THE NARRATIVE ARC
Sweet Love, Moving Violation, and Mending the First Relationship Blunder
Sometimes an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of stupidity
Mesmerized by the sun playing hide and go seek with scattered gray clouds in a foggy overcast sky, I almost missed my soulmate’s entrance into my fickle life. Back home a year from Hawaii adjusting to culture shock in Los Angeles had me questioning my decision to leave paradise.
Head tilted upward, the universe had my undivided attention for a reason.
I wondered, what kind of weather is this on a California weekend in late July and why were my cousin and I accompanied by two of her friends she dragged along the only ones here sitting on a beach park bench overlooking a volleyball court in the sand?
It wouldn’t have surprised me if she had the wrong date and time. After a few tokes on rolled flowers, she was even beginning to question herself. I thought about leaving. It would be at least two hours before Mr. Right on Time strolled in, turned my heart rate into a soulful strutting drumbeat.
My back was turned to the beach path until I heard voices. When I looked around, the man of my dreams glided past us dressed in all white, illuminating his bronzed chiseled physique — polo shirt, shorts, white socks, and tennis shoes. Short black curls framed his manly face and thick manicured mustache brushed the top lip of his kissable full mouth.
I imagined the white Styrofoam drink chest and sound system he pulled in a four-wheeled cart, his chariot. Welcome to my fairytale.
I tapped my cousin on the shoulder, leaned in and said, “Who is that? Girl, he is fine.”
“Oh, that’s…he lives up north,” she said. My mind had already drifted out of earshot, my gaze following his footsteps and tight basketball-shaped derriere — to the point he made a sharp right turn into a paved area where the music, tables, chairs, and bar were to be set up.
Perfect, I could use a glass of wine, I thought.
It took a few minutes after I finished investigating his background through my cousin, but I found the nerve to walk over to the bar and ask for a drink. He was the bartender. Our eyes met. He flashed a warm smile, an open heart and sparks flew — it was 4th of July all over again.
Folks started filing in and it finally looked and sounded like a colorful beach party — people were loosening up — laughing, singing, dancing. The sun was late, music on time, and he was all the sunshine I needed.
I started a volleyball game; he joined my team. How clever was that? Fifteen minutes later, a broken fingernail — I was done. Our connection lasted the entire night under a canopy of twinkling stars, moonlit sky, and calm ocean breezes.
For the next month, we were inseparable — talked on the phone over my lunch hour or met for a bite to eat. Every night was date night. Movies, dinner, drinks, and meeting with friends. Weekend music concerts. I was barely making it to work some mornings, drunk on love — a whirlwind romance on steroids.
The summer was ending, and he had to get back up north for work. One night he asked me if I was moving to Northern California or if he was moving to Southern California. It was clear we weren’t living without each other. Los Angeles had lost her charm. I was ready for another adventure.
Hasta la vista, baby.
I gave my two-week notice at work. We packed up my stuff in a van, moved most of it in one weekend. The following weekend, we would drive my brand-new car to my new home to begin my brand-new life.
Me and a fast car
We were moving faster than a speeding bullet. It had only been a month since we met — it felt like we’d known each other all our lives. We were excited. Once we packed the car, we were off and running.
My shiny black Mustang was hot off the dealership floor, stick shift, tan interior — sunroof top. I bought it a week before we met — it had never been on a long drive. The perfect trip to blow it out.
We were on a stretch of the I-5 where there were only a few cars on the road. Cows roamed open fields. Vroom, vroom, driving at least 80 miles per hour, my future hubby appeared unnerved and said, “Maybe you should slow down,” more than once every time he peeked over at my speedometer.
Wait, was he trying to tell me what to do? It was the first time he had ever offered a directive, or at least that’s how it sounded. I remember smirking, thinking, I’ll do what I want in my car.
I’ll never forget passing a sign that said Welcome to Coalinga. I was waiting for tumbleweed to come rolling down the highway, get attached to my front grill. It’s an old coaling, turned oil hick town in Fresno County, San Joaquin Valley. The population then was probably less than seven thousand.
Suddenly, I heard an authoritative voice on a loudspeaker from a hovering helicopter in the sky. “Stop the car, now — you’re going 95 miles an hour.” What the? Who gets their speed clocked from the sky? I was so embarrassed — was I really going that fast?
After getting my lovely ticket, I handed over the wheel to my future hubby, sheepishly. He tried to warn me. We got home and laughed about it until we realized I couldn’t mail my payment and keep it moving. I had an in-person court date.
We would have to drive back down to the outskirts of LA for court. Who has time for that? I kept extending the court date until I couldn’t. By the time we got back down to Coalinga, we were married and I was pregnant — second trimester.
En route, my hubby got a speeding ticket transporting the criminal. He and the ticketing officer laughed about it. Tsk, tsk.
The verdict — hubby is a keeper
The courtroom was full of Spanish-speaking migrant farmers. When the judge called my name and I tried to explain why I kept extending my date, he told me if I said one more word, he would throw me in contempt of court. Then he called on my husband.
“I’m throwing your ticket out because you have to deal with her,” he said. Half the courtroom chuckled — the other half too scared. He suspended my license for 30 days. It’s safe to say I never want to see that town again.
I was so angry and hurt not only for myself but for others, too. Steam was coming out of my Taurean bullheaded ears — crying like a snotty-nosed baby. The disregard this judge showed for people of color was disgusting.
My hubby consoled me as best he could, made me feel better. I felt bad for putting him through such an inconvenience, all because of my stubbornness and immaturity. He had to take off from work to drive us and never once complained.
Thirty-nine years later, his sense of humor, love, and compassion has never wavered.
Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope ~ Maya Angelou