The stories they don’t write about – flying dishes – banshee screaming – expensive ring tossed in a storm drain.
A first for you – you thought it was going to be civilized – she would understand – nod her head; teary goodbye and waiting hours by the phone – rain-soaked bus stop and a fistful of letters; each one sappier than the other – hearts and smiley faces. That’s what you thought – you watch too much TV – saw Love Story one too date nights – had this thing in your head that you needed to get on with your life and somewhere a swell of violins was tuning up
People get paid to write those things – they get paid big money – people make careers – people retire doing that.
Reality – not so much. Missed your head by millimeters and didn’t know china plates could shatter like that. flattened all your tires – so much for YOUR date night. Handed you a box of photos – all the ones where she cut you out of the picture – pieces of you in a box marked “Thanks”.
Had you known – had you brains – too late – could’ve been diplomatic – could’ve been sincere – could’ve shut up and died of natural causes. You have this mouth – it’s large and it’s open and feet fly in it – yours; all the time.
You avoid each other – like the plague. Threaten to transfer to another school. Walk in opposite directions – take a different route home – doesn’t help she lives four doors down.
Summer comes – Summer goes – new semester. Quiet – peaceful – no sightings – no drama. Practice making eye-contact with new possibilities – single again ain’t so bad.
And then lunch – Cafeteria – fish-stick special – french fries that couldn’t raise an eyebrow – run into your buddy – wants you to meet his new girlfriend.
Awkward moment.
Reptilian Death gaze – feel the back of your neck for burn holes. Try out your best smile and nod your head like a dashboard Beagle.
The best it becomes is tundra – big, frozen tundra; half a mile wide – half a mile deep. Awkward moment doesn’t budge.
She wraps herself around your buddy and gives him a lip-lock with a Wayne Gretzky in tonsil-hockey.
You quietly drift your head to the ceiling and become fascinated by holes in the acoustic tile.
Lunch over – sigh of relief – you vanish.
School over – you sit in your car and stare off into space – another growth opportunity.
And they say seventeen is bliss.
You’ll wait.
And to go along with waiting, here’s 30 minutes of Shana at KHJ from October 10, 1976.
