Arizona, Why Don't You Come My Way

October 20, 1998

Samantha "Sammy" Seymour (no relation to Stephanie) was one of a handful of really pretty cadets at West Point. More than that, she was a kind, smart, steady, hard-working, and funny girl when I met her in the summer of 1990. That summer, while we were learning how to drive tanks, dig foxholes, and how to employ Claymore anti-personnel mines, Sammy Seymour captured my heart. ("Captured my heart" is a nice way of saying, "I developed a wicked huge unhealthy embarrassing crush on her.")

She made me laugh--something few women can do--and that is the main reason why I liked her so much. She had the kind of laugh that belonged to some 45-year-old chain-smoking, twice-divorced, mother-of-two waitress working at a diner in Salina, Kansas. It was a laugh wise beyond her years. It was a survivor's laugh.

The problem was, this wise laugh came from inside one of the prettiest girls I'd ever met. Truth is, I'd never really gone out with any girl before coming to West Point, let alone a real pretty one. I just didn't know how to act. I mean, I was paralyzed and uncomfortable. My tongue was as nimble as a thick iron spike.

A lot has changed since then. I've been married, divorced, and the veteran of many dates--both good and bad--with many girls, both beautiful and not. That part doesn't intimidate me anymore. My heart still beats faster in the presence of a beautiful woman, but my tongue is no longer numb. (Just ask my Russian friend from the bathroom!)

Hey Now!

Anyway, why I am telling you about Samantha Seymour? Well, my college reunion was this past weekend. When I saw Sammy walk into the conference room at the hotel last Friday night, all the confidence and poise I've been developing over the years turned to shit. I was 19 again. It wasn't because Sammy was so beautiful (which she still is); I think I fell apart because she reminded me of a place and time that I don't want to go back to. I didn't really like myself at all back then. Seeing her brought back all the insecurities.

So I downed several drinks at the bar and avoided her for a while. I was so pissed at myself that I could get still get so flustered. That anger kept growing until I felt something solidify inside. "What the fuck?" I thought. "I've gone out with Angel and Eva and the Russian girl whose name I forget (how sad) and all the other girls I've told my readers about in the Broadway Jim Sosnicky Report. I look good. I'm dressed well. I'm writing all the time. I've got it together a lot more than I used to. So stop thinking about this and go talk to her!"

And that is what I did. I can't remember how I started the conversation. There was a lot of adrenaline rushing through my head. But the conversation was pleasant. Very pleasant. I made a few witty remarks. She made a few witty remarks. I became increasingly more comfortable. It was a conversation between equals. It was just plain normal.

When I asked her to go to lunch in The City with me on Sunday, she said "yes." It was a nice feeling.

We actually ended up going out on Saturday night first. We spent the evening in a bar on Hudson Street in Hoboken talking about the old days. With each minute that went by, Sammy became less a person from my uncomfortable past and more a woman of my increasingly decent present. New memories of Hoboken would replace old ones of West Point. That was a pleasant thought.

We spent Sunday in the Village talking about...well...just stuff. It was nice. It was really nice. My pulse still raced in her presence, but it was all good. I was excited, yet comfortable. It was a very pleasant rush. Like I said, we were equals.

For five plus years, Sammy was a blurry, buried memory in the swirling murky gray liquid of my past. Then suddenly I was drinking coffee with her in The Village. She was real. She was in color. Her eyes flashed, her mouth smiled, her voice was clear. But then, just as quickly as she had come, she was gone.

I drove her to Newark Airport. On the way, my new confidence faltered a bit as I wondered which Jim she saw when she looked at me. I think I was just caught up in the emotion of seeing her, connecting with her, then having her leave so suddenly. Whatever the reason, I did slip for a bit into my old self, but it didn't last long. That underlying thought that I've got something going on now with my life didn't leave me. On the Pulaski Skyway headed toward Newark, I realized consciously for the first time, that I am starting to like myself.

I would have liked to have asked Sammy out on a date. But I had to be realistic. She lives two thousand miles away. And maybe she wouldn't want to go on a date with me. But that wouldn't be the end of the world. That type of mature thought surprised me. I've never been like that.

Then I thought--and I was somewhat embarrassed by this--"It's too bad she's missing out on the chance to go out with me!" I'd never had such an arrogant thought in my life. I must confess, it felt kind of good. The level-headed truth is, we'd both probably benefit by going out with each other. But it's not going to happen and that's okay.

Still, I teared up a bit on the way home, thinking about the wonderful girl I'd just become reacquainted with and all the possibilities that left on the plane back to Phoenix. For a few moments, I felt like my heart was going to vomit. The sky seemed darker and the air was a lot colder than it had been a half hour before when Sammy and I hugged each other goodbye at Gate 112. Then--and I shit you not--Gary Puckett and The Union Gap came on the radio and sang, "Well I guess there's just no getting over you." The irony was too much. I started to laugh out loud.

When I got home, I rented the movie "Swingers" and ate a pint of frozen yogurt. By 10:44 p.m., my heart sickness had past.

So what did I learn from this weekend? Well, Samantha Seymour is still the beautiful, smart, kind, strong, funny young woman I fell for back in school. And something else:

I'm okay, too.

