His name was Noel. In spite of everything
else I’ve blocked from my consciousness over time, I still remember that
clearly. I also remember his last name, though I’ll omit that here to spare him
any professional mortification. I mean by now, he’s most likely a prestigious attorney.
Or a doctor, or a respected CFO. Without a doubt, Noel has matured into a
prosperous, even more charismatic, even more dashing middle-aged version of
himself. Early on, it’s obvious that some people are just destined for that sort
of thing.
Maybe you knew a guy
like Noel when you were in college. Tall, dark, great GPA. The kind of guy who
always came across as utterly flawless and impeccable -– no matter how profusely
he might sweat during his weekend jogs around campus; no matter how
mud-spattered he became following a game of touch-football on the quad. Whenever
Noel would make his way through the student union (invariably flanked by a
horde of half-envious but admiring male buddies who were less muscled, less
intelligent, and less handsome), female eyes would furtively rise from their
books the moment he came into view; then drop back to inconspicuous levels if
he even happened to glance in their general direction. Observing this little
ritual in action was like watching a silent version of the wave at a Super Bowl
playoff game, but even more pathetic and without the $9 beers and free tee
shirts.
The reason that all
men secretly loathed Noel, and all women secretly loved him, wasn’t because of
his white, even teeth; or his strong, square jawline; or his expertly
cultivated stubble. It wasn’t because of his abundant mane of mocha-brown hair;
his clear and perceptive sapphire eyes; or even the rugged little tattoo -– the
tattoo!! -– of an arrowhead on his left
forearm. Don’t get me wrong, it had something to do with each of these things.
But the main reason Noel reigned as THE GUY on campus was because in spite of
all this, he was genuinely a very nice person. Nobody could figure it out. Here
was this college junior who looked like a cross between an Olympic gymnast and
the cover of an Avon Romance; and yet he was just an extremely decent, studious,
friendly individual who was almost annoyingly equal-opportunity when it came to
interacting with other students. It incensed the guys -– and entranced the
girls -– to the point of lost sleep, but for entirely different reasons.
This is the only way
I can possibly explain how someone like Noel wound up having dinner with
someone like me. Actually, what it came down to was one part fortuitous twist
of fate, one part genuine desire to assist, and two parts wanton
misunderstanding. The resulting recipe for catastrophe played like an extremely
unfortunate outtake of The Bachelor.
Basically, it all started
with a particularly demanding advanced-level economics class. Noel and I wound
up as project partners when each of our respective team members dropped the
class in a panicked mid-term bid to salvage their overall GPAs. In reality,
this course -– like anything containing even a whisper of math in any form -–
was way over my head. I’d actually planned to exercise the mid-term drop option
myself, until the very moment Noel ambled over and sat down next to me. What
followed was the sustained mental equivalent of frenzied intellectual
dog-paddling on my part, characterized by laser-focused attempts to follow
every single syllable that fell from our professor’s lips. Such attempts were interspersed
with somber, random contemplations like, “Does this sweater accentuate my waist?”
and “Crap, am I even wearing deodorant today?”
About three weeks
before our final presentation was due, Noel came down with a terrible cold that
had been going around campus. This caused him to miss several classes in a row,
plus a key review session with our teaching assistant. All this meant that Noel
needed to catch up on multiple pages of lecture notes in a hurry. As a result,
I found him waiting for me on the front steps of my dorm one day.
Noel asked if we
could sit down together so I could help him go over all the material he’d
missed. I mean, that was the general gist of what he said. As his face
continued to move, what I mostly remember thinking about was how I looked in my
new boots; and the fact that he smelled exactly like fresh, clean laundry. Also
whether I was nodding in an alluring-yet-intellectual way; and if I should
maybe re-arrange my hair over one shoulder; and then oh my gosh he’s done
speaking now. Noel stood there blinking expectantly for about three seconds. This
may not sound like a lot of time to you, but it’s an eternity when the campus
equivalent of Apollo is waiting
for you to utter something coherent.
“Koslow’s Cafe” is what I’d heard, along with something
about meeting there tomorrow night so we could discuss our presentation
strategy. Now of course this was not a date. Of course it wasn’t. Of course
not. This was simply a serious, studious, impossibly suave and studly young man
asking me out to a restaurant. Yes, I heard myself say in my best offhandedly
coy tone of voice -- we had a date.
Complications arose when I awoke the next morning with a raging
sore throat and a stuffy nose. Undaunted, I made a beeline to the drugstore
before my first class for cough drops, tissues, decongestant, orange juice, and
what the heck, some new lipstick and a bottle of perfume. I was feeling nearly
human when it came time to get ready for my rendezvous at Koslow’s. This
involved a 95 minute wardrobe, hair, and makeup session so zealously intense
that I was halfway down the block before I realized I’d forgotten my backpack.
When I arrived, Noel was waiting for me in faded jeans
and a crisp white shirt that perfectly accentuated his bronzed complexion. He
held the door as we walked inside, then pulled my chair out when we selected
our table. So intent was I on appearing fully alert and uncongested that I
barely paid attention to the waitress. Moussaka,
I mused, scanning the menu. That sounds exotic.
When our meals arrived, I daintily prodded the various layers of eggplant,
ground beef, and tomato sauce with my fork as Noel chatted engagingly about liquidation
differential and capital loss coverage ratio.
When it came time to dig into our class notes, I noticed
that I’d scarcely touched my food. Wanting to help clear some plates away, I
took one final bite.
My sneeze, I’m pretty sure, took both of us by surprise. One
moment I’d been chewing; the next, I’d felt an inconspicuous sinus tickle; and
then I found myself staring across the table into the stunned blue eyes of
Noel. Most of my Moussaka mouthful was splattered across the front of his crisp
white shirt, accented by some soggy bits still clinging to his forehead.
I’ve willfully forgotten most of the rest, except that we
skipped dessert. And I covered our check. And we got a C on our presentation.
And Noel caught another cold.
#
