Visions and Directions

…The little festive atmosphere of strangeness, of excitement, that only a holiday bedroom brings. This is ours for the moment, but no more. While we are in it we bring it life. When we have gone it no longer exists, it fades into anonymity.

-Daphne Du Maurier
British author and playwright, b. 1907 d. 1989

Twenty-five years ago today

February 20, 1987
Friday

I am thinking that I will write a 'short story' of sorts while in Hawaii. I can do it after I write-up all of my postcards on the beach. I could write the story in my journal. Of course, I write this idea easily now. My eyes will likely drift at what 'catches my eye' while on the beach.

At the end of last night's MANNEQUIN movie I gave Eileen Grabinsky a luscious kiss goodnight. She and her pal, Katrina, drove off. Then I drove myself back home to Alameda.

My prioritized commitments were completed at my office desk today. I had a lonesome lunch once again because Carla went with her cohort secretary, Tom (a gay geek). She is training him on 'this and that'.

I took a good walk during my lunch hour to the NOSHERIA Café. Yes, I did. I simply sat alone in a corner and the service workers were (once again) very nice to me. They recognized me from my last lunch visit.

When I arrived home I napped. I was going to go to the gym but I decided against it. I talked to Eileen over the phone. She was leaving for Lake Tahoe (skiing) with her sister and sister's fiancé.

Frank Evans, the Stanford University freshman, called me.
"Hey Mike, do you want to go to THE VORTEX tonight?"
I played like I was in a fit of exhaustion and got out of it.

I thought of Danny Garcia as I was making my Hawaii postcard list, so I decided to give him a phone call. He is living in Walnut Creek now and was planning on going out to a place in San Jose called VISIONS. He persuaded me to go and meet him there with a couple of his girlfriends.

I drove south to VISIONS. I liked the name of the place. It sounds inspirational. I left my house at 9:45PM and the long drive seemed endless. I arrived at 11PM but Danny and his gal pals were NOT there. The cool, trim waist, biceps-to-notice bartender served me two pineapple vodkas and two glasses of water. I stood around like a wall flower, checking out the scene. I walked around and looked for Danny.  I waited.   Eventually I met a guy named Ryan Spencer near the bar.
I remembered my pen pal at 16 Intervale Place in Greenwich, Connecticut, so I asked Ryan, "Have you ever been to Connecticut?"
Ryan raised an eyebrow and answered, "Yeah, I used to live there!"
I explained about my pen pal, Diane, who also had the surname of Spencer.He said, "You know…there was a girl who lived across the street from me named Diane Spencer who was born the same year as me…1956."

How's that for a coincidence? I learned that Ryan grew up in the San Jose area. He had kind of long hair and we talked for a good while. He seemed to be an 'okay' guy.
"Do you want to go for coffee at my house?"
I laughed in my mind at his question. It seemed like a question one would ask a girl before dropping her off at home just to 'get inside her panties'.
I replied, "Sure."

So, I went for coffee at his house. He lives with four roommates. I just drank my coffee and made up some excuse about having to get home. I didn't want to lead him on in any further directions. We exchanged telephone numbers. When I left I got lost.  I felt like I had lost my mind.

It was a horrible feeling to be lost on the streets of San Jose. I didn't know where to go. I had to call Ryan for help at a phone booth. Even after I spoke to him it wasn't until I stopped at a gas station for further directions that I successfully found my way onto the freeway. I couldn't believe it was 3:50AM when I got home. The ironic thing is that Danny Garcia and his friends never even showed up. What a crazy night. Yawn.

For some ill-defined reason, lovers have a particular penchant for traveling, perhaps in the hope that by exchanging backdrops for that of the unknown, those fleeting dreams will be retained a little longer.
-Carole Chester, b. 1937
English writer