This has been my favorite blog entry for a while now. My friend Phil "no, I don't play the fucking drums" Collins will now share his trials of love and hopefully shed light on why men grow up to behave the way they do.
Smooth Operator: Learning Through Failure
1973 - Age 8, Vermont: Written on the back of a torn piece of grammar school paper: - I like you. do you like me and can I wait with you at the bus stop. Circle 1 YES or NO -
The note is tossed back to me after being folded into the size of a lentil bean - the word "NO" circled with what looks like the kind of black permanent marker lumber companies use on their large pallets of 2x4s. The word "YES" has been obliterated until it is reduced to shredded wood pulp. I can feel the disgust emanating from the page. Numerous exclamation points have been added to the word "NO".
1977 - Age 12, Vermont: On my first date. My Dad is driving us to and from the movies in the silver Buick LeSabre station wagon. I spend the first 3-hours agonizing over the best strategy to "getting some shoulder." I finally make my move as the ending movie credits roll and accidentally smack her ear with my sweaty hand. She winces, then smiles and snuggles closer. I am filled with spiritual tranquility as I gently stroke her warm cheek.
At the end of the night my Dad is very cool and parks the car so that the 4000-watt headlights do not expose the Greek tragedy unfolding upon the front stoop of her house. We exchange witty repartee:
"Good movie, huh?"
"Yes"
"Uuhhmmm"
"Yes?"
"It's cold out isn't it?"
"Yes"
I go for it. My entire world shrinks to the size of her Ivory-girl face as she leans toward me, pursing her lips just like on TV. I smell the Prell shampoo in her golden hair and her lips taste like bubble gum lip-gloss. As we part, the relief that I've finally kissed a girl washes over me and I sigh, expelling just enough air through my nose to inflate a small bubble of snot, bobbling inches from her brown eyes like a friendly green play-toy. The look of revulsion on her face is palatable, "Eeeewww! That's gross!"
There is no second date.
1980 - Age 15, Vermont: I am at the High School dance. I am standing before an oval lime green cafeteria table occupied by eight intimidating giggling girls with Camaro hair and glittery eye shadow. Bob Seger is groovin' the beat with the last few verses of "Night Moves." I am wearing white jeans. I am wearing cowboy boots.
"Hi. Would you like to dance?"
[hysterical laughing from her friends] "Are you kidding me? I don't dance with sophomores."
[in the cathedral silence between Bob Seger and Air Supply] "That's ok. I had to go take a shit anyway"
Eight lovely jaws drop.
1983 - Age 18, Vermont: Somehow I misplace my virginity. According to my friends I am 5 years late. According to my girlfriend I am 45 minutes early. I move to get up out of bed but she stops me:
"Mmmmm. Let's lay here a little and hold each other."
[confusion] "Why?"
December 1986 - Age 21, Chincoteague Island, VA: I am dating an island girl:
"You're just going to leave me when the tourist girls show up this summer."
"What?!? No way babe! Renee, I totally love you!"
6-months later. I am on the phone with Renee:
"I think we should see other people."
"I knew it! Who is it! Is it that slut Sue? I'll bet it's Sue. Oh God! [starts tearing up] I just knew you would leave me for a tourist girl!"
"Hell no! Sue?!? Who's Sue? No way man! I haven't even met anyone, really. Ok, well...umm. I'll call you later, alright? Look we're cool. I just need a little breathing room here, ok?"
[sniff. small voice] "Ok. I love you."
"Oooookay. Bye"
10-seconds later, I dial the phone:
"Hey, Sue?"
[shocked hurt sound of a puppy being crushed in a trash compactor] "Oh my God! It IS Sue!" [sound of weeping]
"RENEE?!? OH SHIT! RENEE, I am SO SORRY! SHIT! Oh, Man! I thought I dialed another number!"
1987 – Age 22, Chincoteague Island: I am dating a girl named Misti Beach:
"With an 'i,' not a 'y,' silly!!" [giggle 'n flip of hair]
The laughter and abuse I suffer from my two younger sisters is intense. It is a turning point in my life as I discover the importance of intelligent conversation during the remaining 80% of a daily relationship.
1989 - Age 24, Vermont: Every guy has one Obsession Relationship in their life. Mine was Lisa. We begin with a white-hot passion that generates smoldering letters and rapturous nights of staring into each other's eyes. With tender hands we lovingly embrace words like "ache" and "forever" and "love." It is more than just sex to me. We do not have sex. Lisa is the type of girl who lives for the hunt. I am still wearing my heart on my sleeve. After four months I notice a slight cooling of the atmosphere, a certain distance in her voice, and an increase in games:
"You didn't notice the motorcycle helmet in my car?"
"No. Oh, there it is. Ok"
"Don't you want to know whose it is?"
"Uh, ok. Whose is it?"
"This guy who gave me a ride to the mountains yesterday"
"Cool, what kind of bike does he have?"
"A Yamaha. Aren't you jealous?"
[dog-hears-something-high-pitched-look] "Huh?"
The last day of Obsession Phase One we are walking my dog by the side of the lake. He is bounding idiotically by the water's edge, self-absorbed and immersed in the fascinating smell of dead trout, oblivious to my turmoil. I am desperate to salvage my crumbling universe:
"Lisa, I think we need to talk about our relationship"
"Really? I don't think we need to."
[simpering faggoty whine] "I just...I don't know...I just want to feel needed."
