August 2, 1999

In every man’s life, there is a summer of ’99. Unfortunately for him, that summer came too late.

The girl, the night, the excitement—they all came too late. By the time he met her he was married. He even had a kid. He had married young. Too young. And even now he was still a young man.

A young man in another country, far away from who he really was. And what he really was was a married man. An unhappily married man. A miserable, duty-bound, unhappily married man.

And what she was was a beautiful young girl.

And there they were. And there I was, watching the two of them. I knew his story, and he wanted to know hers. She didn’t know his and he liked it that way and I hadn’t bothered to fill her in. And I wouldn’t, unless things went too far.

I wouldn’t let things go too far.

But he could have some fun.

He was my friend and we were young. Two young men in another country, far away from who we really were.

He looked at her and laughed with her and smoked with her and danced with her and I saw that a part of him was happy. Happy in a way he’d never known…or maybe in a way he’d just forgotten. But I knew that for every measure of happiness, there was an equal measure of pain.

Passion and guilt.

Discovery and resignation.

He was caught up in a moment and caught up in a life all at the same time.

It was sad. And he was sad. And I was sad. Then he asked me to drive him back. Alone. And he was glad that he’d done the right thing. And he was sad that he’d done the right thing.

And I was glad that I wasn’t him.

Broadway Jim Jenkins