[Editor’s Note]

 

I recently came into possession of the Personal Journals of Melissa Ann Dulay (not her real name).  I found them fascinating.  I am publishing them here.

 

Melessa began keeping a journal from the time she was 11 years old.  As she explaines below, the early volumes were accidentally thrown out with the trash.  Years later she went back and attempted to recreate some of the highlights from her earlier writings. 

 

This is not a diary.  She wrote when the mood struck - sometimes writing frequently, sometimes going weeks or months between setting her thoughts to paper.  

 

And they were literally put on paper, with a pen, in her bold, looping, Catholic School cursive.  Converting her writings to digital text was a major task, made possible only by the kind of sophisticated Optical Character Recognition software that is available today.  Manually transcribing the twenty-plus volumes of her journals would have been a more daunting mission than I would have wanted to take on.

 

These are her words, very lightly edited by me - mainly to correct errors in the OCR conversion, but occasionally for clarity.  Names have been changed, otherwise these are her true thoughts and feelings at the time she wrote them.

 

You may find those words boring or uninteresting.   You may not find Melissa a sympathetic or likeable person. You may find her selfish and self centered.  Or you may see echoes of your own thoughts and feelings.  Remember, these were her raw, unfiltered thoughts and emotions at the time she wrote them.  Don’t judge her too harshly.  She was, in fact, a loving, caring, giving person.  

 

The Personal Journals 

of 

Melissa Ann Dulay

 

When I was 11 years old, I began to keep a journal of my thoughts, feelings and happenings in my life. I didn't write every day, just whenever I felt an urge to do so.  

 

Sadly, all the early journals were lost when I was 26. During a day-long dispute with my then husband, Jack, I accidentally put a large box of memorabilia out for the garbage collectors. It included all of my journals up to that point and my high school yearbooks, plus much much more. So many unrecoverable memories.

 

My intention in these next few pages is to write down what I remember as important from those times before the events, people, places, and feelings have forever faded from my mind.

 

And so I will begin..

 

When I was 11, my mother became very ill. She was manic - depressive although I don't know if they made that diagnosis right away. Sometimes she cried a lot, hallucinated, and washed the kitchen floor on her hands and knees in the middle of the night. Other times she was hyper and bossy; called the pastor and wrote the president, trying to run everyone's life. She was hard to be around and life was uncertain and confusing. Meanwhile my dad was cold and distant, working all the time, unavailable. Even when he was home we were not to bother him. "Your father is tired, let him rest and read the paper.”

 

Still I don't think my life was miserable. I had friends, was a good student, loved drawing, writing, reading, and singing. But from an early age, I really craved male attention, wanting a “special boyfriend” very much. I can't help but think this was a result of the absence of a loving, attentive father figure in my life. 

 

I also was a fairly sensuous child. I have no idea if I was more sensual than “average” but I do remember masturbating, being reprimanded and told it was “nasty.”  I remember feeling guilty afterwards, especially when I was older. 

 

In fact I was masturbating just before I started my first period. I remember it distinctly. I was lying on my bed studying catechism questions and answers in preparation for 6th grade confirmation. I was touching myself. Self-stimulation while I  studied. What an oxymoron of sorts! Hilarious! Then I went to the bathroom and discovered blood in my underwear. 

 

Sometimes after I masturbated, I said an act of contrition so I wouldn't go to hell - after all it was a mortal sin. Such incredible bullshit! Even though I had been taught that self-stimulation and, indeed, any sexual pleasure outside of marriage was sinful, I continue to indulge. And feel guilty. The legacy of the Catholic Church.

 

When I was about 11, I experienced my first kiss. The boys name was Sammy. We sat together in the kiddy matinee at the Pitt Theater. He put his arms around me and kissed me. It was thrilling! A few days later I got a message through a neighbor boy, “Sammy doesn't like you anymore.”  Bummer. My first rejection. I was probably hurt a bit - I don't remember. But I hadn't known him very long, so it wasn't a deep hurt.

 

The next romantic encounter I remember was George. I was in the 8th grade - 13 years old. I think he was a year older. He was on a baseball team. The team all came over and played ping-pong in my backyard. 

 

We went to a party together and danced close. At one point George and his friend Pookie squeezed me between them and danced with me. Odd. I think I objected and pulled away from them. 

