distant drums

I live about three miles from a high school but the water carries sound quite well at night and the past two Friday nights I have been able to hear the steady, muffled beat of the marching band’s bass drum. Football season has begun and I hear echoes of sounds that are faint and far away but I can make them out-- the thumping of the percussion section and the high shrill wave of hundreds of excited voices going up at once. Those sounds transport me.

My first real official date in high school was to the homecoming dance when I was in 10th grade. My date’s name was Dave, and he was a big, lumbering football player. Dave was like a tank on the football field and everyone’s hero, not because he was especially handsome but because he was charming and he had miles and miles of heart and it showed. He attacked the field like it was a matter of life or death and he protected his teammates like a madman. And he laughed all the time and smiled easily.

I didn’t know Dave very well and so when he asked me to the dance it totally took me by surprise. I had never been asked out before and that was mostly because I had an overly protective older brother who scared the shit out of most of the boys who even acted like they might be interested in me. My brother approved of Dave.

After that it became apparent to me that Dave really liked me. I was in the marching band and at the end of the games, as the players would trudge off the field toward the athletic building, the band would be coming off the track and though separated by a chain link fence, Dave would sometimes walk along next to me, swinging his helmet and shoulder pads, and ask me what I thought of the game. Sometimes he would park his car by the field on afternoons when the band practiced and he would watch.

Looking back on it, I can’t believe my mom let me go out with this guy. He was a year older, over six-feet tall, and drove a car. I was 15 and had never been on a date or alone with a boy. But it was homecoming and my brother liked him, so maybe she figured it was okay. And it was, but I was so self-conscious and nervous I became paralyzed by the unease I felt being alone in his car with him. I remember gripping the arm rest on the door like death because my hand shook from nerves and I didn’t want him to notice. Dave had sent me a mum corsage the size of a cabbage and it had a little gold football charm in the center of it. It nudged my chin whenever I looked down. Peter Frampton was playing on the radio.

The dance was at the Dolphin Resort out on the beach (it’s still standing) and the theme that year was “Stairway to Heaven.” Everyone had to climb a spiral staircase to get to the ballroom on the second floor and I remember all kinds of stars had been hung from the ceiling and some of the football players were leaning over the railing, hooting and hollering at everyone as they arrived. They greeted Dave with particular gusto which made me even more nervous. I was so relieved to see some of my friends there that night that I sort of attached myself to them and spent little time with Dave, which pissed him off, but I didn’t know this until many years later.

I dated Dave a few more times after that but I could never get totally comfortable with him. And he was a terrible kisser. When he left for college my senior year, we saw each other sometimes when he was home on breaks, but it was never serious, plus I had a steady boyfriend at that point.

Dave surprised everyone when he suddenly married a girl he met at college. I didn’t see him again for 20 years. One day I sat in the corner of a packed conference room, furiously taking notes at a huge local government planning meeting and heard a voice on the other side of the room that was unmistakable. I looked up and searched the room for the voice. He had a beard and a little less hair, but, yes, it was Dave! He looked at me and grinned, then continued with his presentation.

We hung around after the meeting and talked for what seemed like hours. He had been married for 20+ years, had two kids and finally blurted out that he was pretty much miserable. He nodded and smiled when I caught him up on the details of my life. We kept in touch. We chatted and e-mailed and had lunch here and there for a few years. He was always up on the latest info on people we went to high school with and he loved to call me up and tell me who was in town, whose mom had just died, who was throwing a party.

Then he called me up one day and told me he had moved out, he was getting divorced. I met him a few times for lunch and listened and nodded. It occurred to me that I was completely comfortable with him and loved spending time with him. There’s something about being with someone who knew you when you were a kid and still sees you in that same soft, hazy light of wistful memories that is so powerful and potent. I treasured my friendship with Dave. But I wasn’t available beyond that and he never crossed the line. It was understood.

I talked to Dave yesterday for the first time in about six months. He is getting married in November. He apologized about not being in touch lately and for not inviting me to the wedding, but his wife-to-be would not appreciate a former girlfriend at the ceremony, which I totally understand (though I never really considered myself his “girlfriend” and I never slept with him, ever). I’m happy for Dave. I congratulated him and wished him well and I meant it. As I hung up the phone, I thought: " I’ll probably never hear from him again and that’s okay, that’s life, I get it."

But tonight after I parked the car and walked up the driveway toward the house, there was that sound again, that faint distant pounding. The faded trill of a ref’s whistle cut through the night air and I stopped for a moment to listen. And a wave of sadness swept over me so sharp and complete, the feeling of loss so unexpected, so bitter, that it really kicked me in the ass.