The Break-Up Chronicles
Episode 1 — Amy
Break-up
Episode 1 — Amy
After my last series, The Online Dating Chronicles, I thought it might be interesting to look back on some of my more memorable break-ups.
Earlier this week, I created and wrote about a playlist of songs from soundtracks:
Monday Morning Music — #6
Music is Lifemedium.com
The great Kevin Alexander dropped a comment mentioning “I Can Dream About You” by Dan Hartman from the Streets of Fire soundtrack.
This song whacked me over the head and reminded me of one particular romance that had gone south.
I Can Dream About You
As a single middle-aged man who has never married, I have more than one or two break-ups to reflect on. For this one, I’m digging deep into the recesses of my memories.
One summer in high school, I was dating Liz; she was cool, liked music as I did, had short dark brown hair, was funny, and was fun to be around — she was very Martha Quinn-like (and if you get that reference, then you know what I mean.)
We were teenagers, so the foundation of our “relationship” was built on music and fed with hormones and angst. Anyway, she mentioned that her friend Amy was coming into town from California to visit her father for the summer. Liz was excited to see her. But Liz was also kind of a busybody and thought we should set her up with my best friend, Nick.
Nick and I spent most of the summer in a weed-filled haze of ambivalence, so he cared about his set-up only marginally more than I did. When Amy and her blonde hair from Sacramento, California arrived, Liz put the wheels into motion to hook her up with Nick.
I’ve never liked blondes — Rod Stewart can fuck right off with that “blondes have more fun” bullshit. So Liz, Amy, Nick, and I began hanging out. Back then, that didn’t involve too much more than driving around and going from one basement to another basement of our friends.
As previously discussed, nothing good ever happens in a basement.
After a couple of weeks of this, I was at home one night when the phone rang. My mother answered and said it was for me. I let out a big sigh and pulled myself away from watching something stupid like Jake and the Fat Man and walked to the kitchen phone.
I walked in, asking my mother: “Who is it?”
She lit up a cigarette and leaned against the kitchen counter: “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not your secretary, that’s why not,” she said, exhaling a plume of Virginia Slim smoke my way.
I faked a cough and picked up the phone: “Hello?”
It was Amy.
I was particularly aloof back then, which often manifested itself as sarcasm. And for reasons I’ve never entirely understood, some girls found that appealing. Come to think of it, that word pops up a lot on the dating apps too. Women still find it attractive.
Nonetheless, Amy and I began one of those odd teenage conversations.
“Hey, it’s Amy.”
“Oh, hey. What’s up?”
“Nothing. What are you doing?”
“I’m watching TV. Well, I was. What are you doing? Where’s Nick?”
“I don’t know. I just wanted to call and say hi.”
“Why?”
So this kind of mind-numbing conversation took place for a few minutes until Amy volunteered: “I have something to tell you.”
“OK. What’s that?”
“I’m thinking of a song.”
Even back then, my music nerd reputation was with me: “A song?”
“Yes. Do you want to try and guess?”
“I’ll need a little more information.”
Liz, Amy, Nick, and I had just recently watched the Walter Hill movie Streets of Fire.
At the time, if you had cable television, the only two movie channels that I was aware of were Cinemax and HBO. Cinemax was then known for its after-midnight programming like Young Lady Chatterley's Lover (thus giving it the nickname “skin-a-max”). HBO only had a few more films, like Just One of the Guys, and Michael Pare’s double whammy of Eddie and the Cruisers, and Streets of Fire.
Of course, the Eddie and the Cruisers soundtrack was a monster hit. But “I Can Dream of You” was the big hit from Streets of Fire.
So, Amy said: “The song is from a movie.”
I accepted this challenge and started sorting through my internal database: “What movie?” I asked.
Amy seemed to be enjoying this, and to some extent, I was too: “We just watched the movie.”
It then clicked for me: “That song from Streets of Fire?”
Amy giggled.
High-stakes teenage drama ensued.
And thus, Liz is the first break-up of this little story.
I’m not sure why I wanted to be with Amy. There were many strikes against her: I was with someone I liked, Amy was dating my friend, she was only there for the summer, and she was blonde. Oh wait, I know why I wanted to be with Amy.
I was like every other teenage boy in the galaxy — my moral compass was driven by hormones, my dick and nothing resembling sensitivity or intelligence.
I broke up with Liz and Amy broke up with Nick, and we began dating …at the expense of almost everyone we knew. Not surprisingly, our friends had aligned themselves on Team Liz and Team Nick.