 

I remember making out with George in the balcony of the Pitt Theater while Mary Poppins played on the screen. Our kissing was intense and I got very turned on. I don't remember why George and I broke up. I do remember going out with Pookie briefly afterwards. 

 

Then there was a dry year of no boyfriends - 9th grade. I got very involved with high school clubs and activities. I ran for, and won, the position of homeroom president. I wrote (actually co-wrote) and led the freshman intramural cheers to the theme of My Fair Lady. I directed The Freshman play (my friend Liz stared.) I joined the drama club and the Broomies Club. I had a fun year and made new friends.

 

I couldn't get a date for the spring dance, however. I think I called three boys, but no one could, or would, go out with me. So Mary Rose Delaney and I went together. I remember that other girl’s dates asked me to dance a lot, and that two of them were pissed at me for that. HA!

 

 In July or August of that summer I met Joe Cabibi at a CYO barbecue. He seemed sweet and kind and he was interested in me! We began dating. Our first date was to a movie at the pit. I don't remember the movie but I do remember that he kissed me good night at my front door and I was floating on air! He wasn't driving yet so we went places on the bus or walked. He went to school at Cor Jesu, I think, and later to Kennedy High School. His family seemed to be in turmoil, moving and fighting a lot. Joe was not a brilliant guy, not a scholar by any means. But he was an excellent drummer in a very cool high school band The Ultimates. Other band members who stick in my mind are Jay Session and John McDonald. They had a great horn section. Once they let me sing with them at a dance at San Rafael gym. I sang “There's Got to be a Guy.” It was fun. they had lots of gigs.

 

Joe and I went steady for about 2 and 1/2 years with a couple of brief breakups interspersed. Once he started driving we did a lot of parking and making out. We were both virgins, both new at sexual expression. We were sweet and tender with each other, but also very into exploring the possibilities. I was shy about touching him but I loved having his hands all over me. One night we went to a house that his family had recently moved out of. Joe had kept a key. We snuck in. there was no heat or electricity. It was cold, so we lay down in a large closet and closed the door so our body heat would warm the space. I had my first orgasm with a guy that night, just from being so turned on at us pushing and rubbing against each other with our clothes on. I remember being surprised by the orgasm, the delightful unexpected sensation of it.

 

We expressed our love in words to each other often, and I think we really did love each other. We talked about getting married after high school. We saw each other as much as possible after school and on Friday and Saturday nights. We would go to City Park and sit in the backseat of his Chevy and make out like crazy. I would lie and tell my mom I had play practice after school.

 

In May of my sophomore year we decided to go all the way. Joe's family was out of town for the weekend. I spent the night at his house, telling my mom I was at Sandy Rose’s. We made love in his parents bed. I got blood on their sheets. Joe washed them later. It hurt a little but felt almost spiritual like we were living our souls to each other. It was so sweet. The next day we had lunch at a hamburger place and promised to get married and stay together forever. I don't think we even used a condom or anything!

 

It was hard to find private places to make love. I remember screwing in his bed three times. Twice we almost got caught. Once after we had screwed his sister, Maria, came home unexpectedly. I was stuck in his room and had to pee badly. He got a glass and I peed in it and he threw it out the window. Ha! Ha! Ha!

 

Another time, after we made love, I climbed out of his window and ran into his dad in the front of the house. I made up a story about waiting around to meet Joe there. Joe heard and pretended to be napping when his dad knocked on his bedroom door.

 

Other times we made love at the drive-in (once my zipper on my yellow dress broke in the down position!) or on Lover's Lane. It was tricky avoiding being caught. Sometimes the police would shine a flashlight on you, just when you were really getting intimate, and tell you to cool it.

 

I don't remember what we used for birth control, probably a combination of rhythm and condoms. I remember pregnancy scares a few times. But, remarkably - no pregnancies. 

 

We broke up once when I discovered him kissing another girl at a gig. Sandra and I took the bus to Saint Aloysius gym where the band was playing at a dance. We walked in during an intermission and Joe had his arms around some girl and was kissing her. I was devastated. I took the bus home and cried my heart out. He went out with her for a while but we got back together. 

 

All in all, it was a wonderful high school love affair and a very nice way to begin to learn about sex and love. We really learned from each other. 

 

We broke up for good when I was a senior in high school. It was fall and I was in the play “You Can't Take It With You” at Cor Jesu (the boys high school).  I played a young girl falling in  love for the first time. Glenn White played my boyfriend. 

