I’m totally fried and the last three days are a blur. Met a punk rock gal from Portland that came down to Eugene on Friday to see Hüsker Dü. Two shows in a row. A groupie to the core. Walked in while I was working the day shift and flirted with me fiercely. Her name is Buffy, believe it or not. Buffy the Punk Rocker. That’s how she introduced herself—like Attila the Hun or Mott the Hoople. Super cute, short-statured, pixie cut, improbably sweet, and sporting the customary punk paraphernalia.
She hung around after finishing her mint chip ice cream cone and stole glances at me which I shyly returned, attempting and failing to be cool because being nonchalant with girls is impossible for me. I’m an open book. Rudolph has a red nose, I have a blushing tomato for a face. I gave her free coffee and a veggie bagel to keep her from leaving. Smooth. She left the sprouts and tomato on the plate and said, “Thanks for the Jewish cucumber sandwich!” I laughed and she asked me what time I got off work, saying, “Maybe I’ll see you later at the show.”
After she left I was pretty much glowing throughout my shift and kicking myself for not asking her to meet up with me later. To my delight, she was back when I got off work, and she had scored another ticket to Hüsker Dü at some point, before or after napping somewhere on campus, and she invited me to go with her. Of course I said yes, blushing profusely, and we hung out for the rest of the day, and night, and she stayed at my place for the entire weekend, until the moment when she kissed me goodbye and pressed a piece of paper into my hand and boarded the bus bound for Portland. It was a simple note: A phone number with the words “Call Me,” and signed, “Buffy the Punk Rocker,” with a heart and xoxo.
~ Eugene, Oregon (1985)