Nostalgia Game
Matthew Ryan Fischer
Recently I played the nostalgia game with Leslie Mayer, and we
were both disappointed by how many restaurants there were from our teenage
years that didn’t survive the pandemic. I had thought about taking a road trip
across America to celebrate finally feeling free and I mentioned it to her. Recently
free from a bad marriage, she too was looking for something to do that would symbolize
a fresh start. I mentioned the road trip and maybe we could stop in at some old
haunts. So much for that idea.
It had been five years since I had last seen her. Leslie had visited
a friend Rachel in Oceanside and I made the two-hour trip to see her. We went
to a tap room and tasted specialty brews and played board games. Later, we went met
with a group of Rachel’s friends at a local dive bar and played pool and I
bought a roll of quarters so we could have a competition at pinball. At the end
of the night Leslie and I stood in the parking lot for a little too long as we
both tried to find excuses for me to stay. She was married and I wasn’t unsure
of what she wanted and was afraid to ask. In the end, she went home with Rachel
and I sat outside a gas station drinking coffee, angry at myself and my indecision.
Ten years ago, Leslie had a job at a boutique hotel in Denver, and
I was working at a resort in Hawaii. We talked over text and email and sent silly
pictures back and forth. I made her a playlist of songs we liked in High School
and she liked to ask for my help solving simple day-to-day problems even though
I was a day away. We both talked about trying to get jobs in Los Angeles or San
Diego. We hadn’t lived in the same city in years, but both were looking for a
change. It would be easier to tackle a new town with a long time dear old
friend. Or that’s what we told each other. I thought there was subtext. Or
wanted there to be. I told myself if we transferred to the same town, then I
owed it to myself to try. But all that talk was sidelined after she met a man
named Dan and Denver suddenly seemed a little more palatable.
Fifteen years ago, Leslie through a party in her parents’
basement. A group of us were back from college for winter break. I hadn’t
talked to Leslie in six months. I had never seen her drink. She had cut her
hair extra short and college had changed her. She had a confidence and seemed
comfortable in a way that I had never seen before. Whatever it was that made
her meek and nervous in High School, it was gone now. I drank a little less
than normal, and watched her movements through the night, trying to make sure
we had plenty of opportunities to bump into each other. Dylan’s band was
playing, and the music was too loud to talk, but I remember my hand on her hip
and her hand on my back as we danced close.
Sixteen years ago, Leslie asked me to help her shop for supplies
for college. I told her I didn’t really know much about computers. She smiled
and said that was okay, she already knew what she was buying. She just wanted
me to go along for the ride. Later that night we parked in the parking lot at
Denny’s and stared up at the stars while we listened to a mix tape she had made.
Eventually we held hands, and I can almost remember the taste perspiration on
her lips.
Three days ago, I mapped out my travel pattern and what silly
tourist traps I wanted to stop to see. I emailed Leslie my itinerary, saying I
could be in Denver in about a day, and from there the rest of the time-table
was flexible.
I have yet to hear back.
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