 

Joe came to rehearsal one day and peeked in the window. I was sitting in the audience watching, it was hot, and I had my wool, pleated uniform skirt pulled up high on my thighs to get more air. Joe motioned me outside, yelled at me about my skirt and slapped me in the face. That was when I broke up with him for good. He asked me to take him back, but I wouldn't. Things just weren't good between us anymore. I wonder whatever happened to him?

 

My high school years were full of other things besides boyfriends. The drama club played a major part in my life. I think my first role was in “Schubert Alley”. I was “Fuchsia Lucia”, an unsavory character who lied and backstabbed to get into Broadway.

 

I loved acting and I was hooked. I played the ghost wife in “Blythe Spirit" and the Princess in Thurber's “Many Moons.” I loved wearing the long pink dress and the crown and being adored by the elementary school girls. When Cor Jesu (the brother school to my all girls high school, St Joseph Academy) started allowing girls in their productions I was right there trying out for a part. Got a bit part at first, then a starring role in “You Can't Take It With You”.  I was the nurse in “Harvey” and had a good sized role in “Easy Does It”. 

 

It was all wonderful fun and I met lots of people. Chief among them was Glenn White, who played my new boyfriend in “You Can't Take It With You”. We were so sweet on each other that we couldn't do the kissing scene in the play without giggling and losing it. So unprofessional! Tthe director finally cut the kiss out of the scene. 

 

We made up for it at the cast party. I distinctly remember being so very turned on as Glenn kissed me repeatedly in the backyard at the party, pressing his body against mine as I leaned back on a huge tree trunk. Delicious pleasure! 

 

That was only the beginning for us. Glenn was a wonderful creative lover, full of ideas and surprises. He taught me a lot about sexuality. We made out in the backseat of one of his two family cars - anP old VW bug and or a blue Ford Mustang. 

 

He was quite an actor. I remember sitting on his lap in his car in City Park after school. He would pretend to be a Mexican doctor, put on an accent and call me “Senorita Morita.”  He would examine various parts of my body with his hands, saying sexy things, all the while in his funny accent. It was erotic and hilarious at the same time. 

 

I also remember one night at the Lake, again in the backseat of his car. We were heavy into making out, he had his hand between my legs, and suddenly he slipped two fingers into me. Oh my God!  Such a delicious feeling as he finger fucked me. I was so surprised. The idea had never even occurred to me.

 

He also introduced me to oral sex, and to different positions. I remember sitting on his lap on the floor of my bedroom fucking him - both of us sitting up.  God he was good at sex.

 

But he had some problems. He was a major liar. He told me he was adopted, from France, and his real name was John Pierre Blanchet. He dyed his hair blonde, but said it was his natural color.

 

I went out with him from the fall of my senior year until the spring of my freshman year in college. His parents caused me to be kicked out of my house. His mother brought over some letters that I had written to him. (I don't know how she found them.) My letters clearly stated that we were lovers. He was a year younger than me, and she felt I was corrupting her son. Ha! 

 

My family did a sort of intervention thing to me about it. It was so weird. I came home from classes at LSUNO in the afternoon and everyone was sitting in the living room, including Mary, our maid. They told me about Glenn's mom and the letters. My Dad gave me two choices: quit having sex or move out. I chose to move out. Phyllis even called me a “whore.” Heavy shit and so unfair! It was awful. I moved out in December, after the first semester. 

 

Meanwhile in the fall, Glenn's parents kicked him out for a while. (I don't remember why. ) He borrowed some money from me and rented a room in the Quarter. 

 

On a Sunday afternoon, my friend Ann took me over to see him. I knocked on his door and heard a girl's voice along with his. Then it got very quiet. I knocked again and said, “Glenn I know you are in there. Open this door!” 

 

He did but acted like he had been asleep. I walked in and found the girl under the bed. She said, “Look man, like, I don't ball”

 

I was furious and hysterical. He was fucking this chick on my money. 

 

I broke up with him, but took him back not long after Ha! We stayed together for a few more months and had lots of fun making love anytime and anywhere we wanted in my new apartment. 

 

But things got weird. Once he got angry and threw me on the floor from the bed. Another time he got pissed when I spilled popcorn in the kitchen. He grabbed me, threw me against the wall, and yelled at me. I refused to put up with his abuse and broke up with him. 

