Blair and the Bonneville
This memoir piece is true, except for my boyfriend’s name. I entered a shorter version into the 2016 Gotham Writers 91-Word Memoir Contest, where it made the list of finalists. You can find that version at: https://www.writingclasses.com/contest/91-word-memoir-contest-2016-winner-and-finalists – but I’m fonder of the original, longer one, which I’ll share with you here.
In those days I was smart and vaguely pretty. Blair was short and cute and had a turned-up nose. His southern drawl was as slow and sweet as sorghum syrup.
Not that his accent was unacceptable, but Blair had written in my yearbook: “Hey, why not give me a brake and go out with me?” I may not have been Mensa material, but his bad spelling had the opposite effect of causing love butterflies to flicker in my gut. I scoffed, closed the book, and forgot about him.
And then it was summer. I turned browner by the day, as I toasted myself to burnt umber on our Atlanta patio. With high school behind me, I was taking it easy. Every afternoon, I worked on my tan, an acceptable thing to pre-enlightened days of baby oil-lubricated sun-worshipping.
My mom thought otherwise. She wasn’t worried about skin cancer; she believed I was wasting my potential, or failing to look hard enough for work, or something. Well, too bad. She should have been happy with the fact I had graduated, and absolutely ecstatic with the miracle of my university acceptance.
Yes, in the fall I would be going to Queen’s University, in the promised land—way the hell out of the South, where my parents had moved me, kicking and screaming, a couple of years earlier. I planned to study just enough to keep from being thrown out and to party like my parents were a thousand miles away—and they would be, praise be. Until I left, I was not about to get involved with any southern boy, no matter how cute he might be.
For now, a little R&R. Sleep in, tan from ten until noon, enjoy an anorexic’s lunch of two lettuce leaves, five green grapes and a teaspoon of peanut butter, re-lube with baby oil and bask some more from two until four. Shower. Glance at the want ads for a possible summer job. Talk on the phone with various friends. Eat another teaspoon of peanut butter and a whole salad for dinner. Meet up with buddies at someone or other’s house, preferably the person whose parents were away. Get giddy on one beer, having consumed fewer than seven hundred calories all day. Dance, laugh, chat. Get high. Keep things light. Go home around midnight. Next day, do it again.
One such night, when I was hanging out with some of my girlfriends, we heard a deep, resonant thrumming. The noise intensified, and we saw its source: a huge, maroon motorcycle with a diminutive figure perched atop. I could feel the strokes of the engine reverberating from the soles of my bare, pedicured feet to the crown of my glossy head, touching all the sweet spots in between. Triumph 650 Bonneville. Sexiest machine ever. Va-va-vrooooooom.
The tiny driver stopped and pulled off his helmet, balancing on his tippy toes to keep the hefty machine from toppling. I gasped when I recognized Blair. He smiled at me. I smiled at the Bonneville, which continued to purr. Blair quirked an eyebrow and cocked his chin at me. I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed a helmet and we took off.
The rest of the summer was a delicious blur. I was deeply in love with a machine that transported me geographically, physically and emotionally to wherever I wanted to go.
Blair was convinced that I had fallen hard for him. I did think he was a nice guy. He was considerate whenever he asked me if I wanted to take our relationship to a new level—although, given his limited vocabulary, he would actually ask me if I wanted to “do it.” He was philosophical when I declined.
And I always did. Who needed sex when I had access to the Bonneville? It had everything—sleek lines, fantastic roars and rumbles, and a vibrato that brought tears to my eyes and exquisite sensations everywhere else.
At the end of August, as I prepared to say good-bye, I suddenly realized I was sad to leave. Blair was startled when I clung to him, sobbing, on our last evening together. He wasn’t used to seeing depth of emotion from me and I stunned myself with this outburst. I thought I could walk away from Blair and never look back, but it turned out that I had grown attached to him. I had known I would miss the Bonneville, but I had never thought that I would miss the boy.
In my Canadian dorm, I thought of Blair’s down-home drawl and his gentle ways. I didn’t give the motorcycle much thought. The machine and I were through. We’d had our fling and it was time to move on.
I felt differently about Blair. I ached for him for at least a few weeks, maybe more—which seemed an eternity at the time. Then, without fuss or drama, we both moved on.
Even now, I smile when I think of that summer. Riding endlessly on the sexy Bonneville, holding onto Blair. Powerful machine; short, sweet boy.
