Remembering: David Crosby and Me

This is some years ago. I worked front and back office for three doctors, back in the days before scrubs, when everyone in the medical field wore white and each morning I walked to work wearing my white shoes, a white skirt and a white blouse, and I looked like a nurse.  

One morning waiting to cross the street, a young man in a vintage green Chevy pick up pulled up. We looked at each other and he tipped his hat, I nodded to him and then I crossed the street. 

I was twenty-five or there about and I’m thinking it was a Friday, maybe 1978. 

The next week, probably a Friday again, when I approached the stop sign the man in the green truck was there, again. We repeated the routine, him tipping his hat, me nodding, then he watched me cross the street. 

One day I left the house a bit later than usual and up ahead I saw the green truck pull away. After that I kept on schedule and so did the man in the green truck and each week things took on a flirty edge. Him watching me cross the street, in my nurse outfit, with me camping it up a bit. 

Around that time a friend invited me and a few others over and said that her friend David would be playing some music for us. But for some reason I didn’t go. Turns out her friend was David Crosby and he drove a vintage green Chevy pick up.  

Years and years pass and I almost forget about all of this. 

Recently we had tickets to see David Crosby at a small theater in town. I’d planned to wash my hair before the show but ran out of time. Laughing my husband said, “Don’t worry, we’re sitting near the back, David won’t be able to see you.” 

More teasing. “But it’s too bad you don’t have a picture of yourself in that white nurse outfit—to refresh his memory.” 

And that image of me crossing the street dressed like a nurse struck us both as screamingly funny. We began laughing, and for days after, the insane laughter began again.