Lillian

I haven’t been with a girl almost a year now.  Some of you might be saying glibly “big surprise!” But, what I mean is that I haven’t had a relationship in a year. And I think it’s probably good that I haven’t. When you first give up booze, AA tells most of its members not to date in the first year. I understand why. A lot of triggers happens within this year. A lot of changes too where you can’t really gauge certain emotions that can be explained by your brain re-wiring itself. Remember that scene in “Austin Powers” where he was having trouble with the volume of his voice. That’s sorta’ how I feel right now. I have a really bad problem with gauging how I feel. I’m not sure. Before when I was drinking, I did as I pleased. There is no social barometer to a drunk. I recall “drunk dialing” girls in college back in the day. I wouldn’t call them. I’d call them at home. To which I would be screaming at their Dad.

I remember an Italian girl named Lillian. Man was she beautiful. That type of Euro hot Italian. Pale skin, black hair and an accent that could melt butter. She’d wear skirts that would show that she was wearing a thong. The type of shit corn fed Midwestern girls bristled at, and the same male counterpart jerked off to in their dreams.

She’d called me a “fah-king douchebag” and I’d get instant boner. My friend J.C. always would rib me about it. She’d refer to the Italian as “Is the Faw-king Doosh-bag Girl” calling today?” Instant boner.

I remember calling her home one day. Not her dorm room, her home since it was some holiday and getting her Dad. To which he replied “Do you know what time it is?” He had an Italian accent too. But as a guy, it was like nails on a chalkboard. “I don’t care, lemme talk to Lillian.”

“She’s asleep you asshole.”

“Whaddya’ call me?”

“You’re an asshole calling this late at night. Fucking asshole.”

“You’re the fucking asshole!” my drunken mind didn’t have a filter to my mouth.

“You fucking punk. Go fuck yourself!”

“I’m a punk now? Fuck you!”

“You want me to come there and kick your fucking ass?”

“Yeah, let’s see you try it.” These were the days of land lines. Good luck finding me in the phone book from Bowling Green to Cleveland.

“You’re just a punk. What’s your name?”

“Fuck you.”

“Well, you can forget about talking to Lillian ever again. Asshole.” Foreigners are funny. They can swear with the best of us.

And on and on until he hung up. When the holiday ended and we were back in school, Lillian never spoke to me ever again. He was a lawyer out of Cleveland. In fact, she disappeared. I looked all around. Don’t remember ever seeing her ever again. Hate to think that that little exchange had him transfer her out of the U.S.

You know, now that I think about it…he wasn’t much of an arguer. I can’t imagine him being an attorney telling people to go fuck themselves. Well, I can and I can’t.  But it wouldn’t be in a U.S. Court of law. And it would probably have a ton of hand gestures.