Chapter 1
Three memories haunt me like the vision of the man at the stairs in the movie poster for “The Exorcist”, meaning, they just stay there in my mind.
I guess haunted would be the wrong word to use to describe them. The three all represent failure of some sort, but they also represent hope. Why those three memories have stuck, I do not know. They are all of the same person. All from a time in my life when I have almost no memories. And they all bring smiles and melancholy when I think about them, even almost 30 years later.
The person in them is a girl. Her name is Heather. She was quite possibly the root of all my insanity. Not for anything she did, at least that I can remember. Instead, for the sheer magnitude of importance that I placed on her existence at a very young age.
I knew her, or knew of her at least, for three years. First grade. Second grade. And third grade. I don’t remember talking to her. Or hanging out with her. Nothing. But recent revelations about places I’d been and things I said would certainly not rule out that any of those things actually happened at some point. Maybe even in lots of detail. Probably not, however.
Those years of my life were kind of strange. Setting a tone, I believe, for the rest of them to follow.
I was labeled “smart” early on. And it turned out, I was much smarter than almost all my classmates at the large brick monstrosity of a school that I attended, old and full of rot, this thing was built right after World War I. It doesn’t exist anymore, but that’s ok.
My schooling started at a different school. Why? Because mom taught at the elementary school I was supposed to go to, and she did not want me to have the other kindergarten teacher because she sucked. So, I went to a school actually closer to my house, but not the one I was supposed to go to.
I have one memory of that school. Being in the field beside the school during recess. One guy had just bought Zips shoes. In the commercial, the kid who is wearing them can do all sorts of incredible things. One of them is to leap over a large bush. Well, the kid who got the shoes is bragging he can now do all of those things. Me, being the smartass I was, and still am, pointed at a bush in the yard. It was probably three foot tall, but I am remembering it from a kindergarteners perspective, so I could have been inches tall.
“Jump that, Derek!” I exclaimed.
The kid looked at me with shock. He ended up being the quarterback of the high school football team, but then, he was just a little kid.
“I, I, I, can’t do that,” he said.
“But you said you could do what the guy in the commercial does!” I yelled, puffing my chest in superiority. I had a problem with that as a kid.
“Um. Ok. I’ll try.” Derek finally said.
I was shocked. He’s actually going to do it?
Well, Derek ran right at the thing, leaped in the air and landed squarely in the bush. Got stuck even.
A teacher saw all of this. She rushed over.
“Why did you do that Derek?” she shrieked. Derek had ripped his pants a little and also had a little trickle of blood running down his arm from a branch or something cutting him.
“Randy told me to do it,” he whimpered pointing at me.
I was smiling. Looking around at all the kids. They were looking at me too. I wanted it to be awe. Well, whatever feeling a kindergartener would call it. Instead, they gave me looks of scorn.
“He did do that,” one girl said.
“It’s Randy’s fault!” a fat boy said with enthusiasm.
“Randy, did you tell Derek to do that?”
“Well, he said he could do it, because he’s got Zips on. I wanted to let him know that they really couldn’t give you powers like on TV.”
“Now Randy, you should know better than that. Derek was just proud of his new shoes.”
I looked at Derek. He was crying a little. He smiled at me when the teacher turned her back, sticking out his tongue. Round 1 went to me. Round 2 to Derek. I don’t remember if there was a Round 3. Unless being the school jock in high school was his victory dance. I played soccer. Not a lot of fans of soccer back then. Especially females. This was the South in the 1970s and 1980s, you’ll have to remember.
The next year, I was with a whole other batch of kids at the brick school.
That’s where I met Heather. I guess.
Showing posts with label chapter 1. Show all posts
Showing posts with label chapter 1. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Friday, August 27, 2010
Becca, Chapter 1
Her plane arrives at 4:30 this afternoon. I’m not really sure how I feel about her flying 2,400 miles to come see me.
I met Rebecca at work. She was a cashier up in the front of the store. I never knew how old she was, but I always thought she was younger than me. Until I thought back on it many years later. That’s when it dawned on me that she probably was a year or two older than me.
