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Instances.
written by
Emily on march 2nd - 2004
When I was in the first grade a gawky, gap-toothed boy who no one really liked gave me a hollowed out cardboard Lifesavers container full of paper snowflakes he'd made. They varied in shapes and sizes, and each had a crease down the center from where he'd folded the paper in half and then carefully crafted each flake with his plastic safety scissors. He gave them to me with no consequence, and no expectation. We hadn't even really been friends, he just wanted me to have them. It's the first time I can remember when a boy was nice to me without motive or reason. I don't know where that boy is now. I don't know if he gave snowflakes to all the little girls, or if he stayed up past bedtime eating lifesavers, so he'd have something to put my gift in. But I remember the picture on the box, and I remember his face. If my memories are a darkened and mildewed basement, he's just a crumpled paper snowflake at the bottom of a box labeled "To all the boys I've loved before. . . " But now that I think about it, he's probably the reason that the box exists at all.
The Mathew Toler
Experience.
When I originally sat down to write this, my intention was to
reminisce about my very first crush. Not the A-team alumnus, but
the first walking talking breathing in the same room with me
crush. I had planned to blather on about the details, the produce
some cliched point about how we're shaped by every romantic
notion we have. How every encounter affects the subsequent
encounters. Then I realized that everyone already knows that, and
I'm not Ann Landers. I also found that, the more often I thought
about my long lost imaginary paramour, the more I realized that.
. . I don't remember much. In fact, it's come to my attention
that I only have one story about the guy to tell.
I was in the second grade when I fell in pretend, little girl
love with Mathew Toler. Matt. His hair was bleached a white
blonde, and it was always perfectly coiffed into the spikes that
were stylish at the time. He wore glasses, which I still believe
to this day is what makes me love bespectacled boys so much. He
was a straight A student, and a star athlete. Well, so much as
any 8-year old can be a star athlete. He was, in short, the boy
that every single girl in my class had a crush on.
Let's take a minute to look back on second grade Emily. My long
blonde hair had been cut two years prior into the much more
practical Dorothy Hamill mushroom-on-your-head style. But it was
starting to grow out, and was almost never brushed, so I had
little whisps of hair perpetually stuck at right angles from my
head. I'd recently been put into glasses, the most god awful,
pink tinted, grandmother looking atrocities that could have
possibly been chosen for me. I was probably missing a tooth, or
two, though I can't be certain. And, strictly for detail's sake,
I should let it be known that I wore saddle shoes. Constantly.
With jeans. Stone washed jeans.
So, that was our set up: me, the introverted and sartorially
challenged heroine pining after the wee Adonis of Lubeck
Elementary school. An Adonis who kind of looked like Jonathan
Lipnicki. It happened, from time to time, that we would watch
filmstrips as a reward at the end of the day. Not videos, mind
you, but film strips. And we'd sometimes even have those slide
projectors with the cassette tape audio. The kind that would
"boop" whever the next slide should be clicked. On this
particular day it was announced that yes, we'd be watching one of
these film strips when our work was done for the day. I took this
as an omen that this was the day for putting into action my plan
to win Matt's love. I spent all of that day, between grammar
lessons and cursive writing exercises, drawing him a picture. I
can't recall specifically what it was, a flower, I think. And
though I was never the most artistically enclined child, I was
determined to make the best flower that a boy in tiny Air Jordans
could ever hope to receive.
The filmstrip drew near, and I moved onto phase two of my plan,
operation "Sit Next to the Boy You Like." It so
happened that, while I was crammed into a back corner of the
classroom where no one would see me, Matt's desk was right up
front by the projector screen. Better still, next to him was an
empty desk, recently vacated by the overly hyper red-haired boy
who spent his afternoons in the special LD class. The room
darkened, the projector's buzz filled the room. I scuttled
quickly to my teacher and explained, despite already having my
glasses on, I could not see a thing. I absolutely had to move
closer to the front of the room. The teacher sighed (this was a
request made by at least one little girl before every media
presentation), but allowed my crayola flower and I to take the
empty desk next to the Boy Himself. I sat there in the dark,
overcome with the realization that I was sitting next to the boy
I'd been secretly admiring for over a year, but was sitting far
too close now to stare at him without his noticing. This is a
problem that plagues me to this day. I scrutinized my picture,
reimagining the leaves and petals, but always coming back to the
conclusion that I'd left my 64 pack in my desk on the other side
of the classroom.
