Before we welcome in the New Year, circa 1962, let’s swing back just a bit to a Friday night basketball game that I’m attending with friends during December of my senior year. Please don’t ask if my high school team is winning or losing, because my girlfriends and I are too busy socializing to pay mind to whatever’s taking place on the court. While in the background, a blur of tall, wiry teen-aged guys in tanks, shorts and high tops run, back and forth, making or missing baskets, I’m engaging in a brief conversation with my friend Sally’s current boyfriend, Steve, who, being two years older, is a college man. Sally has just introduced us when Steve asks—
So Annie, do you have a boyfriend?
With Steve being Sally’s beau, I, feeling safe, smile naturally while replying—No. I was dating someone, but that’s over. (That someone, who pops into my mind, is Chuck, who’d, recently, compared me to The Prudential Building, for some unknown reason.)
Well then, is it okay if I give your number to a buddy of mine?
Without a moment’s hesitation, I reply—Sure, why not.
Next thing I know, Steve comes up with pen and paper, takes down my number, and that’s that until the following Tuesday evening when the powder blue, push button princess phone on my nightstand rings, and I, leaving my homework on my desk, stand up, cross the spacious bedroom shared with my sister, pick up the receiver and answer with a cheerful, questioning lilt—Hello?—being that caller ID and voice mail prove decades away—
Hi, may I please speak to Annie?
This is Annie.
Hi Annie. I’m Steve’s friend, Will ...
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