That makes her 40 right now. Yet, I can only picture her as the young and quite beautiful girl that I knew for a couple of years.
The first girl who’s heart I broke.
We’ve been in touch only by writing letters since I moved from Virginia to Arizona. The best decision I ever made in my life, I guess, was getting in that old ‘84 Firebird and driving west. I wanted to be a journalist, I think. All that was for sure was the need to get out, to move, to breathe … and to grow up.
Those letters helped keep my sanity.
We never dated while we were friends at work. At least I never saw it that way. My thoughts were consumed by a girl who dumped me months before. A trend that I would repeat over and over, during the next 20 years, hence why it’s a trend.
This girl was different that any before. She didn’t go to college. She worked retail, and was darn happy to be doing it. And I liked that. Especially while I was working retail. Pulling in a huge $4.25 an hour with my degree in economics from one the best schools in the country. “A real shame,” I was told often during that period of my life.
However, it was good to go see a movie with someone. Have a home cooked meal made when my foot got severely sprained after playing basketball. Or even going up in a hot air balloon.
The thought of us being a “couple” never crossed my mind. We were just friends, hanging out and doing things that friends do. There was no kiss. Certainly no sex.
But that was what I was thinking about as I stood in Sky Harbor Airport. Did I want to try and have sex with her? Was this what this trip was about for me? Having sex with a girl who sent me photos of how flexible she was. A girl that I’d been playing truth or dare Madonna-style, in letter form for almost a year now.
I stared at the plane as it taxied into its final parking space. What do you call it? I guess parking space isn’t right, but I’ve never heard it called anything really.
It’s funny. You can’t do that anymore. Go right to the gate to meet someone. Fake terror spoiled all of that.
Anyways, after about 100 people, I finally see her. Her glasses a little too far down her nose as she struggled with her bag and a book. Her fashion choice of a sweater not exactly a good choice for early summer in Phoenix, but that’s ok.
“Man, she really is beautiful,” I think.
“Hey, Randy!” she exclaims and runs up to me.
“Hi! Great to see you.” is my answer.
We don’t hug.
We don’t kiss.
We just awkwardly look at each other smiling.
“You check any bags?” I ask stupidly. Back in the 1990s everyone checked bags. It was free and there was no limit on anything. Of course she checked bags.
“Uh-huh,” she says. “But I gotta peeeeeee.”
We scurry to a bathroom. She hands me her bag and her book. It’s a crossword puzzle book. One of the kind you get in a grocery store or a drug store. It’s very, um, colorful.
After getting her bags, we walk to my Firebird. It’s on it’s last legs by this time. Worn down tires, kind of begging to be changed, but it’s my first car and I didn’t do such things. I honestly hated getting the oil changed, but back then, it only cost 8.95 if you had a coupon, so…
We drive to my house. I live with an eclectic bunch. First there’s Kermit. He used to work for the government dismantling bombs. Was a dropout from Stanford. One day, one of those bombs blew up and left him with bad eyesight and shrapnel in his foot. Now? He works for MasterCard and smokes a lot of pot.
In another room is Ying-Chi. She doesn’t hang about much. Usually goes to her boyfriend’s pad. He sells pot. Lots of it. I’ve never seen so much GD pot in my life. Bags of it. Bags of bricks of it. Everywhere.
In the final room is Matthew. He’s a Mormon. Smokes a lot of weed too. So, I guess he’s got issues with John Smith.
None of them are home when I get there. Probably a good thing. The place does reek of resin, however.
“Do you smoke now?” Rebecca asks. “It smells like an ashtray here.”
“Nah, I don’t smoke,” I reply, thinking “And it’s really more of a bong water smell.”
We go to my room. I have a mattress on the ground, my stereo and a gaggle of 100s of dubbed VHS tapes. One of my roomies has a cable descrambler, so I’ve spent most of my weekends watching them smoke dope, drinking gin and dubbing movies. Movies that I would carry around for 15 years before finally getting rid of…
I have a problem with baggage.
I met Rebecca at work. She was a cashier up in the front of the store. I never knew how old she was, but I always thought she was younger than me. Until I thought back on it many years later. That’s when it dawned on me that she probably was a year or two older than me.
