Billy Dean :)

[I started writing this blog post yesterday, and then my keyboard went on the fritz. Now, weirdly enough, it's working again, so I had to finish it. Here you go...]

It's so weird the random things that come to mind...and at the weirdest times, too.

Tonight I was driving down Washington Road near I-20 and my mind flashed back to a guy I met during my brief stint as a waitress. This was a really flippin' random flash of memory. Gosh, what was it? 1992? Or 1993, I think? I think I was 18, and he looked like Billy Dean.

Remember Billy Dean? Aw man, what a cutie! I can't even remember the guy's name now. It was probably Brian. Or Bryan. Or Brien. Or Bryen. Or Chris. But I doubt it.

I don't remember much about him. Like, I don't even remember if he had the full-on mullet. But I do remember he sure helped kill a few dull hours in between customers at The Kettle. (Think cross between Waffle House and Shoney's.)

I sucked as a waitress. Never got even a little bit good at it the whole three months I worked there. I was on the slowest shift...something like 10 a.m.-6 p.m. The manager disappeared every day around noon or 1, so it was just me and the cook all afternoon.

This was in my brilliant years. I didn't need my parents, see. So I convinced myself they didn't care for me and moved in with Hope. I spent too much time with whoever could buy me beer, and not enough time in college. I dropped out two weeks before the end of my first quarter...and didn't go back for nine years. I almost lost my car, got five hours sleep a night if I was lucky, had a lousy boyfriend and was fortunate enough to be allowed to eat off the hot bar for free. It was the best meal I'd have all day.

Somewhere in the middle of one of those long, dull, sleep-deprived afternoons, my Billy Dean look-alike wandered in. As I recall, he said he had just moved to the area and was staying with his brother in an apartment over on Stevens Creek Road, but he had locked himself out. He came to the restaurant to kill time until his brother got home from work.

He drank sweet tea and kept me company for a little while, and then walked over to the gas station. What did he go for? Cigarettes? Did he even smoke? Ah...I remember. A newspaper! The door barely shut behind him before I was calling Hope. I said, "You have got to come see this guy. He looks just like Billy Dean, I swear! And he's nice! For real! No...he went to the gas station, so I don't have long to talk, but get your butt up here NOW!! Okaaay then. But next time he comes up here, you've got to come see this guy. I mean it!" Or something like that.

All I know is, I never saw anybody lose his keys as much as that boy did. It happened at least a few more times over the next couple of weeks. He'd bring his newspaper with him, talk to me while I ate, sip tea while I waited on my one or two tables. Then I'd sit back down at the table with him and roll silverware or something. I don't remember what we talked about. He never asked me out. Or maybe he hadn't gotten around to it yet. Or maybe he had, and I very lightly brushed him off, because I had to. Come to think of it, I'm sure it was the latter. I vaguely remember offering some lame excuse.

Darn my loyal hide. Why stay faithful to a guy who was more interested in his dope than he was in me? Because loyalty is a point of pride with me and at that moment, it was the right thing to do.

So once, I brought up my boyfriend. (I remember this part very well.) "Your boyfriend?" Billy Dean had repeated with a cocked eyebrow.
I had to 'fess up. "I never said anything about my boyfriend?" I tried to sound innocent. I knew full well I hadn't said anything about my boyfriend (who incidentally, with his thick black ponytail and carefully manicured goatee, looked nothing like Billy Dean.)

I don't remember what happened next. All I know is, he never lost his keys again.

And now he's filed away under "Gee, I wonder whatever happened to What's His Name?"