The film was well past it's halfway point at this time. I bit the
bullet, I had to do it. Did I hand him the picture, you ask? Did
I fold it into some strange little oragami pouch and launch it
onto his desk? Did I maybe just have my friend give it to him
later? Nope, none of those logical choices. Instead, I took this
opportunity, this one chance to show my crush how I felt, and I.
. . surreptitiously pushed the paper off of my desk, so it went
sailing to the floor in front of him. I saw his head jerk towards
the paper, so my natural response was to look pointedly at the
screen, ignoring for one brief moment that I was capable of
seeing in my periphery. Cartoons are less obvious than I am, had
I begun to whistle and twiddle my thumbs I probably would've
transformed into one on the spot.
A few seconds later there was a tap on my shoulder. I looked over
to see Matt, naturally, holding my paper flower in the universal
gesture for, "you dropped this." And what did I do? Did
I laugh and say, "actually, I intended that tulip for
you"? Did I freeze and take the paper back? Did I disavow
all knowledge of the paper, pretending it had come not from my
desk but some strange rip in the fabric of time? No, worse than
that. Rather than come up with anything coherent to say, I
responded by quickly shaking my head, holding up one hand in the
universal gesture for, "oh no, I couldn't," and saying
merely, ". . . you keep it."
Matt Toler looked at me strangely then. But the moment passed, he
took one dissecting glance at my waxy stamen, and slipped the
picture into his trapper keeper, which featured a picture of the
Chicago Bulls' team logo on the front. One week later Matt (due
to an exceptional showing on the previous day's vocabulary test)
was given the priviledge of being first in line when our class
walked to the cafeteria. He had his choice of a second in line,
and he picked me. He didn't mention the flower, or even talk to
me really, but it was enough to know that it was me he wanted to
stand behind him while marching down the right side of the
hallway in a single file line.
Not long after, in the middle of that same school year, Matt's
parents decided to move to Ashland, Kentucky. And like that. . .
he was gone. The more vocally boy crazy girls in my class wailed
when he went away. It was like the estrogen squadroom of the
second grade had lost their avatar. I'd like to tell you that we
kept in touch, or that years later I looked him up and he
remembered my flower. But the truth is, I never saw him again. I
remember hearing, the next year, that he'd gone to a New Kids on
the Block concert, and got to go up on stage. The little boys
he'd been friends with called him a "faggot" and the
little girls who'd worshipped him just turned up their noses,
because they'd long since traded the New Kids in for Nelson.
The point? *shrug* The Affair of the Flower was just about the
most intimate encounter I had with a boy until well into college.
And even though I never got to hold his hand, or sit on the edge
of the pavement and cheer for him while he played foursquare,
maybe in the end I'm better off with nothing but his story.
Uncle.
There's a picture that exists of me, buried somewhere in a box in
the back of my mother's closet. In it, I'm about four years old,
posing for the camera in the trailer we lived in before my sister
was born. I'm in a little denim skirt with a ruffle at the hem,
and a bright pink t-shirt from the Columbus zoo. I've got
mismatched knee socks on, and thick ribbons made of yarn holding
limp reddish-blonde pigtails out from either temple. I had asked
my Uncle (my compatriot, my secret accomplice, my favorite) to
dress me up like Punky Brewster. And though I thought myself more
than stylish at the time, in retrospect I looked nothing like
her. Punky never wore skirts. . . .
Growing up in a small town, it's very easy to feel like you exist
in a bubble, separate from the treacheries of the evening news.
The murders don't happen here, the plagues don't reach here, and
we certainly don't have to deal with the metropolitan monstrosity
known as "smog." Tom Brokaw may fill you in on the
details, but generally things are, and were, serene. I hated it.
I loved my family lots, I loved my friends more, but even as a
small child I felt the need to be somewhere besides where I was.
Despite being a multiple spelling bee champion, I was too little
to spell "wanderlust," so I merely retreated into my
own creativity, where I hoped no one would find me. I watched
movies and created characters for myself to play within them. I
stuffed pillows up the back of my shirt and transformed myself
into a tiny, mouse-voiced Quasimoto, giving my friends tours of
haunted houses I'd made in my bedroom. In my head I acted out
extensive dialogues between myself whichever random celebrity I'd
most recently taken a liking to. And most of all, I wrote. Mostly
just silly little poems about butterflies or how much I loved my
parents, with the occasional three page essay about how much I
enjoyed my ballet slippers, or some random inanimate object that
I'd found particularly inspiring.