That makes her 40 right now. Yet, I can only picture her as the young and quite beautiful girl that I knew for a couple of years.
The first girl who’s heart I broke.
We’ve been in touch only by writing letters since I moved from Virginia to Arizona. The best decision I ever made in my life, I guess, was getting in that old ‘84 Firebird and driving west. I wanted to be a journalist, I think. All that was for sure was the need to get out, to move, to breathe … and to grow up.
Those letters helped keep my sanity.
We never dated while we were friends at work. At least I never saw it that way. My thoughts were consumed by a girl who dumped me months before. A trend that I would repeat over and over, during the next 20 years, hence why it’s a trend.
This girl was different that any before. She didn’t go to college. She worked retail, and was darn happy to be doing it. And I liked that. Especially while I was working retail. Pulling in a huge $4.25 an hour with my degree in economics from one the best schools in the country. “A real shame,” I was told often during that period of my life.
However, it was good to go see a movie with someone. Have a home cooked meal made when my foot got severely sprained after playing basketball. Or even going up in a hot air balloon.
The thought of us being a “couple” never crossed my mind. We were just friends, hanging out and doing things that friends do. There was no kiss. Certainly no sex.
But that was what I was thinking about as I stood in Sky Harbor Airport. Did I want to try and have sex with her? Was this what this trip was about for me? Having sex with a girl who sent me photos of how flexible she was. A girl that I’d been playing truth or dare Madonna-style, in letter form for almost a year now.
I stared at the plane as it taxied into its final parking space. What do you call it? I guess parking space isn’t right, but I’ve never heard it called anything really.
It’s funny. You can’t do that anymore. Go right to the gate to meet someone. Fake terror spoiled all of that.
Anyways, after about 100 people, I finally see her. Her glasses a little too far down her nose as she struggled with her bag and a book. Her fashion choice of a sweater not exactly a good choice for early summer in Phoenix, but that’s ok.
“Man, she really is beautiful,” I think.
“Hey, Randy!” she exclaims and runs up to me.
“Hi! Great to see you.” is my answer.
We don’t hug.
We don’t kiss.
We just awkwardly look at each other smiling.
“You check any bags?” I ask stupidly. Back in the 1990s everyone checked bags. It was free and there was no limit on anything. Of course she checked bags.
“Uh-huh,” she says. “But I gotta peeeeeee.”
We scurry to a bathroom. She hands me her bag and her book. It’s a crossword puzzle book. One of the kind you get in a grocery store or a drug store. It’s very, um, colorful.
After getting her bags, we walk to my Firebird. It’s on it’s last legs by this time. Worn down tires, kind of begging to be changed, but it’s my first car and I didn’t do such things. I honestly hated getting the oil changed, but back then, it only cost 8.95 if you had a coupon, so…
We drive to my house. I live with an eclectic bunch. First there’s Kermit. He used to work for the government dismantling bombs. Was a dropout from Stanford. One day, one of those bombs blew up and left him with bad eyesight and shrapnel in his foot. Now? He works for MasterCard and smokes a lot of pot.
In another room is Ying-Chi. She doesn’t hang about much. Usually goes to her boyfriend’s pad. He sells pot. Lots of it. I’ve never seen so much GD pot in my life. Bags of it. Bags of bricks of it. Everywhere.
In the final room is Matthew. He’s a Mormon. Smokes a lot of weed too. So, I guess he’s got issues with John Smith.
None of them are home when I get there. Probably a good thing. The place does reek of resin, however.
“Do you smoke now?” Rebecca asks. “It smells like an ashtray here.”
“Nah, I don’t smoke,” I reply, thinking “And it’s really more of a bong water smell.”
We go to my room. I have a mattress on the ground, my stereo and a gaggle of 100s of dubbed VHS tapes. One of my roomies has a cable descrambler, so I’ve spent most of my weekends watching them smoke dope, drinking gin and dubbing movies. Movies that I would carry around for 15 years before finally getting rid of…
I have a problem with baggage.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Chapter 1
“Hello my name is Ralph.”