 

He was kind of crazy. One night he came over and wanted to talk to me. We went for a walk and he began dragging me down a dark side street. I tried to get loose but he kept pulling me, saying, “Why are you afraid? I'm not going to kill you…”

 

Liz Fox was my best friend when I was in my freshmen year of college. She and I got an apartment together when my parents kicked me out. She was somewhat domineering and took the bigger bedroom. I had just a single bed and she had a double so it made sense. 

 

We got along well, I think, except over the issue of house-work. Liz thought we should totally clean the apt. every weekend - vacuum, dust, mop, etc. I wasn't into it. She even put up a plaque in the kitchen that said "Them that Works Eats." 

 

She was very pretty and had long blonde hair. 

 

At one point I even had a "thing" with one of her x-boyfriends Ken McElroy. 

 

I vaguely remember that he came over one night, late to see Liz I think. But she wasn't there, so she stayed and talked to me. I think we ended up in bed. He was very tall - 6'5" and had blonde hair and he was "cute" and had a Karman Ghia convertible. A classic "stud." He used me for sex and had no interest in me otherwise. 

 

He would call me late at night and ask if he could come over. Then he would come over and just screw me and leave. It didn't take too long for me to realize he didn't even like me much. So I asked him, tearfully, to just leave me alone. And he did. But what a jerk!

 

College was a revelation and a new world of freedom for me. Philosophy, anthropology, sociology, psychology - so many new ideas to ponder. My own apartment! I'm finally getting out from under the oppressive rule of my strict, religious parents. Freedom to do as I pleased. I loved it!

 

I worked part-time in the college library in the searching department. The work was often tedious and boring, the people were often interesting. 

 

A graduate student worked with me for a while; his name was Lloyd Binford Ramke - "Bin" for short. He was a poet and he was married. He was tall and quite thin with large, brown, expressive eyes and long, gentle fingers. His poetry was wonderful and romantic, like he was. 

 

"The Thing Itself or Attempts Thereof" was the name of the collection of poems he shared with me. I knew, I'm sure I knew, it was hopeless, that I couldn't "have" him. But I was smitten.

 

The University was next to Lake Pontchatrain and one day we walked together to sit on 

to the seawall. I think that was the first time we really touched each other, physically, and his touch was electric, a tingling current of delicious excitement. 

 

As I recall, we only made love a few times; it was difficult for him to steal time away from his wife. I think the first was when he came to my apartment one evening. I remember it as a warm, 

humid spring night, thick velvety enveloped darkness in my small room, my narrow single bed. He was sweet and tender and so very romantic. 

 

.I don't think, in all the years since then, I have ever made love with a more delightfully romantic man. I watched from my window as he walked away down the street that night, going home to his wife. I wanted him to stay with me. 

 

I remember one other time we were together. Bin lived in an apartment 

in the French Quarter and invited me to come over one day when his wife was at work.

I took the bus and met him at Cafe du Monde. I even remember what I was wearing - a chartreuse colored cotton dress with a matching jacket.

 

We walked to his house, up the stairs to a small patio and went into the small living room. I have an image of standing in front of a bookcase looking at some sort of art book, and feeling him come up behind me, touch me gently, maybe rub his cheek against my hair. 

 

The experience seems very sensual in my memory. I know that later we made love in his bed, the bed he shared with his wife. I think I felt a bit guilty and strange about that, also, I worried that she might come home unexpectedly and find us there together. Thankfully, she didn't. 

 

Not long after that I had an encounter of sorts with his wife. I was sitting in a reading area of the library studying. I looked up to see her sitting across the room from me. She looked up from her book then, too. For a brief moment I thought she knew who I was and that I was involved with her husband. Maybe she did; I'll never know. I got up and left the library feeling guilty and confused. 

 

Eventually I made the agonizing decision not to continue the relationship with Ben, unless he left his wife. I guess I couldn't be satisfied with having only part of him, only once in a while, only in secret. 

 

I think he agonized about it too. 

 

Once or twice he left me little pleading notes with a flower on them. But, finally, our affair ended and he decided to stay with his wife. 

 

Some months later, maybe even a year, I received a letter from Ben. The details are fuzzy in my memory, but the gist of it was that he realized he had made a mistake in letting me go, that he wanted me back, that he would leave his wife if I would have him. Jack, my husband-to-be, was living with me at the time. I didn't respond to the letter.  

