“Would you like your coffee warmed up, sweetie?” That earned her tip more than anything else. The sweetie was endearing and didn’t feel like a charity fuck. It felt country, and sitting in a Denny’s somewhere off I35 certainly was country enough.

I also appreciated the way she referred to a refill as warming my coffee. It showed an appreciation and experience, an experience you’d have to live. You couldn’t read it, hear about it, the simple pleasure of warm coffee on a cold day, the way your coffee slowly cools, and the way a refill warms it back up.

The waiter at Madam Mam’s was a different beast entirely. He had the moves, the posture, the restrained respect you often receive from ethnic waitstaff in Asian and Indian restaurants, but he also had that American casualness, a laxness to his posture, a comfortable stance that said equal, a stance more astonishing in that it probably never appears overseas. He stood American.

Walking by Kerbey Lane, I peeked in the large aquarium windows that faced Guadalupe hoping to catch sight of the waitress we’d had, Heather. She’d offered to comp our salsa and tea, minor items of minor monetary consequence and worth much more to us, a real gift. But I never intended to take her up on it, and then I ordered some cheesecake. In the end, that was comped, too, for four Djarum Splash. I feel bad about the cheesecake, an extravagance being added to the earlier gift, soiling it. I feel like I owe her a fat tab and a big tip.

She had looked good. Something about her was different. I wasn’t sure if it was the hair, the way she’d done her eyes, the dress. I couldn’t pinpoint it, though she was dresssed differently.

She was wearing a slip dress and strappy heels. The shoes looked nice, though I didn’t mention it when I’d first come in. Would have been too forward, or maybe I just thought it would be.

“These are my fuck me shoes.”

“Those are nice shoes.”

“Well, too bad they didn’t work.”

“Why do you say that?”

Shrug. “Well…” She got in her car to go home so Roy and I climbed the stairs to the apartment.

Roy had noticed something, too. “Does that mean we’re guys now? Because we noticed the shoes.”

“Nah. We’re just brothers.”

Melissa had this gawkiness about her, almost as if the distance from her head, down her long legs, to her feet was just too far, but it was so cute. She really was beautiful. When she’d smile at you — she had a beautiful smile — you’d forget the world, just for that moment.

I wasn’t the only one who thought so, either. Roy knew her smile.

She walked out to a VNV song. That was telling. A song she’d usually be bouncing to, dancing around, one of the few people I know who actually looked like she enjoyed dancing while she was dancing.

“Aw fuckit” was all she said.

I gave her a hug and told her to be careful, drive safe, call soon, and when will she be up there, and all the things you tell someone you care about, at any little level, before they go on a traveling of any significance.

She walked out the patio way.

I watched her go. She slumped into her strides. She probably shouldn’t have come. When she’s mopey, there’s nothing that’ll cheer her up. Nothing.

Still, you’re hoping this is the place we had so much fun. This is where she hung out with all of her friends. This is where we bounced, got sloppy drunk and worried about each other driving home afterwards. You’re thinking it’ll be some kind of swan song, but it’s hard when she’s sad anyway, and none of her friends are there. Just me and Roy.

I think I got her to smile like maybe three times the entire night. I would’ve done more, but I was dead tired and sick and just feeling like shit. I almost didn’t go at all, except cause she was going.

You have to do that for your friends. Moments of significance. You have to be there for them.

I can’t stand people being mopey. I’d kind of gotten used to it with Melissa. There’s just nothing you can do. Nothing, so you just let her be.

But sometimes I can’t help but try. “Hey! Melissa!” She turned around.

She’s a tall girl. Long legs and long all around. I remember in Batty’s fashion show she was knock-out gorgeous, her big smile beaming, just strutting down the runway, the most beautiful girl there. Random people were always telling her how they liked her outfit or that she was pretty or they liked her hair. But that was when she’d crane herself up, perched atop her ass-kicking boots. Not like she owned the place, but like she didn’t need to.

But other times she’d kind of bend her head down, as if the ceiling wasn’t tall enough for her, and that’s what she did.

I called to her while she was still on the patio, and she kind of turned halfway and looked back, her head kind of bent over and I told her to take care and I smiled.

I believe in smiles. You can take them anywhere.

“Alright.” And she turned and walked out.

It might have been the lighting on the patio. It’s kind of yellowish out there. The sodium streetlights on Montrose spill over, but it was one of those movie moments in your life, the kind of moment that’s a picture, that you freeze. And it gets stuffed away in your head somewhere until you find it later.

So many people, I’ve seen walk away, led down different paths. Some of them I was sure I’d see soon. Others I knew. Some you make the mental note that you’ll keep in touch, that you’ll visit, that you’ll remember birthdays and that you’ll call near holidays or just every once in a while, just to make sure the world is still alright, that the good people in your life are still there, just to hear their voices, but I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d ever see her again.

I remember once when I was nine; there was this kid on the street. No one special. No one close. Not some kid I’d known since kindergarten, like my friend Josh, but just this guy who lived down the street, and we’d play GI Joes, and he had some of the He-Man action figures, and I did too, so we’d play together after school. He had a harelip he had to talk around when he told us the dirty jokes he’d heard from his uncle.

I remember when he moved away, I just cried. I just sobbed and moaned; I was so sad. My mom came in to see what was the matter and I just didn’t know. I was just so sad. I’d realized I’d never see him again, and him, not even someone important to me. Dad kind of peeked in to see what the matter was, but he just left with a quizzically concerned look on his face. I don’t think my mom understood, either, but mom’s don’t need to understand. They just know you need someone to say it’s okay.

Melissa was a good friend to me. She came into my life at a time when I really needed someone. She’d just listen. I’d try not to whine on and on, and I got good at stuffin all the crap away, but she’d listen anyway. Not that other people didn’t listen, but she seemed like she really cared. More than just being my friend and listening because she had to, because it was some moment of significance, but because she cared. She was a good listener.

