The Last Night of Wishful Thinking
written by: Simon Nadel
I felt cooler, more sophisticated. This is College Adam, I thought, he’s nothing like High School Adam. He has an earring. He listens to the Smiths. He wears Doc Martens. I fingered the pack of Camels in my pocket. Oh yeah, that’s right, he smokes. I took a long look at College Adam in the full-length mirror in my childhood bedroom. It was fall break in October 1984. I’d been at college all of a month-and-a-half.
I went to the movie theater around the corner from my house where tickets were only $2. “Terms of Endearment” was playing. I was sobbing by the time the closing credits rolled. I ran my sleeve over my eyes so no one in the mostly empty theater would see.
Sherry Sinclair was also crying, but unlike me she didn’t care if anyone saw. Maybe it’s just easier for girls, but that was sort of her vibe in high school: she didn’t give a shit what anyone thought.
She was in my humanities class senior year. It was an easy elective where we essentially bullshitted the hour away. I almost think Mr. Lemire set it up with me in mind. We had bonded over our shared, unironic love of the Monkees. He was the cool teacher. Sherry Sinclair got really mad at me. We were talking about people we admired and she said she admired David Bowie because he wasn’t afraid to be himself. I said that was the opposite of who David Bowie was, that he presented himself as a completely different character with each new album, that he was, by design, never his true self. “You’re being an asshole, Adam,” she said. And that was that.
I wondered if Sherry Sinclair would like College Adam more than High School Adam. I timed my exit to find out.
“Sherry, hey.”
“Adam? Oh, hey.” She wiped a last tear away. “God, that was something.”
“Yeah,” I said, wondering if I’d banished all evidence of my crying.
When we got outside I offered her a cigarette. To my amazement she accepted and let me light it for her. I felt like I was in a Jay McInerney novel, though I’d never actually read one. Still, I felt extremely cosmopolitan smoking on a quiet sidewalk with Sherry Sinclair.
She told me about Columbia. She’d joined an anti-Apartheid group and a no-nukes group. She liked to wander around the city and go to thrift shops and used book stores. I felt envious and maybe a little inadequate. So I decided to tell the lie I’d been telling to anyone who asked. I told her how much I loved college. “And the campus is only a half-hour from the city,” I said, “so I can take a bus in anytime I want.”
We went to a bar near the theater. I got us Long Island iced teas, under-tipped the bartender, and brought them over to our table. She made a face after she took her first sip. I shrugged. “A friend of mine swears by them.”
“Your friend’s wrong,” she said. “I would never ever ever trust him again.”
I drank mine faster than I should have. I was buzzed a-third of the way down. “I don’t know why we were never friends in high school,” I said. “You’re so cool and you’re really pretty.”
She smiled and shook her head. “Well, you’re a little bit cool and kinda cute,” she said, “but I’m not sure that’s really the strongest basis for a friendship.”
We talked more about college and then a little about high school. “You know,” she said, “you were right about David Bowie. Remember, humanities?”
“Yeah, I was probably being condescending.”
“You were,” she said, “but I felt bad about calling you an asshole. I always thought you were really smart.”
She slid her almost full drink across the table. “I can’t take it anymore,” she said. She got a serious look on her face. “Did you hear about Mr. Lemire? He has a brain tumor. It’s really bad.”
“That’s awful,” I said. “It sucks to get old.”
“I don’t think it’s necessarily a product of aging,” she said, “but yeah, it’s very sad.”
“Did you know he went to high school with Billy Joel, out on Long Island? I heard Billy Joel pushed him down the stairs once.”
“I heard it the other way around,” she said.
“That he pushed Billy Joel?”
“Yeah.”
“Interesting,” I said, “how memories can warp over time.” I finished her drink. “Poor Mr. Lemire.”
I walked Sherry Sinclair to her car. She took my hand and I felt like I was in a movie, one of those independent films that’s shot in black and white with a handheld camera. We kissed and stopped briefly to look at each other and then kissed some more.
“I want you to come visit me,” she said. “Get on that bus and come into the city.” She bit her lower lip. “I can even kick my roommate out for a weekend.”
There was more kissing but at some point I lost track of time and realized she’d already driven away.
***
I never did take that bus into the city. I never visited her at Columbia. We never smoked those cigarettes or went for that drink. We never held hands or had that black-and-white kiss. Because I didn’t get out of my seat. I just sat there and watched Sherry Sinclair walk out of that movie theater where tickets were only $2. And just like I stayed in my seat, I stayed all four years at that college I pretended to like. I got a job and got married and raised a couple of kids. I acquired a mortgage, and later, a mass on my chest that managed not to kill me.
I don’t think about Sherry Sinclair much at all anymore. But sometimes, usually after the drink right after the one that should have been the last, when the house is deathly still, when I catch sight of Middle-Aged Adam in the mirror, sometimes I wonder.
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