Mausts On Toast

Catalyst Farewell

This essay entitled Catalyst Farewell was originally submitted to my (Drew’s) English 101 class at West Virginia University. We had been dating for approximately one month at this point on August 21, 2004 though living in separate countries. That November I would fly to England during my Thanksgiving break to propose, leaving us to marry on June 4, 2005.

College, oh, how I love you so. You make me new friends, unearth me for who I truly am and you teach me loads of information that I doubt I will ever you use (apart from the final exam).

One such morsel that I remember from sociology is that college serves two interesting latent functions. One, it serves to delay adolescents from entering the job market. Two, it brings members of opposite sexes of approximately the same age together; consequently becoming one ginormous dating game.

For me as a nineteen year old freshman, the idea of finding a quaint chica to call my own was thrilling. University would be the first time that I would be free to “go out and play the field” so to speak.

In high school, there were rules of who could date who and which girls were off limits. Why were particular girls off limits? Because they hailed from a different clique or claimed a higher social class. Hence, we had imaginary laws governing the game. Contrariwise, here in university nobody knows where you came from or who you hung out with in high school and quite frankly nobody cares. If you are attractive, you can woo an equally attractive dame simply because you are attractive, not because your parents dine at the same country club. Here in university I would be free to look for that special someone I would spend the rest of my life with.

Like an eagle scouring the plain, the first week of school I descended upon the social world on a woman hunt. A few of my newly acquired friends were hosting a house party that Friday after the first week of classes. It was a luau. Or so a West Virginian luau as it turned out. Music was playing. Drinks were served (non-alcoholic, of course). However, nobody danced or got funky. We fair-weather partiers merely stood around, prating about everything and anything that came to mind. For, you see, silence is what would have completely snuffed the flickering candle we called a party.

I, sensing the failed Hawaiian festivities going down fast, strutted my stuff on over to the front stoop where sat a curiously clad young lady. Walking over to sit next to this girl may seem like the first step I took to engage her, but I had been eavesdropping on this particular for the majority of the night. There was just something about her that beckoned me. My curiosity was fueled by her accent I faintly picked up on from overhearing her earlier in the night. Casually and coolly then I popped a squat on her row of the steps.
At first glance, she appeared to be about my age, possibly my senior. But certainly that did not stop me from edging my way into the conversation she was having with…nobody. She sat alone! I planned my next move– “How am I going to initiate an un-corny chinwag with this aloof cutie?” Of course, I was unable to conjure up an interesting first line, so I driveled, “Is it ok for me to say that I like your accent?” What an ignoramus. Who asks if it is ok to like an accent? At this point, she probably thought I was about as secure as a ninth grader with volcanic acne.

Luckily, the girl on the stoop was intrigued. Or at least, that is how she led on. She let out a short chuckle, proceeded to smile and remarked a succinct “Yeh, everybody here likes it.” Oh super, so that reply made me feel real well. To her I was just another typical American bloke trying to work my mojo. With one strike against me, I pried onward asking about her musical tastes. This subject opened her up a little more. We talked proverbial rhetoric for about fifteen minutes and then my ride signaled it was time to depart. We exchanged formal introductions of our person and I drove off; having met a very impressive girl (truly she left an impression on me). Emily.

Throughout the semester, I saw this elusive fox on the football pitch, at Campus Crusade for Christ and especially in the cafeteria. Emily successfully and continually caught my attention. Distressingly, we never conversed extensively or spent time alone together. We interacted mostly on an acquaintance level. However, secretly, I was experiencing my first collegiate crush.

I had gathered that she was an exchange student, only in the States for one semester until she would traverse the Ocean blue again. Gave this sobering fact me the courage to verbalize my feelings? Regretfully, not. I say “regretfully”, but here the story of my paramour makes a monumental turn for the better. ‘Twas not I to make the move, but the lovely lady in waiting with her catalyst farewell.

December twelfth brandished the reality of a separation that could potentially castigate a poor lad’s heart. Bags packed and hearts set for home, Emily and her fellow Brits awaited their ride to the airport in the lobby of their dormitory. I was there. A feeble demonstration of my inner attraction personified itself in the purchase of three slushies and three candy bars. My suite-mate accompanied me as I sat out the last half-hour I would see Emily. We talked once again of college life, what it is like to live in England and the blasted cold West Virginia winter. Nothing particularly personal was mentioned. No deep emotional feelings were conveyed. Somehow, simply sitting there, killing time seemed so right.

Emily demanded that my suite-mate and I remain seated as she retrieved a “gift for us”. Bouncing back after a moment of rummaging in a Wal-Mart bag, she wielded a weighty, Christmas-wrapped rectangle. The gift surfaced to be a collage of English money, a map and photos of the Queen, Tony Blair and Emily and her friends and family. Upon receipt of the souvenir, I was pulled aside and handed a small white envelope. Printed in the top corner were the orders: “Read it on your way home”. I stowed the parcel away in my jacket pocket and turned back around to be met with open arms poised to embrace. I opened mine and wrapped them around her inviting soul. An inner sigh of emotional let forth and marked the end of the hug. Letting go and taking a few steps back, goodbyes were expressed and bests of luck were wished. My suitemate and I trekked back to our dorm to finish backing for we too would be heading home shortly.

My mind was on the mysterious “Do Not Read” card I was handed by the fox. Did she honestly expect me to wait till I got home to open it? Was she playing some sort of a game? I had to find out. Fifteen minutes after bidding farewell and certainly not home by any means, I tore into the envelope. The front of the card showed an angel appearing saddened and face propped with his two hands. I, however, flipped past any symbolism that might be hidden in the front cover and went straight for the forbidden-until-home text.

“I could have written you a massive long letter, stating my feelings through past memories of the day/night we first met and the friendship I’ve grown to love. But ya know what Drew I’m just gonna tell it how it is because Jesus never messed around, he always came straight to the point.”

Oh, my heart raced. I had to read on.

“…Drew, I wish I could be around you for the rest of my life!”

My heart lept. My emotions were floored. My secret crush was confessing what I had held prisoner for so long.
Never had words been so moving. Never had strokes of a pen led to the fruition of an adolescent’s yearning. Never have I met a lady like the Emily I have come to love.