Dandelions and caterpillars

My first love--who was a blonde--accused me of being conceited. 

I didn't know what she, or the word, meant. We were twelve years old, playing Red Rover with the others out back of the school. I was in a phase where I tried to look typical. I could never pull it off. They all laughed at me, and rightly so, when I wore my knock-off Ocean Pacific matching t-shirt and shorts. 

Peer pressure had caused me to wear very bright clothes. Later it caused me to retreat into darkness.

The laughter (the horror). 

"Are you going to the beach, Nigel?"  

I couldn't articulate a response. Instead I hung my head. Now I know exactly what I'd say, articulately, succinctly: 

Fuck off, guys. 

Yet, somehow, despite my garish clothing, there was a girl who liked me. Or at least she made me feel funny, and I think I made her feel funny, too. It was an innocent version of a Whitesnake video--as if there could ever be such a thing. 

She was, as I said, a blonde. I don't remember her name. And, as with other blondes since, I messed it up completely. At this point in my life I didn't know you could mess things up completely. 

Of course it was a big misunderstanding. Red Rover is a game of war. You hold hands, forming a human barrier to capture innocent intruders like a spider catches a fly. The cold concept of the game conflicted with the hot hormonal moods that were beyond my control. What I mean is, when it came time to form a human barrier, I refused to touch her hand. Not because I didn't want to, but because I did. I was scared she might perceive, through the thin, poorly-sewn veil of my orange day-glo shorts, the little snake that lived within me. 

"Nigel," she said, tears welling. "You're so conceited". 

I didn't know what she meant, but I knew it wasn't good. I had a jarring epiphany: Holy shit, is there more to this world than tether ball and Froot Loops? 

Pulling at the grass, I sulked on the ground, playing with dandelions and caterpillars. 

"I'm not!" I shouted. 

"I bet you don't even know what it means". 

Oh, no.... Time to run away, you little idiot jackrabbit.

****

I tried hard to remember the word so that, when I came home and had my post-educational bowl of Froot Loops, I could look it up in the dictionary. But I didn't know how to spell it. Would I be forever in the dark?*

A few years later, I don't remember how, I came to know the meaning of the word. And I remember thinking, I don't think she understood the meaning either. Did she not just mean to call me a "jerk" or a "knob"? Or perhaps she did use it correctly because I was, after all, only thinking of myself, not caring that I hurt her deeply and destroyed our unspoken bond. Did she know my secrets? Sometimes I wonder if blondes are actually more clever than we give them credit for.

Surely she couldn't be as clever as me? Oh.... 

Had I been more aware and less afraid, we could have gone on to become great lovers. We could have returned to the spot years later, remembering the first touch of our hands, and played a softer version of the game. One where we didn't care who won; one where the joy was in the playing; one where we felt no fear, or at least didn't let it become a barrier. We could take off our clothes and play in the grass amongst the dandelions and caterpillars. How magnificent that would be. Perhaps I wouldn't have ended up so dark, so miserable. Perhaps I would have continued to wear bright colours. But instead, for some time, I'd have to settle for tether ball and Froot Loops.

*I'd like to add here that I would go on to become a great speller. Something that is now a lost art, like chivalry. 

Not who I was, but who I wanted to be.

G*d, The Devil, and Th*m*s M*gn*m (or, Why I've chosen to grow a moustache)

Dear G*d, 

I am a fraud. 

Now, in exchange for a confession, I request a transformation. Turn me into a swimmer. Let me take one drink, and then, G*d, lead me through your old and winding streets, all the way to one of your fancy-ass hype man priests. I'll bring my pistol and my flask. 

Churches make me queasy. Idiots singing poorly. 

Father (you remind me of Coolio), I confess. I'm one of those pricks who pretends to speak French. I'm a victim of Being There and always saying Yes. I confess. There's a sweetness in my soul. 

Don't tell. 

I did not grow up in the church, and, as such, I do not understand it. Do you, G*d, get off on people's secrets (I do)? Does it keep you from rifling through drawers and medicine cabinets (I do that too and have made many great discoveries). Man, I imagine, with all you've seen, you could write some incredible erotic fiction. I like your house. It's a speakeasy. You say the magic words and boom! the expanse of the universe opens up and yields itself unto you. You're such a lucky bastard, aren't you, G*d, you omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent asshole. I'd like to be your friend, although you come across a tad needy. 

