Puppy Love

Puppy Love

I was always a hopeless romantic. Despite my questionable ongoing youthful and haphazard appearance, I believed I was destined for my one true love. For big love. A sweeping romance for the ages. I looked far and wide. And, by far and wide I mean across my classrooms or the soccer baseball field, a few doors down, in the other room even. I trusted that my person, would be able to see beyond the short and stout package to my true essence, in my deep and beautiful soul.

I came by these unrealistic starry-eyed notions from watching soap operas with my Mother. Primarily ‘Another World’ and ‘Texas’. I hung on every elegant word that dripped out of Iris Wheeler’s chops and was swept up in the love affair between Mac and Rachel Cory. I lived for escaping to Bay City for an hour every day after school. And, when we finally caught up with the rest of the world and had cable installed, I added ‘General Hospital’ to my soapy repertoire. It didn’t’ stop there, I graduated later to ‘Santa Barbara’ and ‘Sunset Beach’.  Imagine it, your plump protagonist, nestled in a single bed, whispering sweet nothings into the side of a pillow before pretend-French-kissing it’s non-existent lips. Practice. It was practice. For the real thing. For my one true love. Embarrassing but oh so true.

I had my first date in 1983. I was ten years old. I should also mention, Father Mine chaperoned. It was kind of a prerequisite since either of us at that tender age could drive or had the monies to fund such and outing. I shoved a brush through my thick black mess of hair, bangs fully to the left side, hair-sprayed hard, stuffed myself into a white ruffled peasant blouse, a red corduroy suspender skirt and set off sure it was going to be the most romantic day ever. Father Mine and I picked Crush One up at his trailer and we set off to the movie theater in Penhorn Mall. It was a Sunday. We had matinee tickets for none other than the epic space opera, ‘Return of the Jedi’, ready for all things Luke Skywalker and his struggle to bring his father, Darth Vader, back to the light side of the Force. Father Mine teases us endlessly after we settled into our middle of the theater seats with buttery popcorn and ginormous Cokes, “No funny business when the lights go down. I have my eye on you.” I wanted to strangle him with heavy chains in the very same way Princess Leia strangled Jabba the Hut. In a cute twist of cheeky fate, Crush One grinned at Father Mine and said, “Both eyes? Or just one?” I didn’t know if I wanted to die or marry him. Father Mine chuckled and turned his attention then to his own popcorn treat. The movie was a soaring romp through an alternate universe anyone with a pulse was invested in. We chattered excitedly about it all in the backseat of the car on the way to the dinner portion of our outing. Of course, me, the sap I was, waxed poetic about the movie’s bitter end where, as the defeat of the Empire is celebrated, Luke spies the spirits of Yoda, Obi-Wan, and Anakin watching over him. Crush One, to my dismay, wasn’t moved. He was more fired up about how Luke severed Darth Vader’s prosthetic hand. It’s always about the lightsaber duels with dudes. It didn’t take long to drive from the theater to Steak and Stein. Father Mine’s choice not ours. I sat beside Crush One on one side of the booth across from Darth. I confidently ordered two of a kind, medium rare, derby style, with fries and a root beer. Crush One shyly said he’d have the same. While Dad ordered, I sat, with a goofy grin on my face, swinging my legs since my feet didn’t quite hit the floor, pleased as punch to be sitting with my future husband. That’s until we were spotted. By a classmate. Sitting two tables over with his family. He did a double take when we made eye contact. My face fell, ashen. His shone with the most cunning of grins. We were caught. Crush One and me kept our date a secret from our friends at school. And now, we’d been found out. The next day, Monday morning at school, we were subjected to endless ribbing, “… sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G …”.       Part of me wanted to die but the hopeless romantic in me was swooning all over Oceanview Elementary School. It turns out he wasn’t my person. Our dalliance fizzled out before summer started.

