Redhead on a Sidewalk

I remember the shock of seeing Eileen walking down Box Butte Avenue that summer. You couldn't mistake her, but I did a double take anyway. Skin the color of piano keys. Swimmer's shoulders, strong and wide. And that flaming red hair, the giveaway of all giveaways. It was Eileen, alright, but what in the world was she doing here?

A car behind me honked impatiently as I continued driving up the Butte. That question nagged at me until I flipped a U at the next intersection. I had to get an answer. I spotted that hair, still floating down the sidewalk. I pulled into a parking spot, rolled the window down, and yelled, "Hey! Eileen." With those words, a friendship was born, still vibrantly alive 38 years later.

Eileen and I first met when we were thrown together in an undergraduate class, History of Theatre, a required class I put off until my senior year. I dreaded the long hours of research requiring me to spend countless silent hours in a stuffy library rather than boisterous nights under the dance floor lights of my favorite hangout. Eileen, on the other hand, welcomed this class like a mom welcoming her first born home for fall break. When I walked into class the first day, there she was, front row center, notebook open, red hair and smile illuminating the podium like stage lights. Throughout those sixteen weeks, as I struggled to stay awake during the lectures and toiled to complete the extensive research projects, Eileen waltzed through the course, smiling brilliantly as Professor Wheeler frequently read aloud her exemplary work. She never once walked in late or missed a class. We didn't interact much during History of World Theatre, and when the semester ended, our paths veered in different directions. Until the sidewalk sighting.

Eileen was in town because she got her first teaching job in a rural school outside Alliance and was looking for a place to live. I lived in Alliance, too, commuting to college sixty miles away as I finished my last year. A week later, I heard the banging of doors above my apartment. It had been empty for a few months, and I groaned thinking I would again hear every heavy footstep clomping around upstairs, every squeaky door opening and closing, from new neighbors. I glanced curiously out the window and saw a flash of red hair. Surely not. And the glimmer of porcelain skin. It couldn’t be. As a big box was lifted from a trunk, I saw the flash of that now-familiar smile. It was Eileen, soon to be my new neighbor.

Throughout the next year, Eileen and I were almost inseparable. I introduced her to the local hotspots. There’s nothing hotter on a Friday night in the metropolis of Alliance, Nebraska, than cruising the Butte. The bumper-to-bumper line of cars thumping up and down the cobblestone main street, horns honking, hands waving, friends uniting, was all we needed for entertainment. We cruised that Butte religiously, wine coolers hidden in Dairy Queen cups, KFC biscuits and honey for sustenance. If there were dash cams in 1985, their outtakes would show a life-long friendship unfolding on those cruises. Hidden inside the chatter and laughter, we shared our stories. Eileen told me she came from a close family with happy parents, five brothers, and one sister. I revealed that my parents were happily married for thirty years, that my dad died unexpectedly three years earlier, and that I had two brothers and three sisters. Eileen told me that even though she would be teaching elementary school, she longed to be an actress, and her hair was not red, it was titian. I countered with I couldn’t wait to graduate and teach high school, but I really wanted to be an actress on a soap opera, and my light blonde hair was not bleached, it was sparkled with highlights. As we revealed our secrets that year, we became bosom friends, kindred spirits, Anne Shirley and Diana Barry.

Thirty-eight years later, Eileen and I remain best friends. Except for a five-year period where I stayed in Nebraska and Eileen moved to Colorado, we have lived within five miles of each other. The solid foundation of our friendship is grounded in our similarities, but our differences add character. Just a peek inside Eileen’s closet feels like looking out on a Nebraska cornfield in the fall. Rows of sensible sweaters knitted in yarn strands of green and gold, crisp slacks in various shades of brown and tan, flat shoes, and her beloved walking shoes. On the shelves lie faded jeans, t-shirts, and her weekend sweats. My closet is a kaleidoscope. Bright red, pink, patterns and textures with dramatic black mixed throughout occupy every available space. Long skirts, mini dresses, wide-legged pants, leggings, skinny jeans, ankle boots, cowboy boots, knee-high boots all wait for their next occasion. 

We don't try to change each other--we're besties despite these differences, and I wouldn't have it any other way.  Eileen would not be Eileen without her beliefs. It takes more than a few differences to dissolve a friendship. Eileen and I embrace our differences as tightly as we hug our similarities. Throughout these thirty-eight years, our lives have gone through changes, from heartbreaks and celebrations, marriages and children, sickness and health, yet our friendship has been easy. Eileen remains a constant in my life, a Northern Star, a kindred spirit, my bosom friend, my BFF.

Happy, happy birthday, Bestie. 

Love you forever.