I really have no idea why I said that when I met her. It just popped out of my mouth. One of those moments that you can’t get back. Even if you explained the lie in the next sentence, that moment. The first moment, was done. The opportunity was lost.
“Hi, Ralph,” she answered.
I sort of stared at her toes. She had black toenail polish on one foot. Green on the other. I’d find out later, that was what she did all the time. It never changed. No red. No blue. Not even purple, which was her favorite color. Always one foot black -- the right foot, and one foot green -- the left foot.
“Is that really your name?” she continued after my foot staring turned into eye staring.
“No. I just wanted to see if you would wince when I told you that. And you didn’t. Excellent thing, I must say.”
I noticed something else. She had a pendant around her neck. It was made of gold, but really oddly shaped. Not any kind of pattern or design. Just clumps of gold that seemed almost haphazardly melted together.
“So, what is your name?” I asked.
“Tara,” she said.
“Cool. I dig that name, always have.”
“I’m still waiting for your real name,” she said with a little bit of anger. Not hard core jarheads seeing a middle easterner in the airport ahead of him in line at McDonald’s getting the last batch of chicken mcnuggets mad. Just playfully, but not completely playfully mad.
“It’s Randy.”
“That fits you.”
That never really made sense to me. It fits what? My nose? My feet? My too-long and shaggy goatee?
Right at that moment of pondering, someone walked up to us…
“Tara? Are you coming or not?” a guy with a North Face fleece pullover said. The kind of pullover without sleeves. Not the kind with zippered off sleeves. That would have been even worse.
“Ummm…I’ll be there in a second honey,” she said.
My heart sunk. Just a little bit. Usually my heartbreak will come weeks, months or years after I fall for a gal. This one took less than three minutes.
North Face turned an walked over to a very large flat screen television. He looked at the screen and it had a rerun of the Ultimate Fighter on. He started boxing with the image on the screen. An image on a television screen that was still five times stronger than he was.
Two girls from the bar started looking at him. One of them got up and came over to her. I tried to watch what happened, but a voice stopped me.
“Randy, I probably shouldn’t do this, after what you just saw and all …”
She must be talking about the whole “honey” stuff with North Face.
“Huh? Shouldn’t or should?” I said, not really understanding what she was talking about, but hoping for one thing, not another.
“I shouldn’t give you this,” she said with a slight but oh-so-beautiful smile.
She reached into her pocket and gave me her … business card. It read “Tara’s Balloons…For ANY occasion!!!”
“Three exclamation points?” I asked, and immediately thought better of it.
She frowned a bit.
I started to panic.
“Thanks,” I meekly said.
“You don’t even know what it is, do you?” she said.
“It’s your business card. You are some kind of balloon person? Guess you figured I needed balloons for every occasion…”
That was supposed to be funny. But it wasn’t.
“No, stupid. Look on the back,” she said, grabbing it back from me and flipping it over and then pushing it right into my eyes.”
Call me. 252-349-1190. And then she took it right back.
At that moment I caught in the corner of my eye, North Face boy doing almost the exact same thing to one of the girls from the bar. She grabbed the card back quickly and stuffed it in her bra.
“Classy,” I thought. Not putting any of this together.
Tara took my hand and placed the card in my now sweaty palm.
“I’ve got to go. I live in Uptown. Maybe I’ll see you around. Or …”
A delightful pause. One in which I noticed her dyed blonde hair with red streaks in it. And the smell of the homeless guy coming up to us with a Styrofoam cup in his hand.
“Got any change, buddy?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, taking out a couple of quarters, plunking them into the dirty cup.
“Thanks, bro,” he said, tipping his hat and standing up just a little straighter. I kind of reminded me of the scene from Barfly when the bum gets to light a cigarette for Henry and Wanda. My favorite movie is about a drunk who falls in love with the wrong woman.
“You’ll give me a call?” she finally continued.
“I will. If you answer one question for me.”
She looked me up and down, again with her little crinkled up frown that made her nose twitch just a little bit. She had a little freckle there too.
“Ok, shoot,” she said.
“What color is your hair, really?”
“Red.”
And then she walked away with North Face.
