Goodbye, Mary Lou
Mary Lou Van Der Heyden was a wisp of a girl with short dark brown hair….daughter of an Air Force Colonel, a wing commander stationed at Wiesbaden Air Base in West Germany. Just a hint of boobs had this girl; but she was very cute with her large, azure eyes and perfect smile. She had pouty lips too. She was the “new girl in town,” so guys were vying for her attentions at every possible opportunity. Any girl would love such attention; but not just any girl would be so devious as to actually plan her involvements and her break-ups, so devious as to make a list of her intended victims. How could any girl be so mean spirited? Ask Mary Lou. It had started with Jeff Whitaker, then George Mathis, then Doug Carty. I wasn’t smart enough to make the connection, smart enough to see what was going on. I wasn’t alone. Each of those guys was still experiencing throes of disappointment and “ego crush”, hours of personal introspection, each wondering what he had done so wrong that Mary Lou had dumped him. With no idea it was just my turn, I thought there was something about me that those guys didn’t have, something she liked. How naïve.
School was out for service brats like me in the summer of 1960 in Wiesbaden, Germany. I had just turned fourteen. The American Youth Association (AYA), an overseas military version of a YMCA/YWCA or a sophisticated teen club, was offering group tours to places all over Europe during the summer: Amsterdam & the Hague; Paris and other parts of France; the castles of Austria and Luxembourg; and, of course, a Rhine river cruise that stopped at many quaint and historic river ports. If you had parental permission and a little extra cash, you could actually go to Switzerland, Sweden, or Berlin…..until the Iron Curtain’s Berlin Wall made travel through East Germany impossible. So, I worked as often as I could baby sitting or bagging groceries for tips at the military commissary. Paydays were especially lucrative for an aggressive and conscientious bagger, so I had saved a good bit of money. One of these days I'll write a treatise on "How to Bag Groceries." I was good. My Dad was proud. He had told me, “This is the chance of a lifetime, a chance to see so much history, a chance you will never have again. The time is perfect.” He was referring primarily to the historical sites and the simple beauty of their surroundings, but also to the monetary exchange rates across a still recovering Europe that made things relatively inexpensive. One could go places and do things only seen by others in the movies or on The Wonderful World of Disney.
Miss Rous (roos), my homeroom French/English teacher had told parents that she would gladly chaperone a group of us to the place of our selection. Now, Miss Rous had been a prodigy as a child, speaking several languages and completing her PhD in French Literature by age 21. Although she was only 24, she was deemed by faculty and parents alike as wise beyond her years, but progressive. She was quite attractive and drew a lot of attention from most of the guys in school, including not just student guys, but teachers as well….even married ones. It seemed, however, that she was attracted to Charles Parker, a tallish and very handsome young man who, as a pre-teen, had been held back for 3 years for health reasons. Now, fully recovered and quite fit, he was not only a senior football star, but a straight “A” student. Students had seen Miss Rous and Charlie in secluded places in downtown Wiesbaden. They were an “item.” Only Charlie’s age kept Miss Rous from being forbidden to go out with him. After all, he was old enough to vote. Still, they were expected to be discreet.
Amsterdam seemed to have romantic appeal for most of the girls in “the crowd”; while the guys preferred the river cruise, since every little river port had its own brews to taste. The trip to Amsterdam was a little cheaper and involved fewer opportunities for drunken reverie, so the girls got their wish. We rode in style in a Mercedes tour bus, stopping along the way for selected attractions and sights. Some wine and Gouda had been smuggled along, so most of us were sipping wine and tasting cheese and listening to music provided by the Armed Forces Radio station on someone’s transistor radio. I still remember hearing “To Know Him Is To Love Him” by the Teddy Bears and “Shimmy Shimmy Koko Bop” by Little Anthony and the Imperials for the first time while cruising near the northern border of Germany. I never realized how many windmills and tulips were also in northern Germany. Neither did I realize just how “tight” Charlie and Ms. Roos were. They were completely ignoring our use of alcohol and cigarettes. They were absorbed in each other, cooing and smooching. I suspect some of the girls were very jealous….guys too, since none of us were so lucky or so bold.
I will spare you the travelogue about the picturesque cathedrals and windmills, fields of tulips, and hoards of blonde girls in white bonnets and wearing wooden shoes carrying bundles of multicolored tulips. I will tell you about sitting on the beach of the Zuider Zee….on a clear night in late Spring ….with Mary Lou. The Zuider Zee is really an inlet of a sort, a shallow bay off the North Sea. On the beach, there were large, wooden balls for sitting and enjoying the view, such as it was. The sea is always thought provoking and romantic in its way. The balls were about five feet in diameter with a quarter section removed and a bench built inside that conformed with the curved sides. There was some cement in the bottom that served as a flat floor and allowed the ball to rock and to be turned in any direction, but not roll or move from that spot. Beaches on the North Sea are not like those in Hawaii or Bermuda. They are breezier, colder, and the sand is not nearly so fine….but I digress. The reality of it was the inside of one of these balls offered quite a bit of protection from weather, as well as seclusion from prying eyes; and particularly when facing the ocean….and the bench was quite roomy.
