(December of 1967, to March of 1968)
I don't know how I met her, a lot of my girlfriends back in those far-off days, some of them anyhow, just came like that, out of nowhere, and it ended up just the same way, easy come easy go, yes indeed, nowhere is where we ended up. And many of them looked pretty darn nice, and the Shadow, she was so-so. They, the boys in the neighborhood called her the 'Shadow,' because she followed me along like a shadow, wherever I went-yeah-she was there! It was similar to that anyhow; on the other hand, my life was not looking out a window, it was raining palm trees, and a few of the girls even came knocking at my door, and she was one.
She was a white, young girl, perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old at the time, about five-foot two inches tall, a nice hard and shapely body, a nice pear shape behind, dishwater blond, or darker, and was quiet, too quiet, mater of fact she was seemingly always thinking, and never saying much. I was living in the attic of Larry Lund's house at the time, in the neighborhood, Larry a good friend of mine, and the tough guy of the neighborhood, about six or seven years older than I.
I had been working for Whirlpool, for a while, making ice machines, and now was a driver cars (rented cars, new cars, cars being fixed by the company's garage, etc.,)for Ron Saxton Ford; it was the spring of 1968. I had come back from Omaha, Nebraska, and was thinking of going to San Francisco, somewhere down the road. And so she was kind of in-between things I suppose, now that I look back. looking back down the road that is; I was awfully surprised she kept tracking me, showing up here and there, and showing up when I least expected her. She was a plain looking girl, for the most part, cute-plain, with a nice rump and small breasts, and to be frank, one afternoon with her, had after a few weeks of dating her, one afternoon turned into many, that is to say, all my afternoons were given over to her, it was like she had dismissed all her students, had she been a teachers, and kept only one pupil, me.
I was nineteen-years old, in March of 1967, and I found myself walking with her everyplace, at that time I didn't have a car, although I'd buy a 1957, red and white Ford down the road, as I made more money at Ron Saxton Ford, matter of fact, I bought it from them, they got it from a customer who traded it in on a new car. I had to sandblast the spark plugs once a month because it was using up a quart of oil, once a month, but who cares; I only paid 0-dollars for the car.
Anyhow, I'm getting a little off track here, the Shadow, whose name I have forgotten, didn't like making love all that much, and was perhaps not all that learned in the skill or trade or art, but she did as I wished, and that kept our relationship somewhat going. She was I suppose more on the enigma side of the fence. when we made love it was brief words, brief movements-as if she was weaving a rope, or so than making love-I doubt she was in love with neither me, nor I with her, an that perchance didn't help her inhabited behavior.
In a way I thought often she was out of sound with the times; nevertheless, no catastrophe ever took place, and one round seemed to suite her.
It should be said, perhaps at this juncture of the story, I drank a lot in those days, and my throbbing heart for a woman, had no premeditation or hard-line expectations for the females i encountered, or short lived affairs, beer was my real lover, sad to say. Alcohol was my choice for warm and throbbing closeness, a secret for release, women came second, passively so, perhaps that was why I ended up with so many, I didn't chase them, I chased booze, but as soon as they figured this out, farewell, they left. You cannot have both at 100-percent, you can only have 50-50 at best, and my best was 75% to 25% and you can guess who got the 25%, and if a female dare to oppose me for the beer, because I put it before our relationship, I plainly pronounced it dead, resuming my task of getting drunk.
In any case, after a few months, she asked for us to go get an apartment, and I said 'Sure, why not...' we were kind of like rowing along the shore-sort of speaking, in this relationship, and it had to advance, or vanish.
We searched, or at least I did, high and low for an economical apartment, and I found a studio apartment for 0-dollars down-a deposit (which was also the same amount for the months rent) and showed the place to her.
"That's about right," she called looking from the window onto the city street, myself talking with the landlord, a short distance from her.
So I thought all was well, between me and her and the new apartment, but just before we were to move in, she visited me in my attic room, at Larry Lund's, and said, point blank, no emotion, no reasons linked, nothing attached to her statement, "Let it go!" (In a blank doorway stood my mind in a perpetual vigil, anger burned in my eyes, I spent money, made plans, and she stood looking at me as if in an incoherent and vertiginous manner of which dreams are composed.)
Well, what that really meant to me was she didn't want the apartment anymore, or our relationship for that matter. I wanted to grab her and say, 'What in damnation are you doing!' but I didn't, I am not really a good bull fighter, I don't like arguments or talking in circles, meaning, I just normally let go-assuming people know what they want, and if not they should, thus, I'd rather watch them from a distance, and get drunk and whistle, than pull her pigtails to keep her, or anyone with me who really didn't want to be with me.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"I don't know, I just don't want to live with you," she said, turning about to leave.
I sat on my bed, her back to me now, leaving, waiting for her to come back, to turn about and say she was just kidding. It was not quite noon, and I was taking care of a hangover.
"I don't feel like talking," were her last words as she descended the steps.
(Three months later)
I was working at the car place-Ron Saxton Ford to be exact, in the garage area and my boss came up to me, said,
"There's a young lady by the side entrance, wanting to speak to you, don't make it long!"
I looked at the entrance door; I don't know for sure, but perhaps I was a hundred feet from it, started walking towards it. The closer I got, the more it looked like: the Shadow, her body details, features, configuration.
I looked eagerly across the garage, and confirmed it was her undeniably, standing in the middle of the arch of the doorway.
"Go on and say it, I came back," was her first response.
I looked dumbfounded,
"I've been thinking of you." she continued.
She stood there with her eyes towards me; I looked at her back, not really wanting anything to do with her, nothing to do with her at all.
"Isn't love fun?" she smiled and chucked.
I looked at her with a stronger and sterner look, said puzzled,
"What are you doing here?"
"I want to live with you in that apartment, is that alright?" she asked with a sigh. (I was astounded.)
"Yes, that is a problem, I don't have an apartment anymore, I let go as you suggested, and you don't need to," I said.
"I'm pregnant," she commented (it had been three months since I had seen her, and my mind and thoughts shifted to: her deceiving me, an impostor, so was my thoughts that ran through my cerebellum).
I hesitated to answer, thinking: could it possibly be mine. She was not what I'd consider a floozy, but she was strange.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
She was a young woman with short questions, very little to say under any circumstance.
"Oh," I replied in a bazaar annoyance, "...go away, I don't care to see you."
And she did, she simply turned about, and walked away, as if nothing took place. I pulled a set of keys out of my trousers, and walked over to my boss, asked if I should deliver the Thunderbird to a customer at Whirlpool, and he said yes, and I did. And that was the last I saw of the Shadow.
I guess I felt, someone knocked at my door, and I closed it, but I had at that time wondered why she knocked at all, On the other hand, I remembered how she shadowed me for those months, and sex was just not worth trying to build new bridges out of old rotting wood.
