And now for a story

Picture this:

It's the late 80's. With all of the style "choices" that this entails. Including distressed denim, mullets when they were allegedly cool, and above all Polo for men. We'll return to this later.

There was a party at a frat house. A friend of mine was invited, and since it was our policy never to go to one of those alone, I went with her. One of her high school friends was a member. Of course, this gave me some reservations about him, but whatever- free alcohol and boys. What could be better? (non-frat boys, of course, but I didn't quibble over details then)

We got there and the place was amok with drunk frat boys. We went to the basement bar, and I promptly lost sight of her. She in all likelihood hooked up with someone right away, and that was that. Now, she was a knockout. I was pretty normal- with that bloom of youth, poofy 80's hair and all. But she was a traffic stopper (funny- most of my friends were back then- I was the normal friend).

So there was this guy. He sidled up to me and we started talking. He kept pushing the wine- I kept my brakes on and remained moderately sober. Because I knew the rule of frat boy parties. Never get so wasted that you lost control. And I didn't know where my friend was, and needed to be a little alert.

Anyway, we appeared to hit it off. He was called Fast Eddie. He claimed that it was because of how he drove. I knew better, of course. Because he put the moves on very hard and fast. We went up to the sacred chapter room where all of the paddles (WTF???!!!) and other fraternity accoutrements lived. We had a somewhat heavy makeout session, but he got mad. I wouldn't let him touch my boobs. I had JUST met him. He smelled of Polo for men. These things weren't setting my mind at ease.

So he took me back to the bar and refused to speak to me for the rest of my life. Which really was ok with me. Because I recognized him as a sloppy kisser and a cad. Two very bad things.

My friend showed up a little later, after I had made the acquaintance of an actual nice guy. Actual nice guy walked us back to the dorm. Actual nice guy became a friend, never a boyfriend.
The girl friend never admitted that she was up to highjinks at the party. But then it happened- she went back without me. And met Fast Eddie. They appeared to hit it off. I got on the elevator and smelled a stench of Polo for men, and just knew that he was in the dorm. Her room was across the hall from mine, and the hall reeked of Polo for men. He was there.

A couple of days later she confessed that she had been seeing him. And that he wouldn't speak to her anymore. Figures. The man was a cad and stank. What could be worse? For her- I didn't bang Fast Eddie. Even though there was opportunity and it was the 80's. Even I had my standards.

I sometimes wonder where she wound up. We drifted apart later that year when I got involved with one of the serious relationships in my life. And she got involved with drugs. I feel kind of bad for not taking more care to keep in touch. But I kind of figure that it was probably better not to have courted that kind of chaos in my life- given that I had my own particular vintage that I was brewing all by myself.

So. Fast Eddie. Not only a character played by Paul Newman in The Hustler (coming on in a couple of days on TCM, btw) and The Color of Money. But also the name of a small-time, stinky pussyhound living in a frat. In the 80's. In Montana.