I really have no idea why I said that when I met her. It just popped out of my mouth. One of those moments that you can’t get back. Even if you explained the lie in the next sentence, that moment. The first moment, was done. The opportunity was lost.
“Hi, Ralph,” she answered.
I sort of stared at her toes. She had black toenail polish on one foot. Green on the other. I’d find out later, that was what she did all the time. It never changed. No red. No blue. Not even purple, which was her favorite color. Always one foot black -- the right foot, and one foot green -- the left foot.
“Is that really your name?” she continued after my foot staring turned into eye staring.
“No. I just wanted to see if you would wince when I told you that. And you didn’t. Excellent thing, I must say.”
I noticed something else. She had a pendant around her neck. It was made of gold, but really oddly shaped. Not any kind of pattern or design. Just clumps of gold that seemed almost haphazardly melted together.
“So, what is your name?” I asked.
“Tara,” she said.
“Cool. I dig that name, always have.”
“I’m still waiting for your real name,” she said with a little bit of anger. Not hard core jarheads seeing a middle easterner in the airport ahead of him in line at McDonald’s getting the last batch of chicken mcnuggets mad. Just playfully, but not completely playfully mad.
“It’s Randy.”
“That fits you.”
That never really made sense to me. It fits what? My nose? My feet? My too-long and shaggy goatee?
Right at that moment of pondering, someone walked up to us…
“Tara? Are you coming or not?” a guy with a North Face fleece pullover said. The kind of pullover without sleeves. Not the kind with zippered off sleeves. That would have been even worse.
“Ummm…I’ll be there in a second honey,” she said.
My heart sunk. Just a little bit. Usually my heartbreak will come weeks, months or years after I fall for a gal. This one took less than three minutes.
North Face turned an walked over to a very large flat screen television. He looked at the screen and it had a rerun of the Ultimate Fighter on. He started boxing with the image on the screen. An image on a television screen that was still five times stronger than he was.
Two girls from the bar started looking at him. One of them got up and came over to her. I tried to watch what happened, but a voice stopped me.
“Randy, I probably shouldn’t do this, after what you just saw and all …”
She must be talking about the whole “honey” stuff with North Face.
“Huh? Shouldn’t or should?” I said, not really understanding what she was talking about, but hoping for one thing, not another.
“I shouldn’t give you this,” she said with a slight but oh-so-beautiful smile.
She reached into her pocket and gave me her … business card. It read “Tara’s Balloons…For ANY occasion!!!”
“Three exclamation points?” I asked, and immediately thought better of it.
She frowned a bit.
I started to panic.
“Thanks,” I meekly said.
“You don’t even know what it is, do you?” she said.
“It’s your business card. You are some kind of balloon person? Guess you figured I needed balloons for every occasion…”
That was supposed to be funny. But it wasn’t.
“No, stupid. Look on the back,” she said, grabbing it back from me and flipping it over and then pushing it right into my eyes.”
Call me. 252-349-1190. And then she took it right back.
At that moment I caught in the corner of my eye, North Face boy doing almost the exact same thing to one of the girls from the bar. She grabbed the card back quickly and stuffed it in her bra.
“Classy,” I thought. Not putting any of this together.
Tara took my hand and placed the card in my now sweaty palm.
“I’ve got to go. I live in Uptown. Maybe I’ll see you around. Or …”
A delightful pause. One in which I noticed her dyed blonde hair with red streaks in it. And the smell of the homeless guy coming up to us with a Styrofoam cup in his hand.
“Got any change, buddy?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, taking out a couple of quarters, plunking them into the dirty cup.
“Thanks, bro,” he said, tipping his hat and standing up just a little straighter. I kind of reminded me of the scene from Barfly when the bum gets to light a cigarette for Henry and Wanda. My favorite movie is about a drunk who falls in love with the wrong woman.
“You’ll give me a call?” she finally continued.
“I will. If you answer one question for me.”
She looked me up and down, again with her little crinkled up frown that made her nose twitch just a little bit. She had a little freckle there too.
“Ok, shoot,” she said.
“What color is your hair, really?”
“Red.”
And then she walked away with North Face.
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