Memory For Nay - Even if she doesn't remember ;-)

It was nineteen seventy something.

Nay and I were going to go see a concert at Compton Terrace one night. Our friend Mike and I had plans for the same day.

Mike and I spent this particular day out in the desert hunting, shooting, drinking beer and smoking a lot of weed. Mike knew I was going to the concert with Nay that night and, in the beginning of the day, he did what any best friend would do – He tried to talk me into taking him instead. I politely declined; probably saying something like, “Fuck you, fucker.” or “Fuck you, dick.” I liked Mikey, and we were best friends, but no fuckin' way I was going to go with him insead of Nay.

The day wore on. Perhaps not surprisingly, I don’t remember much of it. All I remember is that we had guns, beer, weed and really, really, really bloodshot eyes.

I do remember the last part of the afternoon. Mike and I had found an empty field (not exactly a rarity in NW Phoenix in the 70s) around Union Hills Road and sixty-something avenue. There were some dudes flying remote control planes; real ones, not the crappy Cox planes with the strings that you flew by spinning ‘round and ‘round in circles until you puked.

So we sat in the tailgate of Mike’s 1970 Chevy short bed and continued indulging. The dudes flying the planes apparently didn’t care much for our weed smoking, and began dive-bombing us with their planes. We laughed it off and didn’t budge. And wouldn’t ya know, when Mike picked up his 30-30 and started cleaning it, the aerial attack stopped. What a coincidence!

Next thing you know (LOL), Mike and I were at Compton Terrace sitting on the grass, listening to one of the opening bands. Some chick (I can see her, but don’t remember her name. Blonde…maybe Michelle) came up with a friend and plopped down next to us. She was pretty buzzed so it took her a few minutes to realize something was missing and ask: “Hey Carlos, where’s Renee?” My reaction was “Oh fuck” or something very similar. A cross between horror and panic overcame me. I looked to my best friend for support. He was laughing his ass off, surely gleeful that he’d got me fucked up enough to take him, and not Nay to the concert. I was devastated. What a dumbass.

I spent the rest of the evening anesthetizing myself with doobs and the J.D. we’d smuggled in. I don't remember much. I think Steve was there. Maybe not. I remember Blackfoot on the stage, but nothing more.

Either the next day or a couple of days later, I went to Nay’s house. I knocked on the door. Nay answered with an understandably pissed off look, and slapped me. Hey! That hurt! Nay looked at me, with a before-its-time "DOH!, turned on her heel, and scampered into the house, leaving the door open.

I think I followed her in the house, but I'm not sure. I don't remember what happened but I'm sure there was a lot of forgiveness-begging going on. In the end we made up and lived happily almost-ever-after.

Now, nearly thirty years after I first met (and fell head over heels for) that beautiful, fun, personable, blonde, fifteen-year-old girlie, we’re still friends, and I wouldn’t trade her friendship for a wheelbarrow full of corn dogs (I really love corn dogs).

Speaking of corn…Sorry for the corny ending Nay!

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Memory Du Jour:
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Quote of the Day:
"I'm the commander — see, I don't need to explain — I do not need to explain why I say things. That's the interesting thing about being president." —as quoted in Bob Woodward's Bush at War