Earlier I ate some drugs. Now, here I am, confessing to Coolio, nodding off to the distant hooting of an owl and the purr of a sports car. You must think I'm a mess. But I feel like a summer's breeze. 

Would it be rude if I peeled and ate this hard-boiled egg in front of you? 

There we go. Yummy, yummy. Now, G*d, I'm in heaven. 

I'm all heavenly with my egg, that is, until I try to conjure you, G*d (not Coolio), in my mind. It does piss me off that you are invisible. Seems like an odd decision on your part. Surely you could have made yourself cooler. You could rave and howl, a compound beast; an awesome creature with a donkey dick. But instead you chose to house the essence of an owl. 

Hoot hoot. 

Do you want to flap your downy wings and open a new door? I'll lend you my pistol and my flask. The only way out. 

I'd kill you for justice. You know I would. To save the world. 

Here, Dear Baby, I took a piss outside and fell over on the lawn. Up became down. Drunk and deranged, my mood flipped. I walked back into the church angry as hell. 

Seeing red, I shouted. 

Fuck you, G*d! And fuck your fancy-ass hype man priest! I've got tickets to see Rodriguez and don't have time for this shit. Cold fact. Just remember this. The howl is mightier than the hoot. 

Oh, shit..... I've made a bad decision and now I've got the spins. I am a mixture of alcohol and regret. I wonder, Am I just a toy to keep G*d from fidgeting? I am a wheel within a wheel, a howl within a howl, a whimper within a wimp, as my shape, it shifts, and like Alice I shrink. 

I lose all my body hair. 

I re-acquire my conscience. 

Squeaks stick in the cracks of my voice. 

Oh, G*d, I am in puberty once again. Oh no no no. 

I shift from blackout into a garden at dawn. Welcome to the fucking pleasure dome. Welcome to fucking Eden. Tiffany swims in a pool of Green Chartreuse. Well, I think we're alone now, but we are in a very sticky situation. 

I take a drink of the water and it tastes like fire. 

Tiffany, naked in an emerald pool, her smooth chest rising and falling from physical exertion, swims toward me, eyes full of lust. She warbles a deep cut from her second album. I intuitively recognise it as a veiled ode to sex. My brain swims with chemicals.  

I murmur softly, mournfully. Tiffany I am so horny right now. 

Talk about a shitty time to revert to adolescence. I don't know what to do or where to put it (this was before the internet). And I'm very, very spotty. 

Dear Baby, I hated being a teenager. I stayed in bed and never left. I'd watch action drama comedies from the '80s (it was the '90s). I wonder if this is where the sweetness came from? 

Tiffany, being with you is absolute torture on my balls. Forgive me if I act like an ape. Get me out of this damned pleasure dome. 

And look who it is, grinning and giggling behind a bush, eating a peach with his donkey dick out. Ah, yes, it's you, the moustachioed Mephistopheles. Hello Satan. You are a g*d-damned bully, aren't you? But you are much cooler than G*d (it even says so on your t-shirt--you've even included the "o". Naughty). 

Me and the devil became fast friends. The rest of the night is a blur. I remember racing dirt bikes and jumping out of a helicopter that looked like an Easter egg. Satan likes X-treme sports, apparently. They aren't really my thing. And there were a lot of drugs. Uppers. Not really my thing, either, uppers. 

Here, Dear Baby, I vomited a long one. One where you can't believe your body can be so toxic. I felt like I'd been fighting in Vietnam. The acid destroyed my voice. Down became dawn. I looked deep into the emerald water, now stained with my bile, and saw myself, but not as myself. I was no longer an adolescent. I was bigger. And I had a moustache. 

I knew that enough had been enough. 

I remember all those hours in bed as a teenager, feeling sad and afraid about a girl. I'd watch you, M*gn*m, on the television, not realising I'd discovered the third way of existence. Now, via this incredible moustache, I have become you, Th*m*s M*gn*m, my idol (I do believe in idolatry). Now, let's crack open a beer and take a joy ride in our 1981 Ferrari 308GTSi Quattrovalvole.  

"Nigel," you say to me, you, Th*m*s M*gn*m, in a voice without pretension, totally accepting that you cannot, and never will, speak French. "I've been with you this whole time."

My eyes went misty and I wept. 

Hoot hoot.