A/N: This chapter is split into two sections.
I'm ten years old and smitten.
Fifth grade. A field trip to Chicago's Museum of Science and Industry looms. Crossing State lines is a Huge Deal.
...
"Don't you want to continue talking about your wife?" She asks.
"I am talking about my wife."
"You knew her in elementary school?"
"No. I want to give you context."
...
The Gang of Four (The Hard Guy, The Serb, The Drunk, and me—the ruling party of Ludington Grade School) see this raid on the Land of Lincoln as an excellent opportunity to enter the world of dating. We convene on the token patch of grass skirting the north end of the otherwise scab-maker of a paved schoolyard. Only item on the agenda: Coordinate our date selections. The undefeated leader of the Gang, the Hard Guy, earned his name. A conflict of interests could result in a bloody nose or worse. Despite the danger, I blurt out my choice before anyone else can speak.
She is a raven-haired 10 at ten. From first sight, she'd ignited a tingling sensation from my stomach to my throat. 'Hello' leaves her in a siren's song; Her smile factors into global warming. She's nice to me. Whatever 'that' is, I want some. I am in love—all caps L-O-V-E for the first time—Number 1.
No one challenges my claim. I'm free to issue an invitation.
A worn sixteen-millimeter copy of Frank Capra's "Our Mr. Sun" plays in the front of the darkened classroom. While our teacher dozes behind the projector, I send a note snaking its way under the desks, hand to hand, till it reaches 1's. She unfolds the wide-ruled paper; its left edge tattered by a shaky-handed removal from my spiral notebook. I spy for a nervous but giddy smile to bloom, signaling her acceptance of my company in Chicago, plus my undying love and adoration for all eternity. The moment unravels in brutally slow motion as her eyes widen, forehead contorts, and mouth opens sufficiently to dislocate her jaw, generating maximum output as "NOOOOOOOO!!!" explodes loud enough to launch an erroneous fire drill and fix all smirking eyes on me for the rest of the shameful year.
...
"Was that how you felt—ashamed?"
"A little humiliated, but yes, ashamed."
"What were you ashamed of?"
"Being stupid. If I hadn't been, I would have seen the situation for what it was, instead of what I wanted it to be, and saved everyone the embarrassment."
"Did this create any lasting impact on you?"
...
The Rock Star packs his bags and leaves no forwarding address. He does, however, leave behind a vocal silencer to engage when I face girls in social settings. I can't even stammer. Grunts may sound, but words don't bother showing up to fail me. I will only waste their time.
As the Teen Age arrives I come around somewhat. I manage evenings rolling in the grass on the banks of Honey Creek, applying myself to anatomy studies. Somewhere along the line, I disappoint someone's vagina by leaving my virginity in it.
...
"Someone's? You don't remember her name?"
"Her facial expression of utter pity blocks everything else."
YOU ARE READING
A Year Of Living Stupidly
HumorWhat do you do when you're twenty-nine and you forgot to light the world on fire? On the verge of superstardom, a Hollywood singer loses everything and struggles to find meaning in life on the other side of the velvet rope. He's always been a rock...
