| Love
Hurts Ronnie Dee (c) Copyright 2025 by Ronnie Dee 
|
 Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay |
After high school I bummed around for a few months before entering the workforce. I wasn't as ragged about going to work as I was about school because now, I would at least make some money for my endeavors. I didn't make a lot, but it was more than I ever had, so I went overboard a little on clothes. I was finally able to buy my own. After giving my grandmother as much as I could for household expenses, the rest went to said clothes. I shopped at Rodes-Rapier, one of Louisville's finest clothiers, as much as I could: H. S. & M., Hathaway, Bass; name brand, good stuff like those. I read GQ magazine. It just felt good. I know I was over compensating, but in the fifties and early sixties, we dressed up a lot more than people do now. By the time the hippie and the casual attire of the later sixties and seventies became en vogue, I had sated my need for all the chic clothes and have happily spent the rest of my life in jeans, plaids and T-shirts.
It was during my first year of
employment when I had a horrible incident, which was not dangerous,
but was on display for half the neighborhood and I wondered if I
would ever live it down. I hesitated to put it down on paper, but it
was a life lesson, even if I didn't want it to be. It involved a
girl, of course, a beautiful and talented girl I met at work. She was
hired to do some part time typing and I fell head over heels for her
immediately.
She
was more sincere and down to earth than the girls I knew and I
loved talking with her, but I was soon transferred to another floor
for some reason or the other and couldn't see her as much as I
wanted. All of the fellows knew how I felt about her and
ribbed
me quite a bit because she played the cello, and played it well I
might add. Then one morning, I saw her on the elevator and she showed
me her new engagement ring. I was distraught. I never got to tell her
how I felt about her and I didn't want to do anything to upset her,
so I kept quiet. I never knew she was that serious about
someone.
Fortunately the guys sensed my distress and they
were
very sympathetic to my plight for once. I knew she was out of
my league, at least she was at that time. But love really is blind.
That night, however, I couldn't shrug it off. I got very drunk and decided to call her up and bare my thoughts, so I went to the corner drugstore where we all hung out and I couldn't dial her number. One of the guys tried to help me, but for some reason he couldn't get hold of her either. Then I just went off. I think that I just realized the futility of the situation and it completely overwhelmed me. I really don't know what I did, but I was wailing and carrying on to the extent that someone called the police. When the cops arrived I was crumpled in the phone booth bawling hysterically and told them to, "Go on. Lock me up. I just don't care."
I had
breakups with girls before, but this time, It hurt much deeper inside
than anything beforehand, and I just don't know why. It actually
wasn't even a breakup because we hadn't really gotten together for
anything except a few friendly conversations. I guess I was just
immature and not prepared for this level of rejection. But it hit me
like a hammer and there I was, going for the Academy Award.
Quite
a crowd gathered around, some with concerned expressions and some
were just curious. One of the cops said, "We didn't come here to
lock you up, son. We've just come to get you off the street."
After
some more moaning and wailing, they asked some of the guys to
take me home and about five of them volunteered. So they carried me
to the car and took me home. My grandmother didn't know what was
going on as the guys carted me into the house and flopped me in a
chair. One of them tried to explain what happened and then
they
left me, a sobbing hulk, still slumped in the chair, drained of every
ounce of energy.
My grandmother got me to drink some
coffee or something and I finally collected myself enough to stagger
into bed. When I awoke sometime the next day, I thought, "Well,
I guess I'll have to leave town now. I've always wanted to go to San
Francisco. How can I possibly face anybody after last
night."
I ended up riding around aimlessly most of the
day with Bud and another friend. I laid in the backseat trying to
recupe from a bad hangover and worse humiliation, pondering my
future, while they yakked on about other affairs of the day.
I, of course, didn't move out of town. I just decided to face the music and a few days later headed for the drugstore. I was surprisingly well received by one and all. As with the guys at work, they were very sympathetic and understanding and things shifted to normal forthwith. I was still saddened by the circumstances, but now able to cope. I was so cried out, I couldn't have conjured up a tear for a million dollars. The incident was never referred to again, at least in my presence.
The
gist of it all, of course, is that the girl never knew how she broke
my heart, but I do hope her life turned out well. From those
shattered remains of that day, and as far fetched as it seemed at
that time, I ended up having a pretty nice life myself, but after
nearly seventy years, I still remember.