She was standing in the middle of the main living room. Naturally it wasn't the living room anymore, it was now the dance floor, except that it wasn't late enough in the evening for enough beer to've gotten into the systems of enough rowdies and enough loose sorority women to've convinced them that they should be pretending to be dancing. But I distinctly remember that she was virtually surrounded on all flanks by drooling geeky guys, which was understandable considering what she was wearing. She had on these tight leather pants, black leather, and a simple white tube-style halter top, also skin-tight. And Sam always had the best skin. Weather-wise it was still Summer, so she was still as brown as a goddam Mexican---except, of course, for the blonde hair. The tube top didn't cover her stomach or shoulders, only the tits, barely, and that made them look so full and round and symmetrical that they looked phony! She was perfect.
And I could tell right away she liked me. She looked over at me for just a second, where I was drinking and leaning coolly against the fireplace mantel, and I could tell. Maybe because she looked away a little too quickly. Whatever. After making her sweat for awhile I walked right over to her, she took a conciliatory step or two toward me, and it was like we were the only two people in the room. No noise, no other worthless chicks, no geeky clumps of annoying fawning horny dudes, nothing. We stopped about two feet apart, and she was wearing this perfume, Opium. First thing I noticed. Opium, as anyone living in today's society can tell you, is an unusually sweet, sweet-tasting perfume. It's the only one my nose can positively identify. I guess it's the only one I've ever really liked. That perfect Sam-like aroma, mixed with the familiar spicy smell of sweat and beer, coupled with that hair and that skin and the tits and the symbolic challenge of leather, I'm not making excuses but, well, it was too much, I sprang this enormous rod, and I believe under less crowded circumstances I could've nailed the bitch right then and there. I remember handing her my beer and jamming my sweaty hands deep inside the front pockets of my blue jeans, in the hope of somewhat camouflaging the bulge.
I began with, "I play roundball," just to allay any fears she might've had about whether or not I was an athlete.
"Yawn...." I remember her saying.
"Nice outfit. Looks uncomfortable."
She took a long sip of my beer. She left her tongue on the glass lip an extra second or two, on purpose. She thought she was so damn hot....if women weren't allowed to tease all the time, they'd be fucking nothing....nothing....
"You may look, if you wish, but you certainly may never touch."
"What a liar."
"I beg your---"
"You're a god damn liar!" I said sharply, smiling exaggeratedly. Half the room probably heard me. But I wasn't about to let any ultra-phony-leather-flaunting female get away with that, with anything like that without a fight, raging hard-on or no: "You're interested. You want very much to be touched. You like men. Especially jocks. You're just going through the motions," I said.
"What if I said get lost?"
"A little respect, please...."
"What if I said get lost sir?"
"I'd say I understand the rules, slip me yer number, and don't worry I'll be in touch."
I think it was at that juncture when I licked my index finger and stuck it squishily into her belly button (it was an "innie"). I could feel her take a quick breath. It's a risky move, guys, but you'd be surprised how well it works sometimes.
But you know what? To the girl's credit, she just wouldn't let it rattle her. She kept her cool. She didn't move: "Y'know, hotshot, as far as you'n I go, that finger's the closest thing any part of your body is ever going to come to penetration."
"Witty. Very witty. Though I'm not sure wittiness is a requirement in a woman." God, she smelled good....
"Bye-bye, jock. Wonderful knowing you."
"Why waste time, sweetmeat? Let's try being honest for a change."
"Bye-bye."
"You'll like honesty. And you'll never fool anybody with this 'aloof' routine."
"Bye-bye."
Well, then---to make a long story short---I toned it down a little, made sure to stammer and look at my shoes and sort've apologize and things like that, naturally scoring big points for "boyish insecurity", I had her phone number by the end of the night, and, as the result of this brilliant and totally-unexpected change of tactics, I was able to make a date for brunch the next day at a nearby Westwood cafe. So the next morning I called her, just to rap a little and confirm the appointment:
"I can't."
"Huh?"
"I can't go. Sorry," she said.
"Can't go? Whaddaya mean you can't go!" I said.
"I just can't."
"Why not?"
