The Story of Thomas and June

“Excuse me, I’ve got an unusual request.” I leaned on the bar-rail and pinched the nose of my mask.

"Oh, hi. Be right with you.” He turned to me, threw the bar towel over his shoulder, and—well, you know exactly what he did. He pinched the nose of his mask.

“It was the easiest thing in the world to not touch our faces until they told us not to,” I said and we shared a smile. At least our eyes did.

“What’s this unusual request?”

I straightened up and motioned to the front window. “Fifty-three years ago, I met a girl in this bar, right over there. We were about to uncork a bottle of wine she’d snuck in when this kid ran through the front door cursing and screaming about a man being shot across town. The man he was so hysterical over was Martin Luther King Junior.”

He nodded, “April 4th, 1968.”

“I’m impressed. What’s your name?”

“Matthew.”

I wasn’t blowing smoke. I was truly impressed. Matthew was no older than my oldest grandson—looked like him too—and though I love that child to death, there’s not a chance in hell he could tell you King’s assassination date down to the decade. So while I was genuinely dazzled, I did make sure to stack the praise on pretty thick before returning to my request.

“That girl I’d just met was a nurse where M-L-K was being treated. She was out the door before I could even get her last name. Never saw her again. Until today—she’s meeting me here, any minute now.”

I pulled the bottle from the barstool.

“1968 Verona Vineyard’s merlot. This is the bottle we never opened.”

He reached into his pocket and dropped a corkscrew to the bar.

“It’s an incredible story. Of course you can drink it.”

“Thank you thank you thank you.”

I took Matthew’s blessing and found the two-seat high-top at the front window overlooking the Mississippi. The décor in the place had obviously changed, but it felt like the room I remembered, minus the crowd. That day, it was pandemic dead—not a seat was filled in the place, aside from three bar stools that held regulars watching poker on the TV above the bar.

I set the bottle on the sill, precisely where she left it in 1968. It’d been on quite the journey since, with me. Four houses, three marriages, two divorces, six kids, twelve grandchildren.

I’ve been blessed with a lot of love in my life. Too much, probably. But from where I sit, it was all true. Just because I never met someone who I’d take to the grave doesn’t change that. It bothers me how people confuse true love and forever love. One’s no better than the other. And who knows, maybe I had met my forever love right there in that bar. I know, how pathetic—an old man dwelling on forty-five minutes from half a century ago. That may be true, but it’s not like I had high hopes for some new romance to bud that day. I was merely curious. Her face has never left me, and I wanted to know what those eyes had seen, what those ears had heard.

“Would you like this window open?” Matthew pried me from my daydream.

“That’d be great.”

“And do you want me to take the bottle and bring it out after you order? Might be more of a surprise.”

“That’s a wonderful idea Matthew. Thank you.“

I breathed cool river air and conjured that girl again. And there it was, her face. But this image wasn’t a configuration of my memory, it was her actual face. She’d arrived! The woman I’d waited fifty-three years to see was only feet from me. I stood and ironed out the handful of hairs on my head.

“June!” I waved. “Over here.”

She turned and faced me, then stood silent and still for a few ticks before making her way to the table.

“Any trouble getting in?” I asked.

“No.”

“I’d love to shake your hand, but we’d probably be hanged.” My lame attempt at humor was received with the crickets it deserved. As was my small talk on the pandemic. And then my rant on the Memphis professional sports teams.

Yes, no, right, uh-huh, yup, good, nope. Her arsenal of one word answers was strong and deep. So I moved on to the one thing we had in common.

“Have you been back here since that day?”

“No,” she said and her eyes wandered around the room, lingering on pieces of each wall—to anything but me.

“Amazing how much things have changed, isn’t it,” I said.

“Yup.”

It had become clear that I needed something stronger than my wit. And though the merlot was meant to be a cherry atop a glorious reunion, I needed immediate reinforcements. Matthew spotted my desperate eyes and scooted from behind the bar.

“Sorry for the wait. Can I get you folks something to drink?”

“Ice water please,” she said, “the big cubes, with a squeeze of lemon. And I’d like this window shut.”

Apparently she’d saved up all her words for her water-order.

“Of course.” Matthew’s attention shifted to me, in the form of a look that I read as, good luck old man.

“I was thinking of some red wine.” I interlocked my hands. “Would you join me?”

“I’m thirty-six years sober,” she said.

“Two ice waters, please.”

Well, that was that. It was a disaster. And even worse, I figured my memories, the only things on which I could depend, were being tainted. What the hell had I been thinking? Of course nothing was going to come from a chance meeting in 1968. There was one bullet left. One question I needed answered.

“Where did you go that day when we heard the news?”

