There was this place in Wiesbaden frequented by lots of GI’s called The Western Saloon. Live Aid was playing on a big television in the corner of the joint. The place was small for what it was, with a few booths, some tall but small round-topped tables, and a bartendress named Liz who looked like a young Lauren Bacall and spoke perfect English. I drank a dark alt beer called Kutcher and shots of this hot cinnamon stuff called Tom Dooley from a bottle without a label.
Times were simpler.
Bridget had a twin sister named Gabrielle. They were six feet tall and blonde and quiet, with easy smiles. The closest I ever got to talking to one of them was across a tiny dance floor, drunk as fuck and miming the gestures for this song like some stupid white boy trying to be as cool as Prince or Smokey or The Temptations or The Pips.
She walked across the floor, smiling, and said in a gentle German accent as she passed me, “Don’t drink so much and ask me to dance next time.” I had to look pretty stupid with that response. I don’t know why I remember such hazy things. Those memories were usually wiped when my brain was reformatted with a hangover.
It might be the most confidence I’ve ever had in a situation where I didn’t get the girl, and I never get the girl.