"I just can't."
I tell you, I was dumbstruck. But I remember thinking I'll be damned if I let any two-bit hoser get away with flaky horseshit like that. I'd run into it before. In fact, once during college me and my buddies were sitting around pounding down a few beers, and we got to talking about how alot've chicks tend to "agree" to a "first date" and then wind up bagging out at the last minute. Always the eleventh-hour cancellation, right? Anyway, we were all talking about it, comparing our notes, and we decided to add up all the first dates of our lives we could remember, and all the ones where the girl wound up bagging out at the last minute, and then figure out the percentage of the latter to the whole. Sort've like figuring out your shooting percentage. Well, the results were very interesting. 37%. Over a fucking third of the time. And we could only come up with a couple times between us, total, where one of us bagged out! 37%. I can just picture all you 37%-type chicks out there reading this, fondly thinking back to all the wonderful times you've cleverly weaseled out of a "first date" at the last minute, trying in your puny minds to make it seem like it was the guy's fault. I'm sorry if the truth of my opinion hurts. But if it means anything, I don't figure it to be your faults, either. I figure it's sort've "socially genetic", like tainted blood or something. So it's easy to see, at the time, why I was sort've inclined to look upon that "fissure" in this particular girl's character as more of a flaw of the female species in general, a thing better off just disregarded, which I did, and so I just pushed ahead.
"I'm already here---I'm calling from the restaurant," I lied. I figured she might wilt if she knew I'd already gone out of my way.
"I'm....I'm sorry. I'm just sorry," she said quietly.
(God save the men of this world from women who are forever saying I'm sorry.)
"Samantha, I think I'm entitled to know why you're acting like this, why you're jerking me around. Why are you?"
After some more calm-but-incredibly-intense badgering on my part, she finally filled me in. Wish she hadn't. Seems at the time she was seeing this married political-science professor of hers. She'd been seeing him for some time. I guess "seeing" is a little too tame; they were practically living together, even though she had her own room at the sorority. They'd actually set up part-time housekeeping for godsake, at some swank downtown apartment he was maintaining for their stupid little love trysts. The old codger was 46 goddam years old! "He makes me think," she said. Brother. And here's the part I love. The reason she didn't want to go was that she told him about our date! Asked his permission to go out on the fucking date! Can you believe anything so ridiculous? Like he was going to just smile and say, "Why sure, honey, I think you should see other men, go have a swell time, just don't bring home any social diseases!". God it makes me so mad to think of it, even now. But I stayed calm. I stayed calm. I told her she never would've made the date if she was really satisfied. She said she'd had a drink or two and didn't know what she was doing. I said no righteous-looking babe like her could be content for long with some fat, married, older-than-our-parents type of guy. She said she loved the guy. I said you're too young to know shit about love. She said fuck you. I said you're just being a typical woman. She said it again. on and on and on and on and on and
It went on like this for about ten minutes. I'm not lying. Bu
t I knew my chances improved with every minute she didn't put the phone down. I mean the guy was 46 years old, gimme a break. So I kept after her. I even switched back to boyish insecurity a couple times, just to keep her off balance. I don't know why it was so damn important that I talk her into it, but I guess that's exactly what I did. Anyway, she finally gave up and said, "I'll make you a deal,"---and then we agreed to meet for a quick early dinner that night. I'll make you a deal....Christ, I'll never forget that shit for as long as I live. Make you a deal. Like she was negotiating my last Clipper contract or something. Like she was doing me a favor. Make you a deal....
But I'd won, so at the time I didn't make an issue out of it.
hell, I don't know why I'm telling you any of this
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But as long as I'm on the soap box I might as well get it all out. I mean what the hell. Anyway, I remember there was one tiny point during this ridiculous conversation, I remember, I remember it so damned distinctly, when I was just listening to her drone on and on about what a kind, considerate, fascinating, humble, brilliant, friggin' by-god prince of a guy this old married duff was, this fuckin' honky egghead for godsake, when I found myself just sort've looking lightheadedly at the phone in my hand. I was just looking at it at first, then squinting at it, then suddenly wondering if it might not be better to just hang up and forget the whole thing. It was like somebody was talking to me. "Hang up!", a little voice that sounded just like me was saying inside my head, "Hang up, you pathetic pussy-whipped jerk! " I mean I had total control of my destiny. Right in my right hand. Or so you would've thought. All I had to do was just hang up. That's all I had to do.
