1984 Chapter 3 On a Cold Winter Night

 Chapter three

On a cold winter night

It is strange how sometimes a seemingly insignificant event can change the course of your life.  In late January, my mother and stepdad invited a work friend over for a social get-together on a Saturday night. Her name was Sherry and she was 31 years old. She arrived with her two sons and it was a lively night with everyone getting to know each other. The evening began with dinner and worked downstairs into the recreation room to the bar. Music played all night conversations floated around the table. We drank beer and smoked cigarettes into the early morning.

Like it always did, writing came up in conversation, especially when you are asked by someone about what you intend to do with your life.  I was 18 and this was a question everyone asks 18-year-olds. I was excited when Sherry revealed that she had gone to school for writing.  In 1984 11 years before my first dalliance with the "information super highway" I felt like I had struck gold!  I had a million questions!  I wanted to absorb every word of wisdom that she was willing to share.  As the night progressed, this became the main theme of the conversation. I was definitely older than my age and Sherry clearly saw it. I was well-read and could hold my own in any age group respectively.

Midnight had passed and it was time for Sherry and her two sons to go back to Naugatuck where they lived. It was suggested that since she had something to drink I would follow her home. Looking back on this, it was a useless exercise.   It started out OK, I led the way. I understood the plan to be we would stay out of normally high police-patrolled areas. 1984 was a different time altogether.  As I look back on this rationale I am in awe of the ignorance.

I proceeded to yield over onto Watertown Avenue, but it immediately went bad and she continued straight right onto Route 8 a state highway resembling an interstate. I stomped on the accelerator and tried to loop back to the east to change course. Unfortunately, I lost her car somewhere. I headed towards Naugatuck. I really had no idea what I was doing. This mission was one of those things that one just falls into for being a nice guy. Somehow, however, I had messed it up.

I got into the area where some camping friends lived in Naugatuck. I went to a pay phone and called home. My stepfather said Sherry called from home with directions to her house. Getting lost may have confused someone who might have had me under surveillance at the time, but getting lost may not have deterred such a person if there was really one. I knew nothing of this in that time and place, unfortunately, it was really happening.

Sherry lived in an apartment complex that I found easily with directions. We sat down at the kitchen table and she made breakfast. Sherry was thirty-one years old. She was intelligent. She had shoulder-length blonde hair and blue eyes. She had a hardness about her, there was no doubt she worked hard and had a tough time somewhere, or everywhere along the way.  

Sherry had a lot of advice about what I should be doing if I chose to take writing as a career. She was extremely direct. Her conversation with me had all of the feelings of a mentor, a teacher, even a strict aunt if you will. Our conversations could be described as philosophical and not personal, which put me at ease. At about five AM I left with two of Sherry's writing textbooks and a healthy complement of good advice which I would not practice for many years to come.

The ride home was easy. Music played as it always should in my vehicle and I was pleased to hold the conversations with this trained writer, who, yes worked in a factory, but still, went to college to write. The road, a small strip of Route 8 between Naugatuck and Waterbury was easy. The road was always sweet to me.

I stopped in to see Sherry one afternoon in February. This time I took over some of my writing. She more than gave me honest opinions of them. She called me out on statements I made.  That was different for me.  Usually, readers would just say, "Oh you are so talented...way with words...blah, blah, blah.  Not Sherry, she interrogated me and virtually slapped me around, demanding an explanation for my abstract charges on life, age, and wisdom.  It was foreign to me and exciting as well.

 At this point in my life, writing came so naturally. I confess that I wrote so often that there was more quantity than quality. Sherry's observations reflected that, although by no means was she critical. The more we talked I saw more of that struggle on her face, she had not had it easy, perhaps even recently.  She had just ended a very turbulent relationship. I learned that her ex-boyfriend was for lack of better words, psychotic. I did not see Sherry again after this visit. I had no idea then, but this simple encounter would drastically change my life. There was just no way to see what was around the bend.