“We could go to a restaurant. But I don’t have a car so I can’t pick you up. Do you have a car?”
“Yes. I can pick you up, I suppose,” the girl answered. “Where do you live?”
I told her my address just as we reached the post office. Before parting ways, we set up a time to meet. Then head down, deep in thought about where I might take her to eat, I made my way home to prepare lunch.
The next night, the girl picked me up in her car, and we drove to a cafeteria. Although my English was still rusty, I could converse well enough as long as I stuck with things I knew about, such as school, my life in India, and my journey to the States. I asked questions about her life, and even though I was still not accustomed to the accent, I understood most of what she said.
On the car ride home, I decided I would kiss her. “American girls like to be kissed in the car,” a friend once told me. At every stop sign, I tried to kiss her, but she only pushed me away, gave me a strange look, and continued talking. She didn’t act embarrassed or step on the gas to get me home quicker. Instead, she treated me kindly and talked about certain aspects of the town she thought might be useful or interesting to me. I wondered why she didn’t kiss me. Maybe not all American girls liked to be kissed in the car. She dropped me off at my apartment, and when I asked if we could get together again, she did not reply. She simply said, “Bye,” and drove away.
I hoped this would not be my last date, so with that in mind, I made preparations in case I brought a girl home in the future. Although I didn’t smoke, I kept a pack of Menthol Cools, a popular brand among girls at our school, in my section of the refrigerator. Even though I did not drink beer regularly, I kept Budweiser and Schlitz, popular brands, I’d heard, among American girls. If my date came to my place, I could offer her a beer and a cigarette.
My housemates told me, “It is customary to bring a girl to your place after two or three dates.” However, living with three other students made it difficult for this to happen. I couldn’t just bring home a date with three guys wandering around the house, listening to everything we said, and watching to see if the girls were cute. If I did invite a girl over, I would need to bribe my housemates to go to the library or see a movie. Then, if the girl agreed, I could bring her to my room and offer her a beer and a smoke. I rarely brought a girl home, but when I did, the guys were anxious to come back to their rooms and take a look at her.
Early in the quarter, I learned that a minister of a Baptist church had asked American families to invite foreign students to their homes for lunch on Sundays. One Sunday, the Regis family invited Hathi, one of my housemates, to come for lunch. My housemates and I suspected they asked him because he was good looking with blue eyes. Elizabeth Regis, the young, pretty wife, seemed eager for Hathi to join them, but Hathi was hesitant about going and told me he did not want to go at all. At the same time, he did not want to stand them up, since they were trying to do a nice thing.
“Hathi, I will go for you,” I said. In addition to wanting to help Hathi out, I was also curious about meeting this American family. I liked the idea of a free lunch. My housemates thought I was joking. Hathi stared at me as if I had just told him I wanted to quit school and fly to the moon.
“Are you serious?” he asked.
“I am serious.”
Everyone felt it would be strange, but it didn’t seem like a big deal to me, so I didn’t care what they thought.
“What will she think?” one of my housemates asked.
“What if she says no when she sees Bedi and asks for Hathi anyway?” said one of the others.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea. She’ll never invite anyone to lunch again.”
They all turned to me. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I am sure.”
At about eleven o’clock, I got ready and waited for Mrs. Regis to arrive in her car and take me to her house. Hathi hid in his room. Shortly after eleven, Elizabeth knocked on the door. Instead of Hathi, I came down the stairs. She looked at me for a second, and then introduced herself, shaking my hand. Politely, I said, “Hello. My name is Krishan Kumar Bedi.” She didn’t ask a thing about Hathi.
Elizabeth took me to her home, introduced me to her husband and two children, and served lunch. Afterward, Elizabeth and her husband gave me a tour of the Kingston Pike residential area before dropping me off at my house. Her husband, the owner of Regis Steakhouse in downtown Knoxville, gave me his card. “It’s been a pleasure having you, Krishan,” he said as I got out of the car.
When I entered the house, all the guys were anxiously waiting for me. “What happened?” they asked. “What did she say and do? Where did she take you?”
“Calm down. Nothing happened,” I said.
In the meantime, while I met new people and made many friends, my grades suffered. I rarely studied and was never prepared. One day, my professor announced a pop quiz.
I leaned over to the