We spent the remainder of the summer together, doing what teenagers do—at least two socially ostracized ne’er-do-wells (we weren’t really, that’s just a fun phrase.) Which is to say, watch movies, go to the movies, fool around, and get high.
As summer came to a close, Amy had mentioned that she was considering not going back to California. Which was great news, I thought. After she had discussed it with her father and stepmother, she decided to stay. Of course, I was elated. Once school started, whatever ecstasy I was feeling soon evaporated.
It was probably naive to think that the way Amy contacted me behind Liz and Nick’s back was unique. I could feel her pulling away, and I didn’t understand why. It turns out this sort of subversive behavior was her modus operandi.
By the beginning of the school year, Nick and I had sorted everything and were friends again. It would seem teenagers have the memory of a Goldfish. So he was much too happy to tell me about how Amy was contacting him. And back then, I probably — no, I definitely — didn’t handle it well. Which, of course, drove her closer to Nick.
High-stakes teenage drama ensued.
Throughout the autumn of that year, there was a toggling back and forth, and the drama would get ratcheted up and up. Inexplicably, Nick and I stayed friends (but no, there was never a threesome.) Eventually, Amy would shed both Nick and me and move on to some other guy. But ultimately, she wanted to reconcile with me (must’ve been the sarcasm.)
And I took her back. But whatever it was that Amy and I had was rockier than it had ever been.
Even more high-stakes teenage drama ensued.
The drama was around provocative photos that Amy’s father had found in her bedroom. These pre-dated digital photos, so developing them involved a trip to the Fotomat. They weren’t pornographic, just provocative. But her father was a big Republican, sold Amway, drove a Corvette, and had been married three times — let’s be honest, he was probably only four years out from being “Born Again.”
After discovering the photos, her father and stepmother became upset. And I can say now, rightly so; however, her stepmother was a bit of a twit, and her father was a bit of a twat. And this being the Midwest, they naturally overreacted. My parents remained surprisingly calm about it all.
Nothing came of it aside from Amy and I having to sneak around to see each other.
As it came time for Christmas, Amy said she was going back to Sacramento, California, to visit her mom and step-dad. I had no reason to think she wouldn’t return after the holiday.
But I was a teenager, and “thinking” isn’t always part of a daily practice.
Amy never came back.
In hindsight, there were plenty of reasons for her not to come back.
Sometime in mid-January, I called her from a gas station payphone for the umpteenth time.
She finally took the call.
“What the fuck Amy?” I asked.
“I’m sorry. I can’t talk long. My mom is standing right here.”
“Yea, but what the fuck?!”
“My parents won’t let me come back.”
“And you didn’t know before you left?”
“NO! I had no idea. My dad doesn’t want me back with him.”
What I heard in her voice was neither sadness nor understanding. I suspect it was silly to think I would hear anything other than indifference.
There wasn’t much to say after that.
I heard through the grapevine that Amy returned the following summer, but only for a week, and was strictly forbidden to hang out with any of us.
Fifteen Years Later
I lived in San Francisco, and I figured Amy still lived in Sacramento, but it never crossed my mind to phone or email her. And then, one day, I got an email from someone named Amy, but I didn’t recognize the last name.
Hey, is this the Keith I used to know all those years ago?
Amy and I began an email correspondence, and she told me that she had gotten married, had three children, had the dog, and the house in the suburbs. In the photos she sent, she looked just about the same. After a couple of weeks of this, she eventually suggested that we talk on the phone.
I was older now, so I was able to see the flags this time. Older, but only marginally more intelligent because it’s not like I paid attention to the flags.
Still reeling from the ending of a five-year relationship, I was hurt and lonely. So talking on the phone with a married ex who was 90 minutes away seemed innocuous enough.
And it was innocuous …until it wasn’t. Amy said she would be driving through San Francisco and wanted to know if I wanted to get together. I did …but not for the reasons you may be thinking. I was still pretty fucked up over the recent break-up and thought it might be nice to see a friendly face.
Amy may have had a different agenda, I don’t know, but I was just curious to see her.
We agreed that I would drive out to Walnut Creek, and we’d meet at Barnes and Noble as she went through.
And you know what? We met, had coffee, and talked. It wasn't exciting. I think when we meet an ex after many years, one that we cared for, maybe even thought we loved, we hope that there might still be some spark. But with Amy, there wasn’t. There was just …coffee and dull conversation.
Fifteen years later, I had a clear head, and it made me wonder if there was ever a spark.
As I walked her to her car, we hugged goodbye and said we’d keep in touch. And we did for a little bit. Then the gap between emails grew and grew until they stopped.
Just as they always do.