C'mon not again . . .

He was a college friend, semi-attractive more humorous than sexy but fun to be around, usually indecisive, finding himself in predicaments with ladies and other people, and he needed by help. He was driving into Eastlake Ohio to pick me up and drive back to California with him. It was for a good reason, or so i thought at the time, now the memory and this song attached to it, makes a feeling of bitter taste in my mouth. Similar to how one feels when the flu-symptom of vomiting takes over with or without your control.

Anyway, there are three of us in the cab front seat, me in middle, talking and seemingly yelling over inappropriate blaring music; while six people in the rear convertible part of this dark-green sticker from every-state covered 1 ton truck, slept. The nine of us are headed back to this half-way house one of our passengers ran away from. We were taking her back, a bit against her will but she promised to be good. She kept babbling about Darryl, how he abused her, treated her wrong. It was very clear, six months into the season being well under-way that his career in professional baseball was more important than she wa. Also simply put, he couldn't keep up with her 'habits' anyway, too costly and too psychologically draining for him to watch her self-destruct. But love is a very interesting habit of heart and when lust, addiction, separation even isolation fills the gap even nicer than the love did, then problems are bound to get worse.

Along the lines of negatively bashing his behavior, personality, character, life and choice of ladies to accomodate bedrooms with--once in awhile she would slip and start to cry about how all she wanted to do was what the song said. My driver friend was beside himself in not being able to offer the right words. He had had tendencies made evident before and he could not have this happen again. This was after our stints with college and pre-med or pre-law, so none of us was really qualified for 'rescuing'.

But we all cared for her during the sixteen hour trip; while over and over, and relentlessly over the other eight of us heard this young woman ditch the man she wanted to make love to her all the time--as if that was all she ever wanted to do. But was it love, no I don't think so, at least not anymore. It was sad and I even felt a stirring of remorse for her even though I had only met her that day.  

I was thrust into this scenario only because I was a long-time friend of the driver who seemed to be involved in some cognitive dissonance involving compassion, responsibility and maturity. It was like he was in debt to these people not just as a facilitator for change, a mentor, former user, he owed these people transportation when needed. The young woman crying over love had run away and the driver either loved her too or really was in a pinch as to how to deal with this one. She was very different. 

But why come all the way up to Eastlake for me ? Couldn't I have just easily advised him over the phone, no c'mon not again, I wasn't turning down him when he asked for my help? No, I could not, so I went. The song by her favorite girl group Heart, was on a cassette that she insisted we play on the way to what she would now call home for the next two years, unless 'good behavior' let her back into society early. It was repulsive when she wailed the words, annoying when she hummed off-key and worst of all, after finally getting her back and home, I had to have my friend the driver explain to me back to the airport that his other intention for bringing me along was because all he wanted to do was to make love with me too !!!! Oh c'mon not again . . . I am not falling for this one ! No kiss just a sting against the left cheek as I picked my bag from the rear of the truck, and boarded my plane never looking back.

I arrived back In Cleveland Hopkins Airport a stronger, better in moral character and maybe a little guilty for slapping the man. Yet I ask myself all the time when ever this 'type' of scenario happens again, how can you teach a guy to be a gentleman ? Sometimes you must . . .