Some People Show Up To Turn Us Inside Out

The girl with green eyes did a number on me.

Your feet barely touched the ground as you walked by me that evening. I was covered in dust and grime from a long day working in a stone quarry, but you were stunning in your natural beauty — long, dark hair, olive skin, and the eyes — the green emerald eyes.

I finished my dinner and followed you outside into the humid summer-in-Ohio air. You sat on a bench listening to a guy play “Like A King Bee,” an old blues tune written by Slim Harpo and covered by B.B. King, the Stones, and many others. Ironically, I was emulating the lyrics without thinking about it, “I’m a king bee buzzin’ round your hive, I can make good honey….”

I was drawn to you as if a tractor beam out of Star Trek got hold of me — there was no way I could resist the attraction. I had to get to know you, but how? I’m filthy dirty, and you look like you just stepped out of the shower. I have no idea what to say.

I looked at your clogs. “Nice shoes.”

You lifted your head, squinting, the sun beginning to set behind me, and said, “What?”

“Your shoes. They’re nice.”

That was the awkward beginning of our friendship that altered the course of my life — forever.

We agreed to meet the next night for dinner in the college dormitory cafeteria, where you were staying — attending summer courses seeking grades that would determine if you could enroll as a freshman in the fall of 1972.

Remember what music was playing when we met? Gilbert O’Sullivan’s “Alone Again Naturally,” Bill Wither’s “Lean on Me,” then “Rocket Man,” songs that still give me a jolt whenever I hear them. My stomach was in a knot; I could barely eat. I was mesmerized, enchanted, and perhaps aware on a subconscious level my life would soon be turned inside out.

After eating, we took a walk, wandering slowly through the campus, talking, laughing, and holding hands. After an hour or so, you said, “Show me your apartment. I am so tired of the dorm.”

We walked up to the second floor of the house in which I was living. You tiptoed across the wood floors and happily inspected everything, the bathroom, the other vacant bedrooms. I showed you my room: a double bed in the middle of the room, a nightstand on one side, a dresser, an old mirror, a record player in the far corner, two windows, a small desk, and a quilt my mom had knitted me over the bed.

You lay down and said you would sleep here tonight.

“Do you have a T-shirt and some underwear I can borrow?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, then step outside and let me get undressed.”

I gave you one of my favorite green T-shirts and a pair of cotton shorts. I stepped outside, and when you were ready, I came back in. We lay in the bed and held each other, kissing softly and quietly before falling asleep.

Early the following day, I woke up and got dressed. You lay there, still sleeping, like a beautiful child. I quietly made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and put it in a tin lunch bucket along with a thermos of lemonade. I pulled on my boots, walked down the creaky stairs, got in my ’56 Chevy, and pulled out of the driveway as quietly as I could, and headed off to work. I was in heaven.

When we met again the following evening, you wanted to tell me something.

We sat down underneath a large oak tree on the front lawn of the campus, majestic stone buildings behind us. You told me about a young Indian guru, Maharaji, now known as Prem Rawat, and a story about people awakening and finding their true selves within. You said this boy guru could show reveal your inner self. I shivered with goosebumps.

We walked back to my apartment, and you stayed with me again that night. The heat lightning cracked in the thick air as we lay in my bed. You held my hand and said you weren’t ready for anything more yet. I said okay, and we fell asleep.

I woke up a few hours later, having had a vivid dream. I sat up in bed sweating and remembered hearing the story about people awakening. A powerful, eerie sense of déjà vu swept over me. I looked to the end of the bed, and the picture of young Maharaji that you gave me now hung on the wall smiling. A profound sense of peace washed through me. My breath quickened, my eyes filled with tears, and I sobbed uncontrollably. I felt like the door to my soul cracked open.

A few weeks later, it was time for you to return home to Washington D. C. Summer semester was over, and you had a trip to Italy planned with your mother. The goodbye was excruciating. We stood there in the terminal, tension building, looking at each other, words fumbling out, neither of us knowing what to do.

Finally, you said, please leave. I felt the door closing on the most magical, transforming three weeks of my life. I drove home, tears pouring from my eyes, my chest heaving, for the entire thirty-minute drive home. I was an emotional wreck.

The next four weeks were miserable for me. After work, I sat on the front porch watching semi-trucks rumble by, listening to music, crying, and trying to make sense of what had just happened. I thought about this young boy guru, but mostly I missed you.

When you returned from your trip, I excitedly came to D.C. for a short visit, but you were distracted, getting ready to go to a college in Maine. The magic of the weeks we had in Ohio wasn’t there. It was clear — we were friends, not lovers.

I learned to meditate a few months later, graduating from college the following spring and then moving into an ashram in Boston to explore the experience more fully. We bumped into each other from time to time over the next ten years, but it continued to be awkward. We kept getting caught up in each other’s stuff. When you wanted to be with me, I was living as a monk. When I wanted to be with you, you were dating someone else.

We drifted further apart when I got married and had kids. You settled in New York, living by yourself. Then we got in touch, and I came to visit you in the 1990s. We went out to lunch, and you apologized for not having sex with me during those weeks in Ohio. Tears came to my eyes — you cared, and you recognized how much I wanted you to be my lover. You knew you broke my heart and carried it with you for twenty years.

I called you when I was in New York a few years ago. You didn’t pick up or return my message. Maybe you’ve just moved on and had enough of the past — time to let it all be, the memories drifting and dissolving into nothingness. I think I was much less significant to you than you were to me.

But, I’ve still got the little red leather box you gave to me after your trip to Italy. And I wrote and recorded a rock song, Ship of Dreams, about our time together — one of the best songs I’ve ever written. So, my memories of you are lovely, and I have nothing but love and gratitude for our time together.

When we first met, I thought it was you I wanted. But gradually, I learned it was never about you. Nor was it about you and me. Instead, you were an angel, an emissary, a cosmic messenger sent to help me find my soul. You came with a message, delivered it, and then disappeared.

I did find the path within, grown in ways I never imagined, and was able to part the curtains and glimpse into the inner world, a truly magnificent place. It’s been incredible for me.

My one wish? — To thank you for showing me the way home. I’m not sure I ever did.

Maybe I’ll send this letter.

Thanks for reading. Have a wonderful day. — Don

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