high school crush turning tricks
the journal of Michael Werneburg
twenty-seven years and one million words
Recently, I've found myself thinking of a girl I knew in high school. I can't remember her name, nor where exactly we met, but she was by far the best student in the two years of drafting classes we took together. She was astonishingly shy, saying nothing at all in any class. She'd just quietly plug away at her work.
Our drafting teacher often came in early to let us do our work before classes began - which, in Calgary during the winter, must have been an effort on his behalf! - and as the final project neared I started to turn up. She was always there when I did so, and we'd say "hi" to one another and then ignore one another while we worked. Once in a while there'd be someone else there, but it was often just the two of us.
She was quite attractive, and her abiding silence intrigued me. So, one day I went over to ask her about her work, and saw that it was brilliant. It was far, far better stuff than the scratchings I was producing, and had far more imagination. It was good stuff, and I wasn't really surprised.
I don't remember if we ever really got to speaking regularly, though we would both greet each other with a smile if we saw one another around. We'd chat in class once in a while, and I learned that she was a real sweetheart. I suspect her quiet manner came from simple shyness.
Eventually, High School ended, and I went off to University (where my relationships with women were not terribly different).
I saw her a couple of times when I went back to Calgary, though, in the Summer of 1990. I had a mind-numbing job as a painter in an underground parkade. It paid okay, and was one of the jobs posted at the student job boards I could stomach (I couldn't see myself in an office! What little I knew!). Anyway, painting the pipes in a parking garage (brown for sewage, red for hot water, yellow for gas, I don't recall what green was) was a night-time job; no risk of spilling/dripping paint on people's cars! It wasn't much of a job, but I took to it my usual conscientious incompetence.
The job was way downtown, far from any sign of life (Calgary in the 80's shut down after 7 PM, and I understand that this is still the case). The only place open for blocks around was a Mac's on 4th avenue that was commonly referred to as the "Hooker's Mac's". She was dressed in fishnet stockings, a tiny jean jacket, high heels and something sheer. She was just getting out of a guy's car in front of the Mac's as I walked up for a Hoagie and some milk. We caught each other's eye, and I saw the recognition on her face. She quickly turned to go talk to another fellow in another car. I was used to the prostitutes by then, but not this. I felt heart sick.
It night, I resolved to speak to her if I ever saw her. But when I next saw her, she was chatting with some of the other girls, and I couldn't see what I could possibly say to her. The immensity of the situation hit me, and I recall - with horror - chuckling nervously within ear shot of this girl I'd known to be possessing of a quiet sense of humour.
Over the years, I've worked out different scenarios that led her to that path. It's all nonsense, but I can't imagine anything good. That I could find nothing to say has remained one of my real regrets, but I don't suppose she would have appreciated any stammerings from me regardless.