MY SUBCONSCIOUS- what the FUCK! Did I really just say that?!? I WANT TO FEEL NEEDED?!?!? OH MY GOD, please remove my testicles from my crotch right now, I am obviously not worthy of them! Please, for the love of all that is righteous, let me take back those words and beat them into submission with a rusty shovel.
"Um, heh heh, just kidding. You're right, we don't need to talk about this"
"I think we just need to be friends."
1990 - Age 25, Vermont: I turn to poems. No, not the ones expressed by 18th century limp-wristed fops who carry their hankies in the ruffled sleeves of their ivory shirts. The cool Latin poems that make Anglo girls get all weak kneed and heart flutteringly open to sex suggestions. I put some words together. Words like cielo (sky), azul (blue), estrellas (stars), and ojos (eyes). I create a number of these and present them to my girlfriend. After reading them I become a Love God in the eyes of her friends, and she says she wants to marry me. It occurs to me I may have gone too far. My roommate's girlfriend, born in Brazil, asks to read my poems:
[shaking her head and laughing] "Oh my gosh, your Spanish is awful! And do you realize that in this one you call her a cheese boot?"
"Whatever, Gina. They work. Some people like cheese and boots."
1992 - Age 27, Vermont: I am sitting in Nectar's Bar with my best friend. He is very drunk. We are sitting in a booth on the brightly lit food side of the establishment. The fluorescent lights are sucking the vitality from the last call patrons - at 1:34am we all look like meth addicts. The puddle of beer on the gouged wooden table feels sticky warm on my elbows. The lonesome wail of years of hard-livin'-pain pours from my blues harmonica like life blood from a torn soul. I fucking rock. I too have partaken of much beer. The very cute waitress I've wanted to ask out, black tresses and Irish green eyes, saunters to our table and asks my best friend to stop throwing Nectar's fries at the preppy frat boy in the next booth. She turns to me and says, "You know, you sound pretty good." I turn to her, bleary blood shot eyes, pasty faced, and drool coming from the corner of my mouth. I focus on her breasts at eye level and shout, spittle flecking her blue Samantha name tag, "I CAN WELD TOO!!!"
I fall out of the booth.
1992 - Age 27, Vermont: Obsession Phase Two. Lisa and I are back together. We finally have sex. It is the most amazing sex I have ever ever had in my entire life.
Years from now I hearken back upon this feeling and wonder: If I was ever lost in the desert for 92 days with no beer, and then offered a Coors Light, would I think it was the best damn beer I had ever tasted?
We enter the familiar secondary phase of our dysfunction; however, I am starting to learn:
"I just don't think we are compatible. I think we should just be friends."
"Whatever. I'm sleeping with your best friend Stacy."
"WHAT?!?"
"Are we still friends?"
1993 - Age 28, Vermont: I am paying for college by working as crew on a ferryboat. There is a Latin goddess who takes the hour long crossing every day at 3:00. Flowing dark shoulder length ringlets of hair, angelic brown eyes, musical laugh, B.S. in English, and 3rd grade school teacher. I am drowning with desire, my eternal heart and soul pledged in the pursuit to stand close to her and absorb her mesmerizing aura. My co-workers know of my tormented plight and incessantly dog my ass, encouraging me to ask her out. One warm spring day she arrives at the King Street dock wearing a white peasant shirt, delicate lacy fringe caressing her pulse at the soft underside of her wrists. She leans against the railing on the second deck of the ferryboat, my co-workers observing from the pilothouse above as I approach her. We talk our usual talk. Inane pleasantries that barely hide my weakened state:
"So, this sounds like a really good book. Thanks so much for letting me borrow it."
"Oh, no problem. I really think you'll like it." [pregnant pause] "That's really nice perfume you're wearing, what is it?"
"It's called Kryptonite...here smell."
She gracefully raises her exquisite arm aloft, offering me the exposed flesh of her inner wrist. I can see the pulse of her heart, beating strong beneath her glowing skin. I lower my head to partake of her heavenly scent and sniff. I sniff too hard. One of her lacy fringe things, all 4 inches of it, flies deep into my nose. I pull it out like the towing hawser on a tugboat. The muffled roar of laughter coming from behind tells me my co-workers witnessed the whole thing:
"Oh my gosh! I'm really sorry!"
"Uhhm. That's ok." [she looks a little uncomfortable, and why not? I only flossed my sinuses with her sleeve]
[A sudden burst of inspiration] "Tu ojos son como las estrellas en el cielo zapatos."
She quickly turns her head and her narrowed dark eyes search my earnest face. The clouds pass and golden rays of a small smile crosses her lips. She says, "You're cute. We should go out sometime."
Finally.
As we slowly walk down the stairs to the car deck, she takes my arm and I can feel the warmth of her through my shirt. She leans close, and adds, "We really need to work on your Spanish."
 Dunderfunk (not my picture, either)
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15 Comments:
**C**
I believe that it's not always humor that we the readers look for, but for true life stories that make us look better.
Keep it up!
She had been drinking at some elementary school function so she already had quite a buzz going on. She and I sat on the office deck outside, warm summer breeze drifting the curtains behind us. I turned to her, took her hands, and lost myself in her dark liquid eyes. As I began to ask her The Question, she put her finger on my lips and whispered that she had to go to the bathroom. I watched her walk softly through her uncle's darkened optometrist office, her gait a little unsteady from the wine.
When she didn't return for awhile I grew concerned. Evidentially she was more intoxicated than I thought because...well...you know those things in eye doctor's offices that they use to make glasses? She fell into one and made a spectacle of herself.
It was all very tragic.
---Phil
brilliant effin' writing in my opinion.
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