But I didn't. I not only talked her into meeting me for dinner I managed to talk her into having the dinner at my place, because I'd already made this crock-pot of corned beef and cabbage (I hadn't but then I did), she wound up in my bed by ten-thirty, moved in by the following weekend, and until her disappearing act last Christmas I can't remember two days in a row (except that two-week trip to London in 1980) where we didn't see each other. The rest, as some long-dead asshole once said, is history.
Seven fucking years. Wasted. And to think the whole shitty thing could've been avoided by just hanging up the damn phone that Sunday morning back in September '79. Y'know it was her that got me into this. Yes, it sure was. It was her that talked me into sticking with basketball after the '80 Olympic Boycott, and again in '82 when I was depressed after not getting drafted until late in the 2nd round. Maybe if I'd had the sense to quit competitive roundball back then, if she just let me quit, it might not have gotten so much in my blood about making the Pros. Maybe I wouldn't be so so darned screwed up right now. Y'know, sometimes I still think about not hanging up that phone. After all these years I still think about it. I think about it a lot.}
....but don't worry. I don't intend to run off at the mouth about Sam or any other girl. I know you wouldn't be interested. I just wanted to give you a brief idea of what the southeast coast of Scotland was doing to my head. Bad luck. That's what I mean when I say the last part of the A-1 was difficult. And the last thing I needed was to waste time thinking about Samantha J. Carlisle, so I just did my level best to put all that stuff out've my mind.
By the time the A-1 approaches Edinburgh it's heading virtually due west. It has bent itself so severely to the left so as to have changed direction completely, and so as we powered our way into the city, the Firth of Forth to our right (a "firth" is a Scottish term for a watery inlet or estuary, like a bay), it didn't feel as much like pulling into San Francisco as it might've. But there are many great parallels to the two cities. The population, the conspicuous port, the north coast location, the charm, pubs, brisk weather, marriage of old and new cities into one big special city....there's even a pub called "Edinburgh Castle" in Frisco, just off Market Street. Or at least there used to be. (Sam and I used to go there, after having dinner on Fisherman's Wharf or Union Street, when she'd fly up to the bay area to watch us play the Warriors.) Even the north-and-south bridge over the Firth of Forth, called the Forth Bridge, as sort've a gateway to the U.K. bears a striking "tactical similarity" to the Golden Gate. I guess if, as the result of this piece, Edinburgh winds up with the nickname "the San Francisco of Britain", not only will it be fitting but the world will have me to thank for first saying it in print!
But this is no time for wry humor. It was about four p.m. when we rolled into Scotland's capital city. I was tired. On the recommendation of a petrol (gas) station attendant in Berwick I headed straight for the city's famous Holyrood Park, wherein I immediately scaled "Arthur's Seat", at 822 feet above sea level the highest point in the city. Man, was it windy up there. Cold, crisp, misty-wet. Bitchin'. And so it was, from this spectacular point of view, that I looked west and out and over all of Edinburgh, from the ancient Royal Mile leading up to the real Edinburgh Castle, past that to the ultra-modern business district, and to the docks to the northwest beyond that. The North Sea was to my back. Being able to look so far out over both land and sea made me feel like I was literally on the top of the world. I confess, it was a pretty lonely feeling. It was quite a view, the kind that's probably better with a girl. A couple kids were sort've making out about twenty yards away, and that didn't exactly make me feel any better. It's amazing how when a guy's in a bad mood there's always a couple of hopelessly in love idiots within eyeshot holding hands or making out. I made some notes in my journal, updated a few of these as-yet-unmailed dispatches, and took a nap on the grass.
