We met on a Saturday night in June 1976, about a week after I graduated from college. I was still in a post-graduation festive mood. I had decided to go out with friends to celebrate. The four of us ended up at a nightclub called The Pasta House. The place was already filling up and the music was blaring.
I asked my friends to do me a favor and buy me a drink as I had to use the restroom. When I rejoined them, I asked if they got my drink. One of them pointed to a cocktail on a small unoccupied table in front of us. I took it and started sipping as I looked out at the dancers on the dance floor.
I noticed one young, attractive gal looking at me oddly. I did not know what to make of it. When the music stopped, she headed straight for me. My friends were chatting behind me in low monotones but I wasn’t paying attention. I was curious why this gal was heading my way.
She crossly asked, “Why are you drinking my drink?”
I was stunned. I turned to look at my friends. They were grinning from ear to ear. I had been hoodwinked!
I felt my face turn red. I apologized. I told her I had been tricked into believing her drink was mine. I thought the cocktail my friends pointed to was the one they bought for me.
She looked toward my friends and saw that by now they were giggling. Before she could say anything more, I said I would buy her a new drink. I rushed off to the bar and ordered a 7 & 7, which was what she had been drinking.
I came back still feeling foolish. I handed her the drink, apologized again, and muttered a few choice words about “the group of idiots” I had come with. She smiled and said it was OK. She recognized that my so-called friends had pranked me, and at least she got a new drink.
So that is how I met Helen, all thanks to my friends’ practical joke and my mistake drinking a cocktail I thought was mine. Once we officially introduced ourselves, Helen and I danced the rest of the night. We chatted away and got to know each other.
When the nightclub closed at 2 a.m., we walked out holding hands. My dateless friends looked on in astonishment. I was now the one grinning from ear to ear. I walked Helen to her car. I wasn’t sure if she had come with a girlfriend or not as I never saw a girl come by to chat with her while we were in the club. It didn’t matter. We stood by her car and continued to talk.
The night air started to chill so I asked if we could get in the car, either hers or mine. She wanted to see my car, which was a ’68 Camaro, a classic-looking sports car with a black vinyl top and cream exterior. I took her to my Camaro and we sat inside for several hours talking about her family, her two young boys, her mom and siblings.
I learned she was working three jobs. During the day, Helen had her regular 40-hour-a-week job. In the evenings, she worked as a concession stand cashier at the local drive-in theatre. On weekends, she worked at a bar serving drinks. But she soon realized it was way too much, even with help from her mom to take care of her kids. To free up her time, she quit the weekend bartending job.
After working so many hours a week, she had finally had a free weekend to unwind and go dancing that night we met.
And that’s how it went with both of us sharing our life stories. By then it was 5 a.m. I asked if she wanted to have breakfast. She accepted my offer and we headed to a local IHOP. I still remember what we ordered: scrambled eggs, hash browns, bacon, a side order of pancakes, a small glass of OJ and plenty of coffee. When we were done we headed down the boulevard back to the club and her parked car.
Driving back, I heard church bells ringing. I looked to my left and noticed several people walking up the steps to a huge church. I slowed down, turned and looked at Helen. I asked, “Do you want to go to church service?” She said, “Yes.” It was a Catholic Mass and she said that was OK since she was Catholic. So we sat there for Mass and went to Communion.
Afterward I drove her back to the Pasta House where her car sat by its lonesome self. I walked her to her car and thanked her for a magical night. I realized I did not have her phone number, and I asked if I could call and ask her out. She said, “Yes.” She wrote down her number and address.
I asked if we could have our first date later that afternoon after we both got some sleep. She smiled and chuckled and said “sure.”
After courting her for two years, we married in Long Beach, Calif., in 1978. It was a blissful life of 42 years.
One fall day, Helen was diagnosed with an incurable disease and I became her caregiver. In the final days of her life, a chaplain came into her hospital room and we prayed together. He asked how we met. I told him the story of how one mistaken drink changed both our lives for the better.
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