The Clinic

Write about your first crush

As I checked in at the front desk, I heard the usual bedlam from the back. I knew Linda was working today and after I signed in, I smoothed my hair and tucked in my shirt.

I was wearing my coolest clothes, but my palms were sweaty. Nonetheless, I was resolute: Today’s the day.

I didn’t spend a lot of time as a tween thinking about girls. I was far more interested in exploring the woods and fields, setting my traps and taming wild animals, and reading books like We Like It Wild by Bradford Angier. 

I dreamed about hitting the road on a big Kawasaki bike. Living in a cabin in British Columbia with my pet wolf. My wanderlust started early.

It wasn’t until I had gone through my growth spurt and had a car that my head came out of the clouds and I discovered girls. What the heck was I thinking, British Columbia. Brother.

And by then, I had some lost ground to make up.

Like Damone and Rat in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, my dating mentor was my older brother, Doug. All his advice was theoretical, of course, and my results varied widely. Sometimes I drove home riding high; other times I cringed as I replayed stupid things I had said or done. 

It was a turbulent and heady time, but one fundamental thing became clear: None of the girls I dated were really into the same things I was. 

Except one.

Her name was Linda and she was a majorette in the band. She was very pretty, and I sometimes watched her during practice. But she was out of my league; so other than a polite hello or sitting behind her on a bus on the way to a game, we remained strangers.

All that changed one afternoon during my shift at the Boca Raton animal shelter. 

I was in the clinic, putting away sterilized equipment from the autoclave when the door behind me opened. I didn’t look; it was just me and Tom…the veterinarian…there that day. 

I heard Tom clear his throat. “Darryl,” he said. “I’d like you to meet a new volunteer.”

I turned and my stomach contracted into a tight knot. 

“This is Linda,” he said. Linda gave me a quiet smile.

“Hi Darryl,” she said. “I see you in band.”

My head spun. She had noticed me? 

Tom spoke. “There’s some business I need to take care of up front. I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.”

He left and Linda and I stood on opposite sides of the operating table staring at each other. After a long awkward pause, she spoke. “So, um— what do I…I mean…”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Let me show you around.”

As I walked her around the surgery, explaining what the various pieces of equipment were and how they worked, my nervousness drained away. I was planning to be a veterinarian and my enthusiasm about animals, their diseases, their care, made me more confident. We finished the tour and I looked at her.

“Well, guess that’s it. Any questions?”

She looked at me, but with a different  expression.

“No, you’ve explained it all. Really well,” she added. “But what do we do?”

“Oh, that’s the fun part. Come with me.”

We went through the supply room and I opened the door into the kennels. Excited barks, yips and howls erupted as we entered. I had to almost shout and she leaned in to hear.

I explained our duties: Hosing down the kennel runs, feeding them, taking prospective owners around and hopefully finding a match.

Linda and I squatted outside the pen of one of my favorite dogs, Bodey, a beautiful black lab. 

“Can we let him out?” she shouted.

I opened the door and Bodey almost knocked Linda onto her back, barking and licking. I expected Linda to be put off by all the slobber and the claws, but instead, she regained her footing, knelt and hugged Bodey. “Oh,” she said with a wide smile. “He’s beautiful.”

I took her around the rest of the dogs and she stopped at almost every pen to stick her finger through the wire mesh. Tom was long gone by the time we finished, but I had no complaints.

The next day in band practice, Linda smiled as she and the other majorettes passed by on their way to the sidelines to practice. 

“Hi, Darryl,” she said. It was a warm, genuine smile. The other majorettes looked at each other, then me. The rest of that two-hour practice was a blur; I forgot my steps, the music…everything except Linda’s smile.

As the days turned to weeks, I found a strange pattern emerging; around school, in band, on our trips to the games, I was tongue tied and awkward. Sometimes I’d just run out of things to say. I’d kick myself.

But at the animal shelter, with the distant racket and smell of antiseptic, I was relaxed and myself. We got to know each other on a deep level. The animal shelter was west of town, near my home in the sticks, and I told her about my explorations and pets I had tamed. I brought in my opossum one afternoon. I loaned her my copy of We Like It Wild and she returned it with excitement in her eyes.

“Oh,” she said. “When I read about the winter ice on the Peace River breaking up like a cannon…that was so cool.” 

We spent our afternoons caring for the animals, feeding them, petting them, letting them run around. When one was adopted, we rejoiced. When one needed to be put down, we both held it as it drifted away.

So on that fateful day, I squared my shoulders and walked back to the surgery. Linda was unpacking a box of gauze pads and putting them on the shelf. She turned and smiled as I came in.

“Hey,” I said casually. “They’re showing Wilderness Family at the Boca Six Theater. I was wondering if you might, uh, I mean—we could go. And see it.” 

She looked at me. “It’s about time,” she said. She walked over, kissed me on the cheek, then went into the kennel area.

To say The Further Adventures of the Wilderness Family was off the cornball charts would be an gross understatement. Still, it was a transcendent, surreal experience: Sitting with this girl who was pretty and kind and into the same things as me…and who liked me. My cup runneth over.

Afterwards, we went to the beach, sat on the dunes, and talked about it. The clouds were impossibly low as they only are in South Florida and a fat, full yellow moon was coming up. The wind rustled the palm branches over our heads and the waves made a shush sound.  When the right moment came, we both leaned in toward each other.

We dated the rest of that year. Christmas came and went and before we knew it, we were into March and midterms.

We made plans to go to prom; we were going to double date with my friend Rich and his girlfriend. Excitement grew as April rolled into May.

I came into the clinic one afternoon and Linda had her back to the door, shoulders slumped. She was sort of shaking. I was alarmed and turned her around; her face was wet.

“What is it?” I asked. “What’s the matter?”

It took her a few seconds to compose herself. “My Dad,” she said. “He’s being transferred to someplace in New York. We’re leaving at the end of the month.”

I could only hold her as she shook. My world imploded.

We kept in touch after I graduated and went off to Florida. She finished her senior year at some high school in upstate New York.

She had plans to come to UF but with the out-of-state tuition, her parents put the kibosh on that. She ended up going to one of the New York State Universities… Rochester, I think.

Our letters became less and less frequent and finally stopped altogether as we pursued our different paths.

About a year ago, I saw a thing on Facebook about an upcoming reunion. I thought about Linda for the first time in many years and went to her page.

My stomach dropped. It was a memorial from 2014… about Linda, who had “lost her courageous fight” on a bleak January day in Austin, TX. She was barely into her fifties.

There were pictures of her husband, her kids, scenes from her life. She looked happy. 

A kaleidoscope of memories ran through my mind. The smell of the kennels. Holding a dying animal with my face inches from Linda’s, both of us misty eyed. That night at the beach, our talks. The terrible shock that day in the surgery and our sad goodbye.

Life happens fast, and changes that forever alter our trajectories are dumped into our laps without warning. I thought about how things might have gone; what ifs, images of cabins in British Columbia and black labs running in the snow. The Peace River ice breaking up in Spring.

But also that I was spared the agony of losing her a decade earlier.

But either way, I’d never see her again.

I went out to the garage, cracked a cold one and sat in my plastic chair. I tilted it toward the rising full moon.

Goodbye, my friend. I hope you had a good life.

The maple tree rustled and I thought I heard her in the wind.

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