Broadway Jim Jenkins

		Arizona, Why Don't You Come My Way
		October 20, 1998 Samantha "Sammy" Seymour (no relation to Stephanie) was one of a handful of really pretty cadets at West Point. More than that, she was a kind, smart, steady, hard-working, and funny girl when I met her in the summer of 1990. That summer, while we were learning how to drive tanks, dig foxholes, and how to employ Claymore anti-personnel mines, Sammy Seymour captured my heart. ("Captured my heart" is a nice way of saying, "I developed a wicked huge unhealthy embarrassing crush on her.") She made me laugh--something few women can do--and that is the main reason why I liked her so much. She had the kind of laugh that belonged to some 45-year-old chain-smoking, twice-divorced, mother-of-two waitress working at a diner in Salina, Kansas. It was a laugh wise beyond her years. It was a survivor's laugh. The problem was, this wise laugh came from inside one of the prettiest girls I'd ever met. Truth is, I'd never really gone out with any girl before coming to West Point, let alone a real pretty one. I just didn't know how to act. I mean, I was paralyzed and uncomfortable. My tongue was as nimble as a thick iron spike. A lot has changed since then. I've been married, divorced, and the veteran of many dates--both good and bad--with many girls, both beautiful and not. That part doesn't intimidate me anymore. My heart still beats faster in the presence of a beautiful woman, but my tongue is no longer numb. (Just ask my Russian friend from the bathroom!) Hey Now! Anyway, why I am telling you about Samantha Seymour? Well, my college reunion was this past weekend. When I saw Sammy walk into the conference room at the hotel last Friday night, all the confidence and poise I've been developing over the years turned to shit. I was 19 again. It wasn't because Sammy was so beautiful (which she still is); I think I fell apart because she reminded me of a place and time that I don't want to go back to. I didn't really like myself at all back then. Seeing her brought back all the insecurities. So I downed several drinks at the bar and avoided her for a while. I was so pissed at myself that I could get still get so flustered. That anger kept growing until I felt something solidify inside. "What the fuck?" I thought. "I've gone out with Angel and Eva and the Russian girl whose name I forget (how sad) and all the other girls I've told my readers about in the Broadway Jim Sosnicky Report. I look good. I'm dressed well. I'm writing all the time. I've got it together a lot more than I used to. So stop thinking about this and go talk to her!" And that is what I did. I can't remember how I started the conversation. There was a lot of adrenaline rushing through my head. But the conversation was pleasant. Very pleasant. I made a few witty remarks. She made a few witty remarks. I became increasingly more comfortable. It was a conversation between equals. It was just plain normal. When I asked her to go to lunch in The City with me on Sunday, she said "yes." It was a nice feeling. We actually ended up going out on Saturday night first. We spent the evening in a bar on Hudson Street in Hoboken talking about the old days. With each minute that went by, Sammy became less a person from my uncomfortable past and more a woman of my increasingly decent present. New memories of Hoboken would replace old ones of West Point. That was a pleasant thought. We spent Sunday in the Village talking about...well...just stuff. It was nice. It was really nice. My pulse still raced in her presence, but it was all good. I was excited, yet comfortable. It was a very pleasant rush. Like I said, we were equals. For five plus years, Sammy was a blurry, buried memory in the swirling murky gray liquid of my past. Then suddenly I was drinking coffee with her in The Village. She was real. She was in color. Her eyes flashed, her mouth smiled, her voice was clear. But then, just as quickly as she had come, she was gone. I drove her to Newark Airport. On the way, my new confidence faltered a bit as I wondered which Jim she saw when she looked at me. I think I was just caught up in the emotion of seeing her, connecting with her, then having her leave so suddenly. Whatever the reason, I did slip for a bit into my old self, but it didn't last long. That underlying thought that I've got something going on now with my life didn't leave me. On the Pulaski Skyway headed toward Newark, I realized consciously for the first time, that I am starting to like myself. I would have liked to have asked Sammy out on a date. But I had to be realistic. She lives two thousand miles away. And maybe she wouldn't want to go on a date with me. But that wouldn't be the end of the world. That type of mature thought surprised me. I've never been like that. Then I thought--and I was somewhat embarrassed by this--"It's too bad she's missing out on the chance to go out with me!" I'd never had such an arrogant thought in my life. I must confess, it felt kind of good. The level-headed truth is, we'd both probably benefit by going out with each other. But it's not going to happen and that's okay. Still, I teared up a bit on the way home, thinking about the wonderful girl I'd just become reacquainted with and all the possibilities that left on the plane back to Phoenix. For a few moments, I felt like my heart was going to vomit. The sky seemed darker and the air was a lot colder than it had been a half hour before when Sammy and I hugged each other goodbye at Gate 112. Then--and I shit you not--Gary Puckett and The Union Gap came on the radio and sang, "Well I guess there's just no getting over you." The irony was too much. I started to laugh out loud. When I got home, I rented the movie "Swingers" and ate a pint of frozen yogurt. By 10:44 p.m., my heart sickness had past. So what did I learn from this weekend? Well, Samantha Seymour is still the beautiful, smart, kind, strong, funny young woman I fell for back in school. And something else: I'm okay, too. Broadway Jim Jenkins