Bob Thomas Writes

As I have fewer opportunities, I recall opportunities lost. . .

Bob Thomas

Although some say that writers write to entertain or inform others. I suspect that we write with only ourselves in mind. For an armature writer I think our goal is primarily to entertain ourselves, or a few others who may read it. But, sometimes, I think we write to cleanse our soul and explain in some way to others our actions at a particular time in our lives.

Someone once told me that they thought there was no such thing as pure fiction. That all fiction is infused with a truth we don’t wish to claim for some reason. Perhaps shame, embarrassment or a desire to explain but not take credit for our actions. Perhaps to avoid hurting or embarrassing someone else.

Most of what I write is based on things I’ve experienced – and a lot of those things are not something to brag about, only explain or justify to myself. Or blame on someone else. Let’s call it “fac-tion”

I had the privilege of reading a recent essay about someone else’s memories of the past that made me pine for my own opportunities lost.

Mine was an opportunity lost over 50 years ago. At the time all I had to do was step past my Southern teenaged shyness and say, “I like you”. Or “Hello, my name is…”

The kindled memory is of a 15 year old girl with flaming red hair, Irish green eyes, porcelain skin and a look of sadness in her eyes that spoke to me. Her look made me want to say “I can help”. Or “I can make you happy.” She was always surrounded in an exotic fragrance . . . I know now that it was Johnson & Johnson baby powder.

In my mind I knew she wanted someone to be her friend. But her beauty overwhelmed my 15 year old brain and left me speechless. She was so far out of my class that I couldn’t imagine she would waste her breath on me. I always thought the image she had of me was of a stuttering stick figure with pimples

She never socialized or participated in school functions. When the last bell rang, she rushed out to go . . . ? Where ever she went every afternoon. I suppose every boy in school felt the same way I did, but we all pumped our small egos full of hot air and said

things like “she’s cold, heartless, stuck-up – a bitch.” It never occurred to us that she just might have good taste… or good sense enough to not waste her time on a bunch of hair combing, blue jeaned, T-shirted fifteen year olds.

Years later I saw her working in a law office and inquired about her. She was, I learned, an attorney. Single, never married and was spending most her of her time teaching her son to drive. Her 16 year old son. Then, as before, I couldn’t muster the courage to speak to her. By then I had divorced and had my own son, and trying to tell her how I felt then, was just too awkward now. I stole one last look at her and left. She was still beautiful, but the sadness was gone from her face, and she had smiled at me.

I have often thought that I could have made her life a little more pleasant. Given her a few moments of laughter over pizza and cokes…and of course our imagined love affair would have made her life perfect and solved all of her problems. Of course, my imaginings never included a child.

In retrospect, I guess I was lucky to have not gotten involved with a 15 year old Mother of an illegitimate child in the fifties.  But, I still regret never having spoken to her… she was beautiful. And on occasion, when I smell a wisp of baby powder, my heart still pines for her.

At the time, I loved her.

 This is the truth. Or fac-tion. Or maybe it’s an apology.

Bob Thomas