I will tell you right now that a girl does not breathe as hard as Mary Lou was breathing, does not hold you as tight as she was holding me, unless she likes what is happening. A girl does not place your hand on her inner thigh and spread her legs just a bit unless she is enraptured by the moment. She was kissing me hard, almost frantically…as if she did not want to stop. “God, I love this. You’re a great kisser” she whispered a couple of times between kisses. She was groping a bit as well. I was very surprised...and glad. Yes, she was a little loose from the wine we had shared; and I was very tempted to make bolder overtures; but I thought to myself, “Take it easy. There’ll be time.” Little did I know. She made more fairly physical overtures, but I was a good boy. I finally suggested we get back to the youth hostel where our group was staying. She seemed disappointed and did not talk much on the way back. When I left her at the door of the girls’ quarters, she gave me a peck on the cheek and said nothing. I knew that pouty look. I had seen her give that same look to Jeff, to George and to Doug…..and they were history.
The next morning, our group was scheduled for a guided walking tour of the “artsy” part of Amsterdam to be followed by the canal cruise. Mary Lou seemed very friendly, even romantic, during our trek through the museums and specialty galleries. She was very “kissy” and wanted to be arm in arm. Our group also visited several short streets of small specialty shops along the way. I am recalling a sugar candy that looked like a one inch crystalline orb from Krypton. Inside the orb was vodka or bourbon or brandy. You could pick which you wanted and they came in different colors. Mmmmm good. We all bought a large number of those, all the various colors and flavors. Spent a gob. Not everything was cheap, I guess; but these “specialty” candies were well worth a splurge. Believe it or not, one can get “loose” on booze-filled candy…..and Mary Lou did. Her sweet tooth had brought along the “aura” of a tipsy teenager as we climbed into the canal boat. As we got to our seats, I noticed just how “talky” she was, rambling on about anything that occurred to her. As the boat departed the dock, there was a little shift, a shake of sorts, all over the boat. Mary Lou’s purse fell to the floor and its contents were spilled. “Oh, s**t!” she exclaimed. Normally, I am sure she would have avoided such an expletive; but the booze-filled candy was working. I was helping her retrieve its contents when I found a little note tightly folded.
Now, everyone knows that a kept note is a sacred and very personal thing, certainly not to be opened or read by others without express permission. It is no less a rule than that of never looking in a woman’s purse without her permission....or reading her diary. Knowing the rule, but ignoring the rule for the sake of teasing the tipsy girl, I opened the note….but it was not a note. Rather, it was a list, a list of boy’s names; and the first four names were checked off.
Jeff Whitaker
George Mathis
Doug Carty
Buzz Candler
Bruce Knowles
Charlie Taylor
My name was fourth, the most recently checked off. After a moment or two, a realization hit me like a ton of bricks. Instantly, it hurt; but I gathered myself and stood. Mary Lou was grabbing at the note and saying, “Give that back to me! Give that back to me! That’s mine!” As I perused those faces staring at and reacting to the scene we were making, I realized that all of us were there. Now, the sidelong looks I had seen Mary Lou give Bruce Knowles earlier this morning were clarified by the moment. As yet, none of us had given in to her physical overtures. She was disappointed and, apparently, still searching for a “real man” to take what she was offering. Everyone in the canal boat was looking at me. Well, carpe diem. Seize the day. Suddenly, a strange and untimely thought occurred to me. I realized that all of us were on the same summer league baseball team. Friction between team members would not be a good thing. I wadded up the list and threw it in the direction of Bruce Knowles. “You’re next on the list, Bruce. You can have her. I don’t want her.” Bruce, with an inquisitive look, caught the wadded up note in mid-air, uncrumpled it, and silently looked at it. Mary Lou could not believe what was happening. Bruce looked up at me, then over at George Mathis, his best friend, then at Doug Carty. Yes, it now dawned on him too. Behind me, I could hear Mary Lou crying and bemoaning the situation, “But you don’t understand!. You just don’t understand!” Charlie Taylor was sitting with his girlfriend, Beth, behind Bruce. Bruce handed the crumpled note to Charlie. Beth was looking over his shoulder when she suddenly looked at Mary Lou and said, “You bitch. You bitch.” By now, I had found another seat on the canal boat. Mary Lou was sitting alone and crying. “You don’t understand” she sobbed repeatedly. Strangely, I felt no remorse for what was happening to her, personally or socially. Looking around, I saw no compassionate eyes, no feelings for her tears. Not even Ms Rous could offer words of comfort after finding out what had happened. Simply stated, what Mary Lou had done was socially and morally despicable.
Mary Lou was not shunned for more than a few weeks; but her social stature plummeted. She had been completely humiliated, her reputation sullied. Her grades suffered somewhat and her once creamy complexion gave in to the stress. I noticed, but took no satisfaction from her decline. Personally, since I still remember the situation so vividly, I believe her tactic probably hurt me the most of any. It hurt me for weeks and weeks, despite my public bravado. I’m sure it subconsciously impacted my willingness to trust a woman – any woman - for many years to come. I did not speak to Mary Lou again until a few days before departing Wiesbaden for Donaldson AFB, South Carolina. She called to invite me to her birthday party. I asked her why she thought to invite me. There was a long pause while she searched for words, so I hung up the phone.
Goodbye, Mary Lou….and
Goodbye, Mary Lou.
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