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