Sometimes I become absorbed in a film to the extent that I project myself onto the screen, where I might be, say, Bradley Cooper falling in love with Carey Mulligan in “Maestro.”
More recently, my cinematic inspiration was Adam Driver romancing Penelope Cruz in “Ferrari.” And then Shailene Woodley. Both within the same quarter hour.
I am not delusional. I know that with my age and follicular challenges, I more resemble a Paul Giamatti than a Ryan Gosling. Not that there’s anything wrong with Giamatti, who is a brilliant actor and delightful man, but I think you know what I mean.
And what Valentine’s Day means as well. The hearts, flowers and chocolates filling the shelves and the greeting cards dripping with purple prose are meant to grant us an escape from Chicago’s winter into fantasies of romance. Or remembrances of our own amorous entanglements in younger days.
Like that night she wore black velvet.
It was at a basement party on a Saturday evening long ago, one of countless similar affairs held every weekend in my hometown of Evergreen Park, where the essential ingredients would be a loud stereo, colored lights hanging from the ceiling joists and whatever libations you brought yourself.
The hosts were brothers Zeke and Mickey Michau, who, when they weren’t tinkering with the engines of their twin Chevy convertibles in the driveway, were cracking wise to the entire neighborhood over a low wattage radio transmitter Zeke built in his basement.
The duo’s popularity meant there were plenty of girls at the party to talk to, dance with or ask on a date.
Unfortunately, though, not for me. Even when they were kind, you could see in pretty girls’ eyes how they judged your black framed eyeglasses, the short haircut your mother gave you and the spots on your complexion that were “under repair.”
Resigned to my fate, I staked out a spot in the corner behind the ice-filled wash tub holding bottles of Ripple and cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, where I could smoke my Luckies, sway to “Hey Jude” and “(Sittin’ On) The Dock of the Bay,” and give a thumbs up to Mickey when he walked over to say how’s it going, his arm around Carol.
And that was when I noticed a girl staring at me from across the room. Girls did not do that, or I assumed they never did for very long since I would quickly relieve them of the burden by averting my own eyes. Especially women like her.
A beauty, but not flashy. Not a bombshell. But large, soft brown eyes set in a classically sculpted face. Shining, long brown hair. A black velvet dress and tiny sparkly earrings.
I thought maybe she was nearsighted because why else would she be looking with interest in my direction.
Not until she came close, the wash tub between us, and began talking — her ironic smile and those deep, searching eyes in which I got so lost I had to ask her to repeat her words — did I realize I knew her from the Jewel store where I worked as a stock boy. She was one of a dozen cashiers I’d only previously seen in her buttoned-up regulation uniform.
Tonight, she was angelically transformed: jewelry, make-up, skin all tan and snuggled in velvet.
But her most sexually alluring attribute? Her curiosity. Away from Jewel and our supervisor and workplace protocols, she wanted to know about me.
Me?
My school … my sister … my major … my hangouts … my friends … my middle name … my music.
People ask questions to make conversation. Or to probe for faults.
Eyes fastened on mine, she cared about knowing about me.
In turn, I wanted to ask if she was Italian because of her animated hand gestures. Or if anyone ever told her she looked like the actress Lee Remick? Or if the lavender scent she wore was a magic potion because I was falling fast.
Under her spell, I revealed my secret dream of being a writer aspiring to make others experience the feelings that F. Scott Fitzgerald triggered in me.
She glanced about the room conspiratorially and I realized I had forgotten we were here among others: “I’ve been to a million of these basement parties,” she said, “and I was not going to come tonight.”
She looked down at the plastic cup she was holding and a strand of hair fell loose, falling over one eye. A slim gold earring glinted from within her tresses, brushing against black velvet and her lovely neck.
Leaning in, she touched my shoulder and I felt her lips against my ear as she whispered:
“I’m glad I did.”
David McGrath is now married to the woman in black velvet as well an emeritus English professor at the College of DuPage and author of the book, “Far Enough Away,” a collection of Chicagoland stories. He can be reached at mcgrathd@dupage.edu.
