MY FAVORITE MISTAKE

Last I heard, she was a $5000-a-night Vegas Escort.
It had been just a rumor, but I had every reason to believe it.

She was just that good. Really.

I had met her when she was 16, going on 25. She seduced me, plain and simple. There was nothing sleazy or slutty about Tressa, She was just one of those natural born lovers, like Aphrodite or Venus; Anne Boleyn or Cleopatra.
And the next four years would prove we had a thing.
I was 19 and she was 16 that first time, and after, as I lay on my back, her propped on one elbow looking me right in the eye, grinning she says:
"That was FUN!"

She may have been my junior, but I was way overmatched.

When ever I tell a story about doing something I shouldn’t have and having it come out right, I think of Tressa.

Whenever I see the ghost of a half-moon in the middle of the day, I think about Tressa.

She was always so natural being out of place...but she was always right where she ought to be, at least when she was with me.
What she did after that, on her own time, I did not know. It seemed to work both ways.
She never asked where I had been, or what I had been doing either.
I don’t recall we ever once said good-bye. It was always see you later; unbinding, tentative on visibility, and pending whenever later might be, presumably at a future date. They say that two objects, once captured into each others gravity, can never escape from it. It was kind of like that.

I remember the end of the summer of 1980. Rita had left late that spring. It had been long lonely summer that had dragged its sixty-nine 100 degree days out far too long.

It was strange the way Tressa had called out of the blue at 3AM.

It was strange that I was so relieved to hear from her, even though she said she was in big trouble. How can you be relieved to find a lover in trouble? Because there are some, those who gravitate towards the edge, that you are relieved to hear from at all.
It was very strange that the stupid movie I had been watching had just finished having Fred Astaire tell Ginger Rodgers that “Fate is a fools word for chance” when the phone rang.

Tressa said over the phone “I am taking a chance you can help me”
I said “Chance is a fools word for Fate”
And Tressa just laughed and said “Are you watching that Fred Astaire movie too?”
Man, that’s Fate for you.

It was strange the way Tressa would call when I needed a friend when she needed a friend.
It was strange that I didn't know then that she didn't call enough, that it would have been OK for me ta call once and a while.
It was strange to see that it was still 102 degrees  at 4AM as I passed the big clock downtown to save Tressa from whatever she had gotten into, that summer of 1980.
It was strange. She wanted to go to the bus station. But my car drove itself back to my house, and we made love the way we always did. We had always, from that first time, moved at the same speed, and our timing was always perfect. Just before dawn I made breakfast, her scent still on my hands and lips, her silage seemed to fill the room, fill the entire morning. I was taking her to a bus that would take her far away, much farther than ever before. The dawn was pink, and light blue, and the radio played "Shower The People" as we pulled into the station.

I can say all that was strange now, 29 years later, but really it wasn’t strange in 1980. It wasn't strange at all.  Just another day that when you check the sky, there it is... the ghost of a half-moon faintly in the noonday sun.

I can still see her face, framed in my car window at the bus depot, grinning her dimpled grin and saying
‘See ya later, Steve”
‘Yeah , Tressa, see ya later”
This time it took 29 years to see her later.
Seeing her again was like seeing a magician perform his tablecloth trick without spilling a single drop of wine.

Because,  you see, the last I heard, she was a $5000-a-night Vegas Escort.
It had been just a rumor, but I had every reason to believe it.
She was just that good.
Really.

BREAKFAST WITH TRESSA

I used to throw these big parties out at the lake. We would have a keg, and there would be folks with guitars, and we would make a big bonfire in the woods and hope that the Texas Rangers didn’t show up. Not the baseball team, but the State Troopers from the Department of Public Safety, the ones that carried big iron six-shooters on their hips.
The first lake party I threw there were only about 12 of us and we called it a "Camp out".
The Tradition grew, and our numbers increased.
We would meet at Bell High School and form up a fifty car caravan out Whites Chapel Road to “The Pit”.
"The Pit" was an earthen geological formation that was shaped like a Greek Amphitheater in the middle of the woods by the lake. It was there that we built our bonfire, smoked our funny stuff and sang ‘Sweet Home Alabama” all night long. I imagined myself a promoter of sorts, somewhere between the likes of a Willie Nelson roadie, Don Kirschner and Bob Geldoff.
I imagined that one day we could get a big name act like Kris Kristofferson or Bob Dylan or REO Speedwagon to come to our Camp-out.
Until then, we would have to settle for a semi-circle of cars, doors and trunks open and stereos on all tuned to KZEW.

I woke up one morning next to the remnants of the fire at “The Pit”. I could hear the music coming from the few cars still left, the aftermath of the party...

'I'lll never dance with another,

oooohhh

When I saw her standin' there"

I rubbed my eyes and found I had been covered in beer cans by my good friend and lover, Tressa.

Tressa was laughing and doing a seductive little dance for me, saying
“Steve, you are SOOO trashed”.
Ah, Tressa, she was so much fun. She helped me drag my tired butt to the car and we went home for breakfast.

To be continued