Creepy, actually. You look at yourself in the mirror – average guy, nothing to write home about – blend into a crowd – B student – doesn’t make waves – homework every night – don’t smoke – don’t drink – gets to bed early. Otherwise, a Boy Scout.
So what is this girl doing, following you around like you’re going to explode? She never says anything to you. Just stares. You tried to break the ice but she wouldn’t have it – turned several shades of traffic light when you walked up to her. Turned, bolted and spent the rest of lunch period in the bathroom.
What is it about you? You ask around – they shrug. Nobody can figure it out. Your Science teacher says it’s Pheromones. You look it up in the Dictionary. You start wearing Old Spice – your friends pretend to be sick. You hoped she was turned off by aftershave. A bottle of Hai Karate appears on your desk in English class.
She’s taken to walking past your house, every twenty minutes. Your parents think it’s funny – your mom says you should be flattered – you think she has a gun.
All semester – staring and pacing – pacing and staring. Never a word – just laser-piercing eyes and the makings of a grin.
By the time April rolls around you’ve discovered Mateus and you’ve picked up a few Marlboros along the way.
She’s driving you nuts – she’s not giving up – you don’t know what she wants – SHE doesn’t know what she wants.
Finally you decide to corner her in a hallway and not let her leave until she tells you.
You get a plan together – Lunch period – a full hour of interrogation; once and for all.
The day you decide to do it she’s nowhere to be found – vanished – disappeared – thin air.
Days go by – she’s gone. Two weeks go by and you see the Janitor cleaning out her locker.
You stop – you ask – family moved to Minneapolis.
A shopping bag on the floor, full of envelopes. They all have your name on them. Letters.
The Janitor is glad to be rid of them – saved a trip to the dumpster.
Creeped out – relieved and curious.
She’s no longer around but there must be a least a hundred letters in the bag.
You get them home, dump the contents on your bed and proceed to open them.
Yes, she was a nutcase – but she was stone-cold in love with you. Says so; letter after letter, for months and months. She had fantasies.
Creeped out – relieved – curious and oddly sad.
People are so strange sometimes. You wouldn’t have gone out with her, but you wouldn’t have bitten her head off either.
You vacillate between tossing all the letters out and keeping them – you opt for keeping them. Pack them away in a shoebox in the closet.
Mementos . . .maybe – rites of passage . . .pretty much. Fear of the unknown – absolutely.
You flick on the radio next to your bed and Wolfman Jack fades in. A mountain of confessions – too nervous to say so.
And it’s only eleventh grade.
Here’s a half-hours worth of Wolfman Jack at KDAY in Los Angeles from April 13, 1973.
