You Never Asked
He was the tall blond twenty-year-old drummer, whose rock band was well known in our small city. I was the introverted self-conscious sixteen-year-old high-school student, with no particular claim to fame. We worked at the same music school, he the drumming teacher and me the evening receptionist, and he made it his mission to tease the shyness out of me by making me laugh.
He peppered me with anecdotes like how he made his unsuspecting mother listen to George Carlin. “This guy’s hilarious, mum. And he’s really famous. You’ll love him.” Then he loaded the cassette into the stereo and played “The Seven Words You Can’t Say on Television” for her. He imitated his mother’s mixed reaction of horror and stifled giggles. And he couldn’t help recount tales of his shenanigans when his parents went out of town. As soon as they were out the door, he moved all his stereo equipment from his upstairs bedroom into the living room and dragged his drum kit up from the basement. He set up a personal studio, playing his records and drums at full volume. He named and chatted with each of his mother’s many African violets, willing them to look perky as he followed her strict watering and visiting instructions. “Good morning, Mabel. You’re looking rather purple today.” In case I was related to them, he told me about all his Italian friends and showed off his ability to pronounce their names. When I was around him, I felt included in the inner circle of his coolness. While I didn’t mind the attention, he was spoken for.
He was dating a girl I knew from elementary school (a questionable choice in my opinion) so I accepted that my crush would never be anything more and declared (to myself) that all the good ones were taken. Regardless of his relationship status, my overprotective Italian mother would have forbidden even a first date, unless he promised marriage.
My crush left the music school and I ran into him about a year later when I got a part-time job as a sales clerk in Hardware, Toys, and Sporting Goods at Sentry, our local department store. A few months after I started, I spotted a tall blond head organizing footwear in the shoe department. It seemed my crush had followed me. I still found him attractive and he still made me giggle, but this time it was me that was seeing someone. Once again, our timing was off.
I left home shortly after to start my post-secondary studies in Ottawa and this meant parting ways with my boyfriend. I was nineteen-years-old, untethered at last from my mother’s old-fashioned notions and living in a large city where I could re-invent myself while enjoying my long-awaited freedom. I didn’t believe in long distance relationships and my boyfriend and I agreed that staying together didn’t fit into either of our plans anyway.
When the school year ended, I came home to a full-time summer job in one of the offices at our local steel mill and also worked a few shifts a week at my old department store job. One night, while I was trying to look busy organizing nuts and washers in the hardware department, I saw a tall blond head across the aisle in the record department. A year had passed, but he was the same cute blond guy, with a twinkle in his blue eyes, and a confidence I wished I could possess.
He came over and said, “Hey there, stranger. They let you come back.”
I blushed in spite of myself and answered, “Not for much longer. I’m working full-time at the steel plant for the summer. Two jobs is getting to be a lot.”
“Wow, what a keener you are!”
“So, when did you leave the shoe department and what are you up to?” I asked, trying to maintain my composure.
He’d left to take a full-time job at a downtown clothing store while I was away. He asked me about school and then confided in me that his three-year relationship with my elementary school classmate had not ended well. I didn’t ask for details even though I was dying to know.
“I dated a nice older girl for a little while,” he said. “Then there was the stalker. She called the house at all hours. I thought my mother might kill her.”
I smiled and listened with a bit of pity, a great deal of satisfaction, and a glimmer of hope. We were both single. It was as if he read my thoughts. The next thing he said was, “You and I always got along so well. Why did we never go out?”
This was one of those defining moments. I took a deep breath, found some uncharacteristic bravado, and answered, “Because you never asked me.”
Without missing a beat, and oblivious to the outer body experience I was having, he said, “Well, this guy who rented tuxedos from our store got married today and he invited me to the reception tonight at the Elk’s Hall. I bought them an electric frying pan. You want to go?”, he asked in his cool casual tone while I was freaking out.
“Umm, sure!”
Nothing could stop me from saying yes even though I hadn’t washed my hair that morning and had no idea what in the world I was going to wear or how I was going to get past my mother’s objections. Living on my own, 800 kilometers from home for eight months may have made me feel free as a bird but it had done nothing to loosen my mother’s grip on my social life.
Our conversation continued into my break. “So, we’ll go on a first date and then if we’re compatible we’ll go on a second date and then we should get married,” he joked. How did this stuff roll off his tongue so easily? I gripped my lemonade to steady my hands and didn’t dare take a sip in case I choked.
Attempting to mimic his light-hearted tone, I met his gaze and said, “Ok, but I’m an old-fashioned girl, so you’ll have to ask my father’s permission to marry me.” He agreed to this condition.
I gave him my address, he went home to get changed, and I phoned home, bracing myself for my mother’s inquisition. By a stroke of luck, my father, my best friend and the calm one in my household, answered and said my mother was visiting a neighbour. Without regard for his well-being and without a shred of shame I said, “Can you please call her and get her to come home right away and iron my beige dress? I have a date after work.” I can only imagine how that phone call went.
As expected, when I got home, my infuriated mother pounced. “Is he Italian? Is he Catholic? Who are his people?”
I breezed past her and avoided answering with anything but defiant eye rolls, and an exasperated, “Ma, we’re going to a wedding, not getting married.”
When my date arrived at the front door, my father was very gracious. He smiled and shook my date’s hand while my mother stood across the room and scowled at all of us. I pushed past him out the door, motioning him to follow if he knew what was good for him. He clearly hadn’t dated an Italian girl before.
It was a dream night. Even though I tripped going up the stairs in my suede platform sandals and was sure I’d sprained my toe, and my unwashed Italian hair threatened to stick to my head in the July heat, I said yes to every dance. I was finally on a date with my crush. It had only taken three years.
We went on that second date (and many more) before I went back to school in September. I came to believe in long distance relationships, after all. In time, he charmed my mother out of her objections and he did ask my father’s permission. I guess a three-year wait was a small price to pay for the fourty-five years we’ve been married.