The most romantic moment of my adolescence happened in my 5^th Grade classroom. Weeks prior we did an art project that involved irons, crayon shavings, and wax paper. We made butterflies. They peppered the cold white cement walls and they were lovely, all tailored to our personalities. They were easy as pie to make but the line-up for the last step, the ironing part, under strict supervision of course, took eons. To make the butterflies, we cut out their body frames and wings from thick black construction paper (I used to love the sound of heavy scissors cutting through that particular kind of paper), judiciously cut four oval-ish pieces of wax paper to fit into the windows of the wings, two pieces for each, and sharpened our favorite color crayons, the shavings melted inside the two pieces of greasy paper under the duress of the iron. Once they were all assembled, glued, and dried, we each got to hang them up. I positioned mine next to Crush Two’s. Mine, shined expertly on display, made of the brightest pinks and yellows and sky blue. Crush Two’s stood vigil, more subtle, a little darker alongside. Fate would have it that our Most Beautiful Teacher assigned the task of taking them down to me and Crush Two. We could either go to the library with the rest of the class or stay behind and dismantle the butterfly display to make room for our new pending art project. He jumped at the chance to skip the library and I leapt at the chance to be alone with him. He climbed up on the ladder while I stood at the bottom keeping it steady. Mostly in awkward silence, he peeled each creation from the wall and dutifully handed them down to me. When he arrived at mine, he stopped for a second, studied the colorful wings, and said, “Yours is really pretty.” I near fell over taking the ladder with me. My face blushed and I couldn’t wipe the smile off my inflated face. And then, an unexpected romantic gesture, he shed his down from the wall, put it in my hand and said, “You can keep mine. With yours.” Agog, I barely got my response out, “As in FOR keeps?” He nodded. You know I did. I may have slept with it under my pillow once or a hundred times. I still have it packed carefully away in my school treasury book and grateful I do. Crush Two passed away the following year. I was sure I’d marry him even though he liked other girls better. I carry his sweet face on my keys to this day, my young heart dedicated always to the memory of him.

Crush Three was the icing on the cake. Rock Star Brother paraded countless long-haired musicians in and out of our house for as long as I can remember. But none quite had the impact of Crush Three. My Mother was even smitten! A willowy yet confident blonde-hair-blue-eyed Adonis screeched into our driveway one day, hopped every second step to the side door, and knocked. I ambled to the door, disheveled, still in my frumpy pajamas, with severe bedhead, and stopped dead in my tracks. This would be high school me. Older, bored, somewhat apathetic – and yet, when the Hunk of Burning Love that was Crush Three appeared, the hopelessness of romance reared its tricky head, “Hi … ya … like is your brother here?” He lowered his cheap sunglasses to reveal the universe, every damn drop of Jupiter, in his eyes. I stood there like a dummy, jaw on the floor, speechless. My lack of sound prompted him to shoot one of those ‘uh hello’ looks down at me. “So? He here or wha’?” All I could manage was a nod. He pushed past me and headed down the basement stairs I was pointing at, still catatonic, completely overcome by his utter beauty. I heard him ask Rock Star Brother what was wrong with me. I didn’t hear the answer, but I can tell you right here and now, I was head over heels in love. Like, to the moon and back. Crush Three basically moved into our house. I made a point of never being seen in my pajamas again. I even started to apply a bit of make-up in a shameless effort to appear more grown-up. I faked sick for school so many times to hang out with him in the basement to watch day-time TV, take silly drum lessons, and gab until my teen heart was content. I made him cake, and lunches, my Mother made him spaghetti dinners, and desserts. We wanted him to stay forever. He was funny and warm and could really hammer the skins. Mind you, at that time, he was playing R&B standards, but when he practiced or goofed off, he was a powerhouse. One day we were sitting on the chesterfield in the basement listening to music and eating oranges. I hate peeling oranges and I always peeled his for him. He’d pop the juicy wedges in his mouth and then smile, using it as his makeshift teeth. I’d laugh too loud and too long, longingly to which he said the cruelest words I’d never heard, “I just love you, you’re the best little sister.” Sigh. My heart sunk deep into my ankle socks. No amount of attention, Revlon, or culinary delights would ever make me anything more than a little sister in his eyes. I still loved him though. I couldn’t help myself. I was happy in his company. He treated me like a person instead of just someone’s kid sister. The July after my nineteenth birthday I walked into a bar he was playing at. A matinee. And, he’d taken on the role as lead singer. I brought him a cupcake since I remembered it was his birthday. He freaked out. “Are you SURE you’re old enough to be in here!? OH MY GOD! Serioussssly?!” He hugged for a long time. He was more hyper than I remembered, even a little weathered, or maybe weary. Nevertheless, he was tickled to see me. I stayed awhile. Ordered a beer. Watched him dominate the stage. Crush Three passed away too, would you believe, ten years to the day, of Crush Two. Uncanny. Crush Three lives in another small corner of my heart still. His picture hangs on my rock wall in my writing room. His face upturned and silly. Just like I remember.               

***

I feel like at some point I will return to this small piece and add to it.

I was choked up while writing it. Thinking of these people in those places and all the feels I believed were real.

I’ve never been lucky in love. But I still hope to be. I believe. Despite evidence to the contrary.

In propinquity,

Nic