Heads down, Thumbs up

“Jones, we’re playing 7-Up!” Hamilton screamed in a lusty, slurred voice.

I was taken aback. There was a moment. A small little look in her eye that said “Yep, I remember.” But how could she? That was first grade. I was a bowl-haired goof. She was a giant, long-haired bully in a blue jacket. Now, I’m a 40-year old goof. She’s a short, plump lesbian who keeps trading in for new 23 year olds. We have a lot more in common than a first glimpse would give.

“Come on now, Jones! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven UP!” She put her head down on the barroom table. One of those circle jobs with chrome to put your feet on. Only problem was she was too short to put her feet on the chrome. Hers just dangled in the air.

“Heads down, thumbs up! Heads down, thumps up, Jones!” She yelled it over and over again. The mostly college-aged crowd looked on in wonder and dumbfoundedness. I started to think “do kids even play that anymore?”

My uncomfort must have shown as my lady friend Alli gave me a sympathetic look. Kimmy was drunk. There was no stopping this game.

While standing there in a bar called Banditos with all those kids from Virginia Commonwealth, I was catapulted back to elementary school. A skinny, bleach-blonde kid who always wore t-shirts from colleges all over the county. And KISS shirts. That was my wardrobe. I liked me. And I liked a girl. A blonde girl. Her name was Buffy.

I was happy. I was a jokester. I was way too smart for my own good. And I knew it. As did the other kids. But only because I told them so. Over and over again. So much so it ingrained in their brains. At my 20-year high school reunion, a gal named Melissa tried to pick me up. I wasn’t interested, but I played along. Figured I was past due for some attention from a girl in my hometown. Eventually, she called me an asshole, but kept trying to get in my pants. After too many shots of whiskey, our banter moved closer and closer to each other. I almost kissed her at one point, but I pulled back. She called me an asshole again. I agreed.

“You were just like that even when you were a little kid,” she said. “I remember you getting up in the middle of class one day when I was reading out loud. I was having trouble with it, and you said “I’ve already finished. Can I have a different book. That hurt my feelings. Always remembered that.”

Wow I thought. Maybe I actually had people’s attention back then. Never knew it.

She offered me a blowjob later that night. I said no. A buddy of mine from the high school soccer team, who I had not seen since our graduation just laughed. Over and over he said to me, and anyone else still lingering at this sad affair, “damn, that Jones is one cool cat. He’s turning down pussy.”

Funny how things change.

Or how little they do. Watching Hamilton act out Seven Up brought back my own memories of that very same classroom where I was the asshole kid. Of playing that game. Of always picking the same girl. And her, knowing full well who picked her, never picking me.

I’d always raise my hand when the teacher asked who wanted to be up front for Seven Up. Everyone in that room also figured out pretty quickly who I was going to pick. The beautiful blonde-haired girl. The one we all had a crush on. From Danny my best friend to Danny the smelly one. From Lee the redhead to Mike the already-a-preppy. We all liked her.

The teacher would take the seven up front. Then she’d say the words “Heads down, all around.” Everyone still in their desks would put their head down. Of course we all cheated. Looking at feet. Peeking through the space between the desk and the elbow.

Knowing this, we all walked around the room. Many times over. Trying to pass the same people. Using each other as shields. One person would stand close by and then you’d touch the person’s thumb. Pushing it down.

Well, everyone but me. I’d do the laps, same as everyone else. But with seven, there can only be three pairs. One left out. And I’d always tap her thumb. Just doing that was a thrill. Even for a seven year old kid.

After seven thumbs were pressed. The teacher would cry out “Heads up, stand up!” And the seven whose thumbs were pressed would stand up. You’d get one guess to pick who pressed your thumb. She never picked me. Which meant I’d stay up front. When I’d say who I picked, there were always giggles. But I never stopped picking her. And she never stopped not picking me.

Thinking back now, Hamilton must be channeling that inner kid.

“You gonna pick me? She asks with a grin. Or that blonde over there?”

She does remember. I wonder where Buffy is today, I wonder. Married. Kids. Fat. Most likely. God only knows. I hadn’t thought of her in a long time. I think she’s why I don’t dig on the blondes. Never dated one. Never will.

“I think she’s more your type,” I say.