 

I had decided to try to make a life with Jack. I never saw or heard from Bin again. A few years ago, I came across a book of Bin's poetry in a bookstore. I remember his photo was on the back; I recognized his expressive brown eyes. I bought the book and read it. he hadn't lost his gift for writing. 

 

I wonder where he is now and what has happened in his life? 

 

I would love to know...

 

During spring break that year, I went with Liz,Tom, Pam and Rick to Fort Walton Beach, Florida. We all stayed in one motel room on the beach. The beach was wall-to-wall college students being wild and crazy. 

 

I met a guy named Larry Hamburger (hilarious name!). I remember that I actually let him fuck me in his motel room with several of his friends (supposedly) sleeping around us. That seems terribly indiscreet to me now. I can't imagine doing it! And I don't even think I was drunk. Crazy! 

 

I wrote in my list of "conquests" that I slept with him 2 nights. Did I do that with his friends there twice? I can't remember. I guess he was the first person I fucked I didn't feel in love with. That probably broke a barrier for me. I crossed the line from thinking "Sex is ok if you love someone" to "Sex is ok if both people want to do it."

 

It was a big change.

 

During the summer after my freshman year, I went to bed with Bobby Cuchillie, who was very sweet. He liked me but I wasn't attracted to him. It was a one night stand, by my choice. 

 

Bob Ferris screwed me twice, rather coldly. I remember asking him, after the second time, whether he felt closer and like we should get to know each other. His response was NO and that it was just a fuck. 

 

That was the end of him for me. I never liked him again. 

 

I ended up working at his school (the New Orleans Free School) a few years later. We strongly disliked each other. 

 

Charlie DeMoreat was next. Can't remember how I met him. I went out with him for about a month, I think. He even took me home to meet his mother. 

 

Then one day he stood me up. I called his apartment and a girl answered. I asked for him and she said he wasn't there and laughed. 

 

That was the end of that. I had been dumped. 

 

I was hurt, but not very. I hadn't been in love. I went out with another guy that summer. He had a French name I can't recall. I liked him and we were attracted to each other. But when he told me he believed there were 2 kinds of girls - bad girls you fucked and good girls you married - I refused to screw him. Couldn't handle his double standard. Amazing that he admitted it to me. At least he was honest.

 

It was an unsatisfying summer - love wise.

 

[Editor’s note]

 

That “unsatisfying summer”, between her freshman and sophomore year of college Melissa was 18 years old.  

Sometime subsequent to that period she met her first husband, Jack Gauthier.  I can find no account in her writings of how they met, however it was likely through mutual friends.  

 

Jack was a native of New Orleans and was a Staff Sergent in the US Air Force, finishing up his enlistment at Barksdale Air Force Base in Schreveport, Louisania.  Melissa would take the bus from New Orleans to Schreveport on weekends to see him.  When his enlistment ended, he moved back to New Orleans and Melissa and Jack began living together.  

 

Below is a story she wrote many years later - a fictionalized version of their wedding and honeymoon.  While it is fiction, it is based on the two of them and might give you a sense of what their life was like at the time.  

 

Such a shame we don’t have her original journals. 

 

The Wedding Dress

By

Melissa Ann Dulay

 

“If we get married, my parents will give us five hundred bucks as a wedding gift. That’s what they gave my brother when he tied the knot,” Tom said as he passed me a joint.

 

“That would sure help with tuition in September,” I replied through the thin haze of smoke.  But my parents will never sign for me.”

 

“Why would they need to sign for you? You are nineteen, for fuck sake.”

​

“It’s twenty-one in Louisiana, unless your parents sign.” I coughed on the harsh hit I had just taken in.

​

Tom took the joint out of my hand and inhaled deeply before he spoke again. “Then let’s elope to Mobile. The legal age is eighteen in Alabama” 

​

Taking a sip of ice tea to cool my throat, I looked directly into his red-rimmed eyes behind the John Lennon–style glasses he wore.

 

“Really? No shit? You wanna do that?”

 

“Well…yeah. Why not? We’ve been living together for a year now. The money would help with our college bills. So…yeah.”

 

Two weeks later we set off for Mobile in Tom’s red VW Bug. The new dress I had bought for the “wedding” was packed neatly in my battered old suitcase, a secondhand find at the Salvation Army thrift store. I was proud of the dress with its multicolored flowers and swirly skirt. It was cotton, practical for the New Orleans summer heat. I had heard that Mobile was hot, too, so I figured it would work fine for our simple ceremony there in the county courthouse.

