations of my life. The term "secret admirer" comes to mind.

In a bid to remain in school, I began to live at my parents' in Wellesley and drive in every day.  And it was then that my red V8 Mustang coupe began occasionally to encounter this blue 1963 Buick Special convertible. Thanks to Your striking beauty and titian tresses, it didn't take long to determine who was at the wheel. And somehow the search, the yearning, for the mysterious red haired girl in the Buick sustained me, helped give my life order and purpose and direction. Thoughts of You became to me a beacon, a haven, a port on a stormy sea. I wrote songs about You. I had dreams about You. And, that semester, I made the Dean's List.

I wanted to reach out to You. But I was shy, awkward and not very socially adept.  Looking back, I was still a boy in a college of young adults. Perhaps I felt it was not my place, nor my right. And then the school year ended. You were a senior. I was a junior. You graduated, I supposed. Poof. End of story, I thought, with a tinge of sadness, despair, desolation. All I had was my fantasy. Somehow, I would try to live on.

In September 1968 it came time to register for the Fall semester, a task that would only remind me of Your absence. It was an overcast but balmy day. I decided to ride the motorcycle I had been rebuilding, perhaps to try and cheer myself up. I motored in on Route Two to Cousen's Gym, pulled into the parking lot, parked, and dutifully went through registration inside. A few times I looked around to see if, against all odds, You were there. I caught myself and thought something like, "Hey, quit dreaming, Don Quixote."

I left the gym, and having momentarily forgotten where I had parked, I scanned the lot. Suddenly, something in the far corner caught my eye.

For a few seconds I stood motionless, shocked and stunned -- as if to savor the moment, the singularity, the miracle. I could not believe what I saw.

Because there was your blue convertible.

And You.

Then, it hit me. I felt carried on a portal to Heaven. Tears welled up in my eyes. The sky instantly teemed with rainbows. Rock music, loud and sanguine and intoxicating, flooded my senses. I could scarcely think or breathe. I halfway lost my mind. I felt like I had entered a different universe.

It was a magical and astonishing second chance. I would not be denied again. Somehow, fighting wobbly knees, pounding heart and stomach butterflies, I gamely voyaged over to say hello. Out of nervousness, I remember saying dumb, foolish, inept, regrettable things, that I did not mean at all. And I remember how wonderfully gracious, kind and serene you were about it all. You were something far far far beyond even my wildest dreams. I learned You were already engaged to be married soon. And here I could barely sustain a romantic crush. The difference was strikingly vast. The lowly boy worshiper had finally met his ethereal Goddess.

Our conversation was cut short because You were late and had to go in and register. Mercifully for me, because I was overwhelmed and fearful of saying more stupid things.

And now I realized I faced an agonizing dilemma. You were about to embark on a wonderful and secure future with no doubt a great guy -- at Harvard, no less --  whom I was sure loved you to pieces. And it was not me.

Would I or could I or should I try to change all that? I made perhaps the first adult decision in my life. I decided to respect and honor your choice.  I decided to remain afar. Somehow, also, I knew that I was simply too young and not ready. I decided to let you live Your adult life. And I would try to begin living mine  -- without You. It was one of the hardest decisions of my lifetime. But I remain proud of it to this very day.

I slowly and sadly returned to my parked bike, jumped on its kickstarter and drove away. I had face protection on my helmet, but still tears flowed from my eyes all the way home. The song I wrote, Vicki Goodbye, was already materializing in my mind.

I never sold the motorcycle that I rode on that fateful day. It still now remains in my garage. Forty eight years later. As you remain so vivid and beautiful in my memory.

So now every few Autumns or so, I recall You and Your Buick. And an alloy ring I polished by hand for You. And the season's last yellow rose I left on Your windshield. And that sweet kind note You penned in return. And Your picture in the Class of 1968 yearbook, with that note still in the pages. It all still seems crystal clear, like it was just yesterday,

Now I am 70 with probably not all that much time left. This thing in my bone marrow is rare and incurable and relentless. I have few regrets. I am still not sure if I ever truly grew up -- or cured my penchant for unrequited love. I had girlfriends, several with red hair and one named Vicki. I had a wife, wrote a book, photographed magazine covers, built a house, made calendars and still now put together crazy rare motorcycles. Or try. I had no children but plenty of legacy -- in my garage and on the internet -- that will outlive me. Perhaps.

I hate to end this, but I must. It has already gone too long. I guess the purpose of the foregoing is to illustrate that You are remembered, idolized, enshrined by those you probably are not even remotely aware of. Your presence, however fleeting, made a difference in at least one life when it was sorely needed.

We are all given a few rare brief moments of great and unexpected wonder in our lives, that make it worth living. That make us who we are.

You were one of mine.

Bless You for allowing me my fantasy. Thank You for your kindness to an impertinent stranger. What a magnificent memory You have bestowed. What a precious, priceless heirloom it is for me. Surely a special place in Heaven awaits that mystery redhead in her ragtop.

I pray that this outpouring does not seem unwanted, or in the parlance of that bygone era, freak You out. If so, please forgive me. I wanted it to be my gift in return. I dare to hope that perhaps this memoir, this novella, in some small measure, will surprise and amaze and enthrall.

As I was by You, so very very much, almost a half century ago.