We were in a Motown sorta mood for today's Happy Hour. Here's one of the tunes we listened to as we knocked back a couple o' beers and enjoyed a Deep Dish:
Which brought to mind one of the first of not so many dirty deeds we've perpetrated on The Fairer Sex in this life. So, like it or don't, a reminiscence…
The year is 1962… specifically the Spring of that year… the place is San Jose, California. The Shirelles hit the Big Time that year, and the song above was one of my favorites then and it had quite a bit of overt and covert meaning for me and my Main Squeeze at the time…a wonderful girl-woman by the name of Marcy.
Marcy… she being about five foot three, kinda-sorta plump (finest kind!) and possessing a dazzling smile, among other wondrous things… was wonderful in more than a few ways. First and foremost, she was a girl who found me (sorta) fascinating, a minor miracle in and of itself. Second, she was a girl who ignored the conventions of the time in that she (a) was dating a guy who was about her same age; (b) I was a guy who had neither a car of my own nor a driver's license… something that was highly unusual at that point in time for a guy of my age and location (suburban NorCal); and (c) she was free with her charms... ample as they most certainly were... at least where I was concerned. Marcy, to her everlasting credit, had access to her parents' car and would pick me up and drive us about San Jose whenever we were free, seemingly without concern about the damage this would do to her image. And we were kinda-sorta in love… or as much "in love" as one can be when one is 17 and just beginning to figger stuff out. That's the background.
So… there we were… it was the eve of our Junior-Senior Prom and I was at work, doing landscaping things.
Time for yet another minor digression: I was living with my employer and his family at the time. My father and the rest of my family had moved down to LA a couple o' few months previously, Dad having taken a new job in LA and me not wanting to go along. So, with the help of kindly Mr. Roberts (my employer), we worked out a deal whereby I would remain behind in San Jose... going to school, working and living with Mr. Roberts and his family while Dad & Co traipsed off to LA. Marcy figured prominently into this calculation, by the way. Remember: we were In Love.
So, back to it. My foreman… Mr. Roberts' son… and I got into a helluva argument over the fact I wanted to leave work early and get ready for Prom Night. He wouldn't let me go; I was adamant I HAD to leave. It came down to "leave if you want… but if you do, you're fired." So I did what any impetuous 17-year old would do: I said "Fuck You. I'm leaving. Take your job and shove it." And I walked off the job, commandeering a ride from one of my co-workers back to Mr. Roberts' house. But there's more… I realized that I was gonna be out of a place to live by the virtue of the fact I'd just quit my job, in NO uncertain terms. So I took about 20 minutes and collected all my belongings, packed them up in a duffle bag, and walked out. I got my buddy to drive me down to the San Jose bus station and about 45 minutes (or so) later I was on a bus… LA bound.
And herein lays the dirty deed: I left Marcy hanging, without even making so much as a phone call to let her know I was leaving. And I never spoke to her again, to add insult to injury. I've often wondered about her in the intervening years, and if she ever gives (or gave) a thought to the asshole she loved who simply disappeared on what is arguably one of the biggest nights of one's teen years.
I suppose that kinda-sorta answers the rhetorical question… "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?"… doesn't it? And all that said… I've had worse done to me, and I've done worse. But we won't go THERE. Let's just pop open another brew and go back outside…