Page 3 of Friendshipped
In our case, the most historical building you’d find around town would be the Elks Lodge. If you’re looking for theater, we have the weekend films at Main Street Movies. And instead of famous vineyards, you’ll have to settle for Bud’s Liquors on State Street. It’s not likely you’ll be dashing over to Paris anytime soon from here.
We don’t pronounce our town name like our French sister city either. Some bright ancestor of mine who settled this valley in the 1800s pronounced our town name,bored ox.
Yep. Like some bull standing out in a field wondering what to do with his day. And, believe me, we have plenty of fields with plenty of oxen who, from what I’ve seen, look pretty bored.
I might have never known how to actually say Bordeaux if I hadn’t learned about France in World History class at Bordeaux High School. Ever since I opened that textbook and saw the proper way the word should roll off the tongue, the name of our town uttered by any local has felt like the sound of Aunt Glenda clearing her throat when she eats too fast and swallows wrong.
Just disgusting. Trust me.
Thankfully, Trevor and I got out. Well, we didn’t get out, out, considering I live on the same block where I grew up, five houses down from my parents in one half of an old two-story craftsman house that has been turned into a duplex.
Trevor and I grew up next door to one another. I’ve barely known life without him. My mother still has this embarrassing and cliché photo of the two of us in a bathtub together when we were one. If you ask me, there should be some law against parents being able to take nudes of their children, let alone hanging them where any unsuspecting guest will get an eyeful on their way to the living room.
Basically, half of Bordeaux has seen my derrière courtesy of that photo on our entry hall wall. That includes our pastor and my softball coach. I took the picture down and hid it under my bed during high school. It mysteriously resurrected sometime during my freshman year away at college. It’s like the photo version of a Twilight character. You can bury it, but it refuses to die.
My connection to Trevor goes beyond sharing a bathtub in our early toddler years. He’s been the boy I skinned my knees with when we got the bright idea to ride our bikes while wearing our roller skates when we were six, the designated husband in all my “let’s play house” games, the prince to my princess, and the guy who taught me how to hit a baseball out of the park.
Trevor also knows I keep my secret stash of memorabilia in an old metal safe tucked away in the old treehouse in my parent’s back yard. He knows I still go there when I need time away from everyone to sort my thoughts. And he’s never told a soul.
That’s a best friend for you.
After high school, Trevor went to Ohio State University for undergrad while I spent four years at Miami University in Cincinnati pursuing my degree in journalism. Like so many high schoolers from small towns in Ohio, we swore we’d bust out of the confines of our hometown and find a real life after college, but when it came down to it, we both returned like two homing pigeons.
Just on the outskirts of town, we stop for gas at the Dairyland Drive-In.
“I’m going to run in and use the restroom,” I tell Trevor. “Want a slushy?”
“Make it death by cherry,” he says, lifting the gas nozzle and popping the door to his gas tank.
I push on the metal handle to the glass door with a big decal of Daisy the cow drinking a shake on it.
“Hey, Lexi,” Buddy McNabb says to me from behind the register when I walk in.
“Hey, Buddy,” I answer.
“Slushy machine was acting up today,” he volunteers, knowing me and my love of Lip Smackin’ Lemon. “But I got it working about fifteen minutes ago.”
I thank him and walk toward the restroom at the back of the store. This half of the Dairyland looks like most gas station marts with rows of free-standing shelving holding candy bars and chips. Some coolers and drink dispensers line the side wall.
A broad archway divides two sections of the room, and the Drive-In restaurant with actual outdoor carhop service fills the other side of the building. Booths line walls and free-standing white tables with bolted red swivel chairs run down the middle of the room. The waitresses wear 1950s style red dresses with white aprons to match the décor.
The restrooms are at the back of the drive-in section of the Dairyland.
Buddy sees where I’m headed and shouts out behind me, “I think one stall is open in the women’s bathroom, Lexi.”
Life in the thrilling metropolis of Bordeaux, folks. Public restroom occupancy updates come complimentary with your slushy. No extra charge.
I push open the door to the restroom and I immediately hear the sounds of soft sobbing. I follow the cries and gently knock on the farthest metal stall door.
“It’s me, Lexi,” I say to whomever is crying.
I hear another sniffle and I think I know who it is. One of the many benefits of life in a small town: we can even identify one another by our blubbers and sniffles.
“Jayme, is that you?” I ask.
Jayme’s one of my closest friends. She’s somewhat shy, super funny and next to Trevor, she’s been one of my biggest cheerleaders, always believing in me as a writer and a person. Jayme secretly writes fairytale retellings in fantasy settings and plans to publish her own books someday. Her opinion as a writer means the world to me.
Jayme moved to Bordeaux from Columbus during our Sophomore year in high school when her grandpa died and left the family dairy to her dad. I feel like we’ve known one another forever even though she moved into town only three years before we all went off to college.
