In All the Wrong Places

Chapter 3: Date Night-2

After driving around in what Barry referred to as “the boondocks” for at least forty-five minutes, Sam had to admit her new friend wasn’t the best of mapmakers. There was a tense moment when Sam felt sure Barry’s old Volvo was stuck in a patch of soft sand on the dirt road. A cell phone call brought both Roberta and Doug out to the road to rescue their guests and direct them into the driveway of their home. Home, which turned out to be a trailer, surrounded by a campfire area, a veggie garden, and other trailers in various states of disrepair belonging to the neighbors. Barry shot Sam a questioning look, but all Sam could see was Roberta’s curvy figure walking ahead of them. It was getting dark, and Doug led them to a covered picnic area obviously set up for a casual meal, where he offered them both a beer. Sam took one, but never took her eyes off Roberta’s face. As Barry later admonished her, if she had, she might have seen the sign draped across the back of Doug’s truck—the sign that read “Our Imperial Wizard for President.”

Barry sure noticed it, and almost turned around to leave. But then, as he later confessed to Sam, he noticed Sam’s almost hypnotic attachment to Roberta, and didn’t have the heart to ruin her night. He took a deep breath and steeled himself to spend the evening in “Neo-Nazi land.”

As each hour passed, Sam was a little more infatuated with Roberta—and a little more inebriated. Fueled by several beers and a couple shots of tequila, it was easy to make the decision to sit out by the campfire, “just the girls,” while Doug and Barry cleaned up after the meal. The glowing campfire and starry night reminded Sam of long ago Girl Scout camp-outs. Except, of course, for the fact that this time she was preparing to seduce her fellow camper.

Roberta talked on about nothing in particular. Sam laughed and attempted to respond through the alcoholic haze she was now feeling. Sam didn’t want to talk. She wanted to kiss Roberta and find out what her porcelain skin felt like under the old plaid shirt she wore. So what if she had a picture of Hitler on the wall in the hallway of her trailer? (Sam had glanced at it on the way to the restroom.) So what if…whatever! She would worry about it tomorrow. She was drunk, uninhibited, anxious…and she trusted Barry to get her home safely.

Then Roberta got quiet. She looked at Sam. Sam quickly decided to seize the moment and leaned forward to kiss her. The next thing she knew, her hand was under Roberta’s shirt. Sam felt the silky-smooth skin of the other woman’s breast…she was unaware of anything else in the world at that moment.

Then footsteps sounded softly on the approach to the campfire.

“Hey, girl!”

The spell was broken by the presence of Roberta’s neighbor, a fifty-something bleached blond with a cigarette and a beer in hand. Later, Sam could not remember her name…Belinda, Brenda…something like that. All she knew at the moment was this b***h had just interrupted the exact thing Sam had come here for.

At this point, the passage of time meant very little to Sam—the entire evening was a blur of firelight, beer, s****l excitement, and intense emotion. Time dragged on for what seemed like forever while Roberta talked to her neighbor, who pulled up a chair next to Roberta and cozied up to her in a disturbingly intimate way. At some point, Barry and Doug joined them around the fire.

“Hey, let’s move this party down the road to The Corral,” someone said.

“Sure, let’s go.” It may have been Sam herself who said this; she couldn’t tell. But she knew what she wanted was to be alone with Roberta.

Barry, who had sensibly appointed himself “designated driver,” pulled his car around with Brenda/Belinda in the front seat. He talked to Roberta while Sam listened in silent expectation, “You two could stay here if you want. It seems Doug and I have a pool match to play, which could take a while.”

Sam’s heart dropped through her stomach. Bless Barry! He’s the best friend in the world. She started to turn around toward the house, expecting Roberta to follow.

“No, that’s okay,” she heard Roberta say. “We’ll go with.”

The rest of Sam’s once magical evening went downhill from there. The Corral was like every hick-town, redneck bar in the world. Only worse for Sam, because she saw now Roberta had no intention of following through on whatever flirtation Sam thought they’d started. For some strange and unknown reason, she must’ve just been toying with Sam’s emotions, and her obvious desire for a female connection. And Sam was far too exhausted and too drunk to handle the situation with any degree of dignity.

Finally, she got in Barry’s car, unable to watch another minute while Roberta hung on her husband’s arm and kissed his neck.

Barry got in the driver’s seat and started to say something. “Stop, please,” whispered a tearful Sam, “Please take me home. And don’t try to tell me everything’s okay.”

They drove home in silence.

The next day, Sam felt rejected, and foolish, and something close to desperate. Although Barry told her it was ridiculous to place that much importance on one incident, she couldn’t help but feel like this was her one chance to be with a woman, and somehow it had eluded her. Never mind Roberta was married, and lived in a trailer in “redneck land,” and was a blatant racist. At that moment, to Sam, connecting with this woman represented the remote possibility of actually living as a lesbian. Actually being herself for once in her life.