 

It was early September, the car had no air conditioning, and the windows were rolled down to let in the breeze. Tom’s long blonde hair blew around wildly in the wind, and so did mine. We sped down the highway, singing along to a Beatles song on the car radio. I think it was “Yellow Submarine.” Tom sang off key, but I had a good voice and held my own. The sun shone through the windshield, the engine purred and all seemed right with the world.

 

“I need to pee,” I announced. “Let’s stop at a gas station.”

 

“Already?” Tom complained. “It’s only been an hour since we left.” He shot me an annoyed glance from the driver’s seat.

 

“Too much coffee this morning, I guess,” I explained. “It won’t take long.”

I knew from experience on past road trips with Tom that it was prudent to tell him well in advance if I needed a pit stop. He hated interrupting his driving for any reason. His mission was always to get where we were going as fast as we could.

 

About a half an hour later, we rolled into a Texaco station. I uncrossed my legs and hopped out, making a beeline for the ladies room. It was none too clean, so I squatted over the toilet seat, hurrying to finish up and get out of there. No soap, of course, so I just rinsed my hands. No towels either; I shook my hands dry. I was hardly back in the car when Tom started the engine. In seconds, we were on the highway again.

 

“Feel better?” he smirked at me.  I just shot him a look of pure annoyance and remained silent.

 

We had gone another fifty miles when it hit me. “Oh shit!” I cried.

 

“What? What’s the matter?” Tom shot me a puzzled look.

 

“You are going to kill me. I can’t believe what I did!” I shook my head in misery.

 

“Just tell me, for fuck sake. Jesus!” “I flushed the joints down the toilet at the gas station,” I moaned.

 

“What?! What the fuck? Why did you do that?” He took both hands off the wheel for a moment to throw them up in the air.

 

“They were hidden in my underpants, in case the cops stopped us. I forgot about them when I went to the bathroom. They must have fallen out into the toilet.” I put my head down and sighed deeply. “I’m really sorry.”

 

“Shit. Great honeymoon this is going to be with no pot. Way to fuck up, Pam.” Tom stared out the windshield looking disgusted.

 

There was nothing more I could say. We had taken six joints of the best marijuana we could afford, put them in a plastic baggy and planned to celebrate with them on our honeymoon on the Gulf Coast.  But cops stopped hippies like us all the time to search for drugs, so I wanted to be safe.  I hid them in the most secret place I knew. How could I have forgotten they were there? I was severely depressed.

 

We rolled into Mobile in the early afternoon, found a diner and had cheap, greasy hamburgers for lunch. Neither of us talked much. Tom was in a funk over my flushing all our good grass and, frankly, so was I.  When lunch was over, I slipped into the ladies room to change into my wedding dress.

 

Tom finally cracked a smile when I came out. “Looking good, Baby,” he said. 

 

Finding the courthouse without much trouble, we walked in and applied for a marriage license. No waiting period, no blood tests, just our birth certificates and a small fee were required.  Apparently Alabama is all in favor of people getting married. 

 

Even first cousins can “get hitched” there. No muss, no fuss. After we filled out the brief paperwork and paid our money, the chubby lady behind the counter asked us to sit on a wooden bench in the hallway and wait to be called. 

 

An old black woman walked by with a rolling cart of flowers. “How ‘bout a l’il bouquet fo da bride,” she drawled to us. 

 

I looked longingly at the flowers, then sighed meaningfully in Tom’s direction.

 

“How much for a couple of red roses?” he pulled out his wallet.

 

“I give ya three fo’ two dollar.” The woman showed him a toothless grin.

 

“I got a dollar; will that work?” Tom held out a dollar bill to her.

 

She snatched it out of his hand as if she was afraid he’d change his mind.“Awright,” she mouthed, handing him a pitiful bouquet of three past-their-prime roses with a sprig of baby’s breath. “Da ya go. Good luck to ya both.”

 

Tom handed me the bridal bouquet. “Can’t say I never gave you anything,” he quipped.

 

“Thanks.” I sniffed at the roses, but they had no scent.  Disappointing.

A thin middle-aged man in a white short-sleeved shirt and tattered green tie stepped into the hallway. “Thomas LaBlanc and Pamela Gerard?” he read from a clipboard.