And I listened, too. I like to think we met each other when we both just needed someone else there. A time when we were both slowly coming to grips with a mean sanity, and it was good just to have someone as crazy as you around. I hope that when she looks back I was as good a friend to her as she was to me.

Gearing up for the move, I never really thought I’d actually miss her. I don’t really miss people. I think maybe after my grandmother died, and just watching people wash by in the water of life, that I’ve stopped letting myself get too attached to people. I don’t let my heart out. I don’t let people in. Maybe it’s a little scarred over, maybe just a little numb, but I’m gonna miss her big, stupid boots, the way she’d get really snockered and crave silly fruity drinks with umbrellas and glow in the dark names. There won’t be anyone around to bounce with.

I’m back to bouncing on my own.

She called just before she actually hit the road for her long drive up to Pennsylvania, just to say ‘hey’. I think I’ll talk to her again. I think I’d be hard pressed not to, but I can’t help but see her behind the wheel hitting the long highway East and imagine all the great and wonderful people in my life that have driven away.

Some I let go. Others just had to go. Some I should have chased, but was too scared of what lay at the end of the road, and some I chased farther than I should have, farther than anyone would’ve. And some I’m still following.

Lately, it seems I’ve been traveling a lot, hitting the road to other cities, meeting other people, and hanging out with old friends. It sure seems like there’s another season in the air, like the wheel’s come back around again. I’m not sure what’s coming up, but life’s been going pretty well for a while now. I don’t think I’m going anywhere this weekend, but I’ll probably be on the road again next week. Life’s too short not to see the end of all the roads you can.

“Whatever happened to S.?”

“Well…‚” Here it was. Truth, bubbling about beneath the surface of my friends lives for the last few days, and you’re left just wondering why the Fuck they just won’t come out and tell you. “I think she was really bothered by that story you wrote.”

“Bothered by it?”

“I don’t think she liked the way you didn’t capitalize God.”

There’s this face I make. Something along the lines of what the fuck kinda crack you smoking?!? And why the fuck are you being such an idiot?!? It’s a hybrid face, and a good one. My best bet when I have nothing nice to say, like: Who signifies anything with a capitalized letter?!?

I must say, that in these, my formative years, I could be, on occasion, a blithering ass. It was unavoidable. I wasn’t a flake. I was flighty, and idealistic, and entirely seduced by the wonder of life.

I never really listened to her. We’d have these really foolishly obnoxious conversations where we essentially tried to understand what exactly the other one meant when they said south, or next weekend, or ice cream. Communication was terribly non-existent.

Then of course, I stood her up or cancelled on her a couple of times. Sure, that couldn’t have been a good thing. Perhaps the uncapitlaized god was just the last straw.

Eh…

I remember another time, I once cancelled and rescheduled an evening with a girl I was dating something like five times in a row. Eventually, when I would call she would answer with “Oh no you don’t. Don’t do this to me again.” I must admit, the pavlovian response I got from just a phone call rocks. They answer the phone begging and pleading.

I thought it had begun in third grade, but thinking back, I can remember an earlier crush.

Every summer, my dad would sign us up for the swim team. He and my mom had spent their formative years as hippy surfers on Padre Island doing what kids do, which is mostly just kick back and relax in the river of life, just watching it mosey by. My dad had always been a believer in sports. He coached high school basketball and track for a couple of years in Kingsville, the girls’ teams — I always thought that was odd.

But, the coaching job, football in high school, and a firstborn son had him dreaming of a robust, active youth he could talk about over beers, in elevators, courthouse annexes.

So, every summer, he’d sign us up, me and my sisters, for the neighborhood swim team. We lived in Northwest Park and swum on the Stingrays, a venerable aquatics organization with depth, enthusiasm, and an awesome coaching staff.

Wendy was the coach for a long time. Kayla was her assistant coach. I remember when I was five, craning my head back to take in the full figure of her six-foot plus height, too young to appreciate the length of her legs. But craning up, the sunlight creating a halo that was accentuated by her blonde hair, I could’ve sworn she was an angel.

Some people just have a certain way with kids. Not like they’re on the kids’ level, but like they don’t believe in that level. They believe that kids are on the same level, or at least that’s how you feel, and that’s how they seem. That’s how I felt. Though probably half her height, I wasn’t taking scrubby handfuls of buttercups to my coach or an angel, or even some kind of adult. I was taking them to the woman I was determined to have as my girlfriend.

My friend Josh was just as bad. We’d purposely violate some rule just so she’d come over and pay more attention to us: cheating on sit-ups, holding onto the wall instead of swimming the full length of the pool. That was our favorite trick. She’d come over in pink flip-flops and step on our fingers. We’d grin big as rats and move our hands out of the way just in time. Still makes me grin. And we’d grin then, craning back to look up at her haloed face.

I think that’s where I learned to be cute. I can remember her squatting down in yellow shorts to look me eye to eye, accepting the wilted bunch of pink buttercups, tousling my hair and saying I was so cute, thanking me profusely for the flowers. That’s the kind of person she was. She wasn’t patronizing me. She was on the level. It wasn’t hard to have a crush on her at all.

And she’d trained me. Cute gets attention. I never really thought about it, never really sought it out, practiced at home in front of the mirror, but it stayed with me: my mutant cute power. I’m not as cute anymore, mind you. Taking life’s hammer repeatedly to the upper torso for many years tends to tarnish the smile a little. You move a little slower. You’re less inclined to just be funny and make people laugh. But every once in a while, someone I don’t know very well, someone for whom I haven’t even the slightest intention of performing for, will tell me to stop being so cute.

With Kayla, it got me her attention, but I should have learned, it didn’t get me the girl.