I had dinner alone, naturally, at a pub at the entrance to the Royal Mile. Must've been an authentic Scottish pub, too. Inside, it looked just like the "Edinburgh Castle" in San Fran. I was planning on spending the night in Edinburgh, but something happened at that pub that changed my mind. I was having a pint of lager for dessert, washing down some thoroughly awful fish-and-chips, I'd already paid my bill, and my change---two five-pound notes and some coins---was sitting there on the bar next to me. Now everyone on both friggin' sides of the Atlantic knows there's an unwritten law in drinking establishments that you do not even so much as look at someone else's money on the bar, much less touch it. Much less try to steal it. But here there was this old drunk woman, this woman for godsake, sitting right next to me, and I guess she thought I wasn't paying attention or something because she just reaches over and lifts both my fivers right off the bar. Man, I couldn't believe it:
"Hey! What the hell are you doing lady?" I said. I grabbed her skinny arm, too.
"Ooo!"
"What? Come on, you old bitch---I can't believe you thought I wasn't gonna see you do it! What's yer problem?"
"Ooo....kind sair....I canney think why 'took the stoof tha' wuzney mine! Ooo, my stars...."
Translation: I can't understand why I took that money which didn't belong to me.
Get this. I actually wound up cutting her some slack. I must be getting soft. But if you could've seen the way she looked, just rags and skin and bones....and she said she lived by herself and she kept reminding me how damn old she was. She was, too. Believe me. And she easily convinced me she hadn't eaten in a while. So even though I was the victim here, I just didn't have the energy to make an issue out of it. I even wound up giving her one of the fivers. But the whole thing depressed me. I just didn't feel like staying the night in Edinburgh. I beat it north across the Forth Bridge, drove 25 miles north on the M-90 to the supposedly-famous city of Perth which of course I'd never before come close to hearing of, and crashed in some dive motel.
* * *
The next morning I remember being in better spirits. I know I plotted my course north on the A-9 to the A-95 heading northeast, for the "Spey Valley", which everywhere I stopped for food or gas people kept telling me was the most breathtaking scenery in Scotland. And it was. But my ultimate goal was something Nigel mentioned that day at Goodwood. I remembered how he said s
omething about all the cool holidays he used to take with his father out on some weird, radical island called the "Isle of Skye", and so that's where I was headed. But the Isle of Skye figured to be a long way northwest of Perth, no point rushing it, and so I decided to take the scenic-but-roundabout route to this mysterious isle "where the sun never disappears"....
The Spey Valley is worth a paragraph or two. It really is spectacular, more so than Sussex even. Put it this way: Of all the places I've ever been the Spey Valley, in the heart of Scotland, is the one place where I wouldn't object if they charged money just to drive through it.
It wasn't any one thing that made the Spey Valley so special. That was the thing, man, it was all the different types of nature in such an amazingly small area that made the drive worth charging for. Take the stretch between Aviemore and Grantown-on-Spey. One minute you can be winding your way up some quaint, canyoned forest road, rows of Scotch pines climbing away from you on either side---in perfect V formation, mind you---and then you wheel around some blind curve and all of a sudden there's nothing in your windshield but miles and miles of open flatlands, green-wheat prairie, green and yellow and table-top flat with sheep and everything. It's like being teletransported from Yosemite to Oklahoma. And then quicker than you'd think possible (because you think you're in the middle of this open green prairie that goes on forever) you're driving into this incredible flash rainstorm and it smells so clean and winter-fresh and the rain feels so goddam good hitting you in the face through the sunroof, but then naturally it gets stronger and you roll the sunroof shut to keep from drowning. But it feels so good you don't wipe it off. When the rain stops (and amazingly it stops within five or ten minutes) you realize you're chugging up a steep mountain incline. Just like that. And right before you there are more mountains, not real mountains but cute little Scottish mountains, but even though they're real small, smaller than the foothills above Pasadena for instance, they're snow-capped like the goddam Himalayas! The scenery changes so often you'd think you were in some obscenely-contrived amusement park, like that fake "African safari" place down by San Diego. I hate fake scenery, and that goes for movies with fake scenery as well. But of course Spey's not fake. It's just the best part of Scotland. I can't explain it. And all these changes of scenery occur within a couple hours' driving time.
The Basketball Expatriate Page 14