It was my only fib to Matthew. And fib is probably strong. More like, educated guess. Though I didn’t technically know where she went that day, she’d mentioned being a nurse, so it was no stretch that she could’ve bolted to the hospital. But before she could answer, Matthew dropped the ice waters to the table and gave his best sales pitch for buffalo wings and bar pizzas for two. I give that kid a lot of credit, he went above and beyond for me that day. We thanked him but declined, and the stage was hers.

“Earlier that week I’d heard of plans for the assassination. I didn’t take them seriously.”

Ha! And I thought she was in the emergency room trying to save Martin Luther King. Like I said, memories were being circling the drain before my eyes. Maybe the one-words were better.

“You knew James Ray?”

“My husband did.”

The bombs just wouldn’t end. With that one, an ice cube—a big one—sprang from my mouth and slid across the table.

“Husband?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, “let me explain.” She sipped. “I remember being in a bar when Martin Luther King was shot. But I don’t remember that it was here. I have no idea who you are and no recollection of ever meeting you. There’s a lot from those days I don’t remember. I’m very sorry, I should go.”

“No, please. Don’t go.”

She stood, and as I pleaded and begged, commotion from the bar snagged our attention. One look at the bar TV and it was clear what all the hollering was about. Breaking news of a guilty verdict had interrupted regular programming.

“Bullshit. Complete bullshit.” The profanity came from the biggest, sloppiest man at the bar.

“Come on Jim, he was kneeling on his neck for nine minutes.”

“For good reason. That was a drugged up animal, resisting arrest.”

Let me tell you, that cash register’s springs must have been coiling since 1968.

ZING! The thing slammed open.

POP! Matthew slapped bills on the bar.

“Here’s your money back. Now leave,” he said and pointed to the door, “you’re not welcome here.”

“I’ll leave when my beer is gone.” The man slurred and lifted his beer mug.

Now, if you haven’t already fallen in love with Matthew, this bit will probably do the trick. That kid swiped that drunk’s beer right from his grimy paws, looked him dead in the eyes and chugged that glass dry.

“Leave.”

The drunk rose to his feet flailing his arms and bitching as drunk men often do, but it was all for show, as it usually is with drunk men. He stammered and stumbled and eventually passed us, giving a mocking salute while June applauded in his face.

After the door slammed shut, she lowered her mask and waved air into her mouth.

“Amazing how much some things haven’t changed isn’t it?” she said, and I saw the girl I met fifty years ago.

“I was engaged.” I sighed and took a hit of water.

“What?”

“That day we met—that you don’t remember. You were married, I was engaged.”

She pulled her mask over her nose.

“If you don’t remember me, why did you agree to meet?” I asked.

Her eyes shifted to the Mississippi.

“I haven’t been this close to another human being in more than thirteen months.”

She rubbed her arm. “I got my second shot sixteen days ago. Figured why not. Your message was sweet and you seemed harmless.”

We settled into a conversation on our grandchildren—mostly twenty-twenty flavored stories. Missed graduations and birthday parades.

“And their grandfather?

“Jim died four years ago.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“What about that night we met was so memorable?” She asked.

I shifted in my chair and pinched the nose of my mask.

“Not touching our faces was the easiest thing in the world until they told us not to.” I grinned and told the story of that night. How she marched to me from across the room and instructed me to play along—to pretend I was her boyfriend in an attempt to shoo away the clingy frat boy who was ignoring her cues. And how minutes later she pulled a bottle of Merlot from her bag and claimed that she’d been waiting for the right person to share it with. How she said it was perfect for our quote unquote first date.

“That sounds like me from back then.” Tears formed in her eyes, like she was both proud of and ashamed of the girl I spoke of.

“And then I started rambling on about this wildflower I’ve always loved. I’m shocked you didn’t run out right then.”

“What flower?”

“They’re called shooting stars.”

“No shit.” She stopped me.

“What.”

“Look.” She fiddled with her phone and spun it to me. Her background image was a patch of blooming purple petals.

“I started growing them in the spring of 1968.”

I dabbed at the corner of my eyes. She reached across the table and put her hand on mine. When I regained my composure I capped the story with the long kiss we shared ten minutes before she was stolen from me. She’d claimed she saw that frat boy coming our way, but I knew he’d already left fifteen minutes prior.

“What happened to the wine?”

“I drank it.”

I’m not sure if it was embarrassment from keeping it all those years, or not wanting her to feel guilty that I had.

It wasn’t much longer before she needed to get home.

“Can we do this again?” She asked.

“I’d love to,” I said and led her out the door.

With my fifty-three year date finally over, I found Matthew at the bar. He slid the bottle across to me.

Pop! I lowered my mask and held the bottle to my nose. Fifty-three year old merlot exhaled into my face. It smelled… like red wine.

“Are you allowed to drink?” I asked.

“Nope.” Matthew filled two mugs.

“Not exactly the best wine glasses,” he said.

“They’ll do just fine.”