Connie, From Oregon
by Charles C. Cole
In a few months, my wife of thirty years is attending a conference in Oregon. I’ve been invited to join her when the event concludes, to sightsee. She knows that during my wandering youth, I traveled to every state except Oregon. Why not Oregon?
In the summer of 1979, I attended a remedial session at Northwestern to make up for my scholastic struggles during the traditional academic year. I was a country boy far from home who was not adjusting well. I rented a room in an empty fraternity and made money working alongside food services, feeding adults attending conferences.
By August, I was ready to admit I’d made a mistake. I traveled to the bus station in Chicago. All I owned was enough clothes to fill my backpack. I looked at the many destinations on the big wall. The attendant behind the counter had a scarred face, short-sleeved shirt and muscles that suggested he’d spent years behind bars. He smiled. “Where to?”
“I honestly don’t know. I just need to go.”
He looked at the board a moment, contemplative. “Heard good things about Seattle.”
“Seattle, then.”
“But if you don’t like it... you need an Ameripass. Good for seven days of travel. Get off one bus and on another.” I bought an Ameripass.
On the bus, as is typical, everyone took a seat to themselves. There was a waiflike girl roughly my age with shoulder-length white-blonde hair a third of the way back on my right. I took the row behind her. The driver had closed the door when a last-minute fellow showed. He was at least 70, in a Hawaiian shirt and easily weighed two of me. He stopped at the girl’s row. “May I?”
“Take the whole row. I should probably sit with my boyfriend anyway.” She stood up, onto the seat, and climbed over to my row. “Move over, sweetheart.”
I gulped. I’d been shy at college: I’d never dated. My social circle had consisted in hanging out with a couple of film nerds who also didn’t date. But, boy, they knew movie facts!
She half-whispered, “I’m Connie. ’Case you forgot.”
“Charlie,” I said, adding, “but you can call me anything you want.” The guy in the seat in front of us quickly saw through our ruse. But, as he slid against the window, I knew he was content with the arrangement.
“Where you headed, Charlie?”
“I honestly don’t know.”
“What’s your ticket say?” she asked. “That might help.”
“They talked me into a 7-day Ameripass,” I explained.
“Cool. I’m going to Portland.”
“Funny,” I said. “I’m from Portland, the one on the other coast.”
“You should come to mine: it’s beautiful. Green like a new dollar bill. So civil that cats walk on leashes. So wild that bras are optional, until you’re thirty.” I was already falling into her hazel eyes. She had “real” eyebrows, not tweezed down to pencil lines. And she had armpit hair. She noticed I noticed.
“We okay? I could move somewhere else.”
“You’re perfect the way you are,” I said, smitten.
“About time someone noticed,” said Connie.
We talked about going to concerts — Pete Seeger for me and The Grateful Dead for her — and old pets and family gatherings. She had come to Chicago to help her older sister move, but city life wasn’t for her. She yawned wide without covering her mouth. Even her teeth were beautiful. She noticed I noticed.
“Dad’s a dentist. Mom’s the office manager. I may not have big boobs, but I’ve got great teeth.” I smiled until my cheeks ached.
“Charlie. Charlie,” she said. “The first guy I ever had a crush on was a Charlie, but I wasn’t his type. The first guy I ever slept with was Neil. He had a cool Uncle Charlie who gave us weed.”
“I’ve never—”
“Pot or the other?” she asked.
“Either.”
“Charlie,” she said in mock-seriousness, “I’ve been up all night. I’m exhausted. If I sleep with my head in your lap, will you behave?”
“Promise,” I said and immediately regretted it.
Connie slept with her left arm under her head and her right hand tucked under my knee. She smelled like herbal tea. She snoozed until dark and, when she finally sat up, gave me a quick squeeze in a place I’d never been squeezed before. “Are we there yet?”
“Not yet.”
She looked at the lights of the approaching city. “I don’t know about you, but I could do with a stretch break. Want McDonalds? My sister gave me some ‘thank you’ money.”
“I brought a bag of apples,” I said.
“You and I are getting a bite to eat. You are going to need your energy. Then we’re taking a walk.”
Lucky for us, the bus had a 90-minute layover. I took my backpack and put it on. It was everything I owned.
“Nothing says, ‘Just passing through’ like an L. L. Bean backpack,” said Connie.
We were pretty quiet at dinner. I think she was testing me: she sipped from my drink and ate some of my fries, uninvited. Connie glanced at the wall clock. “We still have plenty of time. You got a towel in the travel kit?” she asked.
There was a city park with lots of shade and a small lake. She pulled me by the hand, hers was smooth and warm while mine was trembling and clammy. “This’ll do,” she said. “I promise not to hurt you.”
Afterwards, she insisted I clean up on the edge of the lake.
“I like you,” she said, “but this is where we part ways. I have a friend in town. You get back on the bus. Promise you won’t forget me. Go on now.”
I stepped away and turned back. Connie’d disappeared behind some trees. I guess I could have called for her. Instead, I took a deep breath and grabbed the same seat on the bus. I promised I’d never go to Oregon: it could never live up to the hype. We’ll see.
Copyright © 2025 by Charles C. Cole
