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I was recently beaten up by a female reader who took offense to my article "The Seven Habits of Sensitive, Celibate Men." After assaulting me with well-chosen, and delightfully explicit epithets, she concluded by stating that I was probably "one of those guys who got dumped in High School and never got over it."Alas, if I had only been so lucky, for it is true, there is a time in everyone's life when bitterness hits the heart. When love letters turn to kindling and high romance to recriminations. When first kiss fireworks become ashes on the tongue, and poetry falls flat in the road. Lucky is the lover who escapes it by thirty. Unlucky are those who don't even make it out of first grade.
The girl was Shelley Walters. And when you said her name softly it was almost like praying; sung out loud and there was music playing. She had red hair. I'm not sure why a young boy's fancy turns to red-headed girls; but ask any gathering of grown men and nine out of ten can tell you about one.I suppose Charles Schultz knew the answer. But he took it to the grave with Charlie Brown and the rest of the "Peanuts" clan. Some questions are best left unanswered.Chuck never liked to place blame on the shoulders of others. And neither do I. But in this case, my mother had a hand in it. She was the one who insisted I wear those rubbers and that ridiculous orange beanie to the elementary school three blocks away‹even when it was nice out, because, you never know, the weather might change. I couldn't let Shelley Walters see me in such an outfit. I couldn't let her.
Every morning, after I turned the corner of our block, the goulashes and beanie were shoved deep into the hedgerow of the Hadley's yard, to be picked up again on my return home. I had it down to a science. No one eyed the subterfuge except for my cat, Jibs, who followed me daily for half the journey before sauntering off to find his chums.
I was in the clear for several months, and I was working up the courage to give Shelley her first kiss. But then Mrs. Hadley decided to trim the hedgerow. She wasted no time in delivering the evidence. When I arrived home the stupid rubbers and beanie were on the kitchen table.
The shit hit the fan.Maybe I shouldn't have challenged maternal wisdom at such a young age, but I was emboldened by love. But my vociferous proclamations of honorable intentions fell on deaf ears. Mother wasn't about to lose her youngest son to a six-year-old, crimson-haired hussy. Corrective measures needed to be taken. And the sooner the better.
During the late 60's and early 70's, fashion was a peculiar thing. And, although it is a strategy largely forgotten today, parents often kept their disobedient children in line by dressing them in older siblings' hand-me-downs. (The diminishing number of large families helped precipitate this punishment's demise.) I, at the time, was big enough to wear some of my brother's second-hand clothes, circa 1967. Actually, I was too big. And that worked out even better.
A shocking pair of fluorescent green pants were chosen from the available stock. I begged and pleaded, but my mother insisted that the trousers were just fine. After all, there was no logical reason for pants reaching your ankles. And lime green was the perfect color for a cocktail garnish, why not a fashion statement? Especially when accompanied by a bright yellow polyester shirt. She smiled behind her cat glasses, so fashionable at the time, and delivered a final sally that echoed like a death knell as I walked out the door: "You look so cute!" A bitter first lesson in irony it was.
I got to school early, took my seat in the back of the class, and prayed that I might avoid Shelley after her bus arrived. (She sat in the front row, so it was within the realm of possibility.) The morning proved uneventful except for an overheated radiator behind my desk. I was sweating like Nixon, but I kept my mouth shut.
What about recess, though? Where could I hide?Stinky Carter, who sat next to me, interrupted my musings with an unsolicited offer to examine his pee-pee. It was a proposition that was quickly becoming compulsive behavior for young Carter and I waved him off. Then, I realized that there were no good places to hide. A trash can was my only refuge.Tammy Sherwood, a close friend of Shelly's, saw me from across the playground and walked over to my hiding-spot. "What are you doing behind that trash can, Davey?"
"It's these pants!" I said, almost weeping.
"What about your pants? What's wrong with them?" She leaned over the trash can.
"Look at them. They're hideous!" I screamed.
"You're nuts, Davey. Come on over and play," she said, and skipped back to rejoin a game of freeze-tag, her blonde hair fluttering in the wind.
I began to wonder if Tammy was right. Maybe it was all in my imagination. These pants weren't actually that bad. In fact, some people might even say they were hip. A sudden wave of excitement rushed through me, and I sprinted to the other side of the play-ground. No more wasting time; today, Shelley would be mine!
I quickly surveyed the scene. Tammy had already been caught and was riveted to the pavement like an overgrown Barbie doll. Stinky Carter, his pants' zipper open, was running around like a headless chicken, unable to freeze-tag anyone. Shelley was missing. I ran over to inspect the jungle gyms and heard a giggle as I passed the big oak tree.
I stopped and turned. There she was, rolling in the grass with my best friend Billy. In shock, I watched as the red-headed girl expertly flipped Billy on his back and kissed him square on the mouth.I threw up on the spot. Good Grief!
D.A. BLYLER is the author of two books of poetry, Shared Solitude and Diary of a Seducer. He is a freelance writer whose work has appeared in SALON, EXQUISITE CORPSE, and the Prague-based magazine THINK. He has recently completed his first novel, Steffi's Club.
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