 

We stood. “That’s us,” Tom said. “Guess this is it,” he turned to me and shrugged.

 

I raised my eyebrows and smiled at him, “Here we go.” 

 

We followed the man through a doorway into a wood-paneled courtroom. It was cool in there; a shiver went through me.  Dim shafts of sunlight slanted down from the high windows. We were led to the front of the room.

 

“If you’ll just stand here, the judge will be along in a few minutes.” The man nodded toward a large wooden door behind the judge’s bench.

 

Tom shifted nervously from foot to foot. Suddenly I was aware of my heart pounding in my chest. I clutched my sad bouquet, taking a few long slow breaths to calm myself. I didn’t know why I was having this reaction. 

 

The door squeaked open, then, and a tall gray-haired man in long black judge’s robes walked toward us, holding out his hand. “Judge Daniel T. Boone here. Nice to meet you. Congratulations on this most auspicious occasion.”

 

”Tom and I exchanged a glance, speechless for a moment. Was the man kidding? Daniel T. Boone? I stifled a giggle. Tom recovered himself first and held out his hand.

 

“Honored to meet you, Mr. Boone, I…I mean Judge Boone.” Tom and the old judge shook hands.

 

“And you must be the lovely bride-to-be, m’am?” He held out his hand for me to shake.

 

“Yes…yes, sir,” I stuttered, extending the wrong hand. He took no notice of my awkwardness, kindly giving my hand a little squeeze. 

 

“Well, then, Thomas and Pamela, do you want to get married? Shall we proceed?” he smiled widely, his eyes twinkling. He obviously enjoyed this part of his job.

 

Tom and I nodded at him silently, like the silly children we were, and the deed was done in an amazingly short time. Before I knew it, we were skipping down the courthouse steps as husband and wife.

 

There was a phone booth at the corner. Tom pointed at it, saying, “Hey, Pam, wanna call your dad and give him the happy news?” He laughed.

 

“Yeah, right. Like he’d care. He’s too busy with his big important job to have time for me.  Always has been,” I pouted.

 

“Fuck him. Let’s go celebrate, Mrs. LaBlanc!”  He led the way back to his car in the parking lot. 

 

Waves of heat rose from the cement. The car was stifling hot in the afternoon sun. We found a dark, air-conditioned bar a few blocks away and took refuge there. A few beers later we were ready to head to Pensacola beach for our honeymoon.

 

The old motel we found was a block from the beach and not fancy, but it was all we could afford. A faded, threadbare green bedspread covered the double bed, the window air conditioner made a rattling noise and the gray towels, which had once been white, were as thin as flower sacks. I washed my sweaty face in the tiny bathroom and changed into shorts and a tank top.  A roach as long as my pinky finger skittered out from behind the toilet, evoking a scream from my throat. 

 

“Jesus Christ, Pam! What the hell is the matter?” Tom yelled from the bedroom.

 

I ran out of the bathroom. “A huge ugly roach…in there.” I pointed.

“Oh, so what? Just step on the fucker.” Tom turned back to fiddling with the rabbit ears on the old television set.

 

“But I hate the way they crunch when I step on them, “ I whined.

“You are such a wimp, ya know that? Let’s just get out of here. I’m starving. I need something to eat.”

 

We walked the block to the beach. The sun had set and twilight was upon us. I slipped my hand into Tom’s as we strolled along. He pulled his hand free after a moment. “Too hot and sweaty,” he mumbled.

 

We found a dumpy little bar and grill across the street from the gulf that looked affordable. As we slid into a cracked naughahide booth, a plump waitress with teased blonde hair sauntered over to us. 

 

“What’ll it be?” she said in a monotone, then resumed chewing her gum. 

 

I glanced at the dog-eared menu and then at the grease stain on her pink polyester shirt just below her ostentatious cleavage. Tom did more than glance; he was staring openly, practically drooling.

 

“Ice tea for me,” I looked back at my menu and lightly kicked Tom’s foot under the table.

 

“Uh…gimme a beer,” he said, tearing his eyes away from her boobs, “Make it a Dixie.” 

 

“You bet, honey,” she shuffled away to the bar, her pink vinyl flats dragging on the chipped linoleum floor.

 

“Why’d you kick me?” Tom frowned at me.

 

“To get your attention away from that blonde bimbo’s boobs,” I raised my eyebrows.

