Charlie Brice writes

The Truth About Wind

“Wendy, Wendy what went wrong, oh so wrong?”

The Beach Boys sang of her and, at fifteen,

I wanted to find a girlfriend named Wendy

to go along with the song. And then,

one frosty night in Ole’ Cheyenne, I sat

in the backseat of someone’s car with

my arm around a girl named Wendy.

How did I get so lucky?

I kissed her and though she kissed me back,

there was nothing there, nothing between us.

I had her in a full embrace in that backseat,

but she was totally unimpressed.

Was I a bad kisser? Did she want something

more than kissing? I was way too Catholic for that.

“Wendy, Wendy left me alone” that night

on a gusty prairie outside of Cheyenne where

we teens went to make out and drink beer.

I thought the song’s title was “Windy,” imagined

the wind on a California beach, ocean roar,

sand caressing my toes, the musky smell of

sun tan lotion and summer freedom—I hot-

dog it for my Windy, hang ten on a surfboard.

The song runs through my head even now—

but she really wasn’t interested—not at all.