 

“Hey, I may be married, but I ain’t dead. I can still look, can’t I? And it’s not like you have a ton of cleavage for me to enjoy.”

 

“Gee…thanks a lot. Can’t help it if I’m skinny. It's just heredity,” I pouted.

 

“That’s okay, Baby. You may not have much in the tits department, but you do have a mighty cute ass.” Tom grinned.

 

I rolled my eyes and sighed as the waitress returned with our drinks.

 

“Something to eat?” She took a pad and pencil out of her apron pocket.

 

“Burger and fries for me,” Tom said to her cleavage.

“I think I’ll have the fried shrimp basket,” I said.

She scribbled on her notepad and headed for the kitchen. Tom watched her retreat. “Her ass ain’t bad either.” He took a long swig of his beer.

 

We ate our dinner in silence; I couldn’t think of a thing I wanted to say to him and he just wolfed down his food like a starving animal. He washed the meal down with three more beers. By the time we got our check, he was slurring his words. 

 

“This izzz…this izzz mighty…mighty good beer,” Tom waved a Dixie bottle at the waitress. She ignored him and took the money I handed her. He was too drunk to dig out his wallet.

I put my arm through his and helped him out the door. I wanted to walk on the beach in the hazy moonlight, but he was unsteady on his feet.

 

“Why the hell did you drink so much?” I shot at him.

 

“You lost the pot. Your fault,” he spat out.

 

“What the fuck? You have to be high all the time?”

 

“Sure, why not? Makes life bear..bearable. Bearly bearaby.” He laughed drunkenly and stumbled, but I kept him from falling.

 

We made it back to the motel where he collapsed on the bed diagonally.

 

“C’mere, Baby. B-bring that cute little ass here and let’s fuuuuck.”

 

I sighed and shook my head. “I’m gonna go wash up.” 

 

When I emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, he was snoring, mouth wide open, one arm slung over his eyes.  I removed his shoes, pushed him over to one side of the bed and slipped under the sheet on my side. As I reached over to turn off the bedside lamp, a tear slid down my cheek. I quickly wiped it away and fell into a troubled sleep.

 

The next morning dawned rainy and gray. The air was warm and thick with humidity. Tom awoke with a pounding headache. We decided to just head back home to New Orleans. The trip wasn’t turning out to be much fun anyway.

 

Tom drove fast; in just a few hours, we were in our basement apartment. He found some pot he had hidden in the back of the closet in an old sock, rolled a joint and proceded to get wasted. I unpacked my suitcase, made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and sat at the kitchen table chewing and trying hard not to think at all.

 

Around seven that evening, Tom announced that he was going out to play pool with his buddies. “Don’t wait up. I don’t know when I’ll be home,” he called over his shoulder, not looking at me.

 

After he closed the door behind him, I picked up the wedding dress that lay crumpled on the floor next to my suitcase. It smelled of dried sweat. Filling the kitchen sink with warm soapy water, I dunked the dress in and began to wash it.  I stared into the suds for a long time, losing myself in the motion of rubbing the fabric against itself, not feeling, not thinking, not crying. Finally, I rinsed the dress, wrung it out with my hands and hung it on a hanger over the bathtub to dry. As I smoothed out the wrinkles, I noticed that some of the seams had split. The wedding dress was literally falling apart. This seemed incredibly sad to me, one of the saddest things I had ever seen. I covered my face with my wet hands and wept.

 

When I was empty of tears, I walked into the living room and sat on my old oak rocking chair. The newspaper lay on the floor next to the chair. I picked it up, opening it to the want-ads. Using the pen on the coffee table, I circled an ad that caught my eye. 

 

It read: “Roommate wanted for female college student. Small two bedroom apartment near campus. Call to apply…”

 

I stood up, took a deep breath, picked up the phone and dialed the number.

 

[Editor’s note]

 

That was fiction, although some of the elements (the lost marajuana joints, for example,) really happened.  

 

Jack was a disillusioned former GI and quickly became part of the anti-war “counter-culture” in New Orleans.  Melissa, having earlier rebelled from the Catholic Church, was quick to rebel against cultural norms of the time as well.

 

Melissa often referred to the next several years of her life as her “hippy chick” period.  She and Jack had a wide circle of “freak” (as opposed to “straight”) friends.  Marajuana, and occasional LSD and cocaine were a part of  their life. 

 

The first available contemporaneous journal entry is from March of 1976.