My Uncle always encouraged me in my efforts. For the first few
years of my life he was, with the possible exception of a grey
mutt named King, the best friend I had. He was also the only
person in my family to have graduated from college, having taught
English for several years before I was born. And though at the
time he seemed like nothing more than the most readily available
Candy Land partner, I see him now as an inspiration, a rationale
that it was possible to more than the small town from whence you
came. One day he up and moved away. To Florida. I don't know why,
I wasn't told. I knew only that Candy Land was considerably less
enjoyable with your little sister who won't stop sticking the
Queen Frostine card in her mouth. In my life, I've managed to
successfully run four different pen-pal relationships straight
into the ground, due largely to apathy on my part. Despite this,
my Uncle and I kept a regular correspondence. I sent him jacks in
the mail, and he sent me long letters written with caligraphy pen
about how the mailman came to his door laughing, holding an
envelope punched full of holes with a solitary jack inside.
Then, as was bound to happen, my bubble was popped. I suppose it
makes sense that my Uncle, the only one I ever thought of as
having "escaped," was the one to pop it. I don't
remember much, only that my mother came home one evening, sat me
down, and told me quietly but matter-of-factly that my Uncle was
sick. The way she put it was to tell me that he'd been tested,
and found to be "positive." "But. . ." I
started, in a moment of wishful desperation, "isn't positive
good?" My mother flinched, and as my unanswered question
started to pile rocks onto my nine year old chest, I ran to my
room because I didn't want anyone to see my cry. He was dying. He
was going to die. He only had days left, hours even. He was
probably already dead. I stared for hours at a crystal music box
he'd given me for Christmas, trying to escape, for the first
time, the feeling that a person I loved had an end point.
But, amazingly, he didn't die. Not then, not that week, not that
month. A couple of years passed and suddenly his health began to
fail him. So I began to prepare again, shedding all my tears in
private so no one would have to see them when the time came. But
it didn't happen then. More years passed. And though his face
started to become more and more gaunt, his body more and more
fragile, his smile was still warm when he saw me, and his hugs
still felt the same. But while I was obliviously coveting hugs
and smiles, things started to change between my Uncle and the
rest of my family. Relationships became strained, he didn't
didn't come home for holidays as much as he used to. And, though
he'd still make a point to buy me a book or send me a card (still
always written with the caligraphy pen) each birthday, there were
other people he'd barely bothered to speak to for years. The man
who had always been at the center of every gathering just. . .
wanted to be left alone.
Last week, my Uncle took a lot of pills, then drank a lot of
wine, then went to sleep for three days. He hadn't died, he'd
just wanted to. My mother announced this to my sister and I while
we watched wrestling in that same quiet, matter-of-fact tone. Out
of habit, I waited for the match to end, then slowly walked the
distance to my room because I didn't want anyone to see me cry. I
stared for hours at a spot on my ceiling, not quite sure which
emotion was appropriate for the knowledge that a man who'd shaped
your life had failed at taking his own. I haven't seen him since
it happened, I don't know what I'll say when I do. Part of wants
to rant and scream and pull my hair out. That part wants to be
selfish, to thrust words that I've written into his face and ask
how he could just not be there for the last 12 years of my life,
when he's the one who gave me the only thing I've ever felt like
I was any good at.
The other part of me, the one that's still the mouse voiced child
with the limp pigtails, thinks I'll probably just ask for another
hug. And maybe a game of Candy Land.
Boy with a Pen.
Brett. That's his name. For authenticity's sake I'm telling you,
though you don't really need to know. But his name is Brett and I
met him in the summer of 2003. We worked together, at the chain
restaurant that I wont give you the name of, though I'm sure most
of you know it already. I thought he was gay when I started
working there. A delicate boy, bordering on short, with vaguely
bird-like features and very large blue eyes behind small square
frames (again with the glasses). Attractive, in a very WASPy New
England kind of way. But that's not the point.
We weren't close. We were barely friends, forming that
superficial bond between co-workers who yearn for stimulating
conversation to break up the monotony, but don't want to put in
the effort required in knowning someone outside their uniform.
We'd use each other, for a quick laugh or to make reference to
The Simpsons at any given opportunity. We'd bond over each
other's use of particularly savory multisyllabic words, he having
a degree in rhetoric, and I being a bit of a lexiphanic (see what
I did there?). Then we'd go our separate ways; I'd station myself
by the salad making station, continuously dipping croutons into
honey mustard dressing, Brett would do laps while singing along
to the Muzak and flipping a pen. Always flipping a pen.
I came to realize about four months into knowing him that I very
much loved the idea of Brett. Not with the boy, mind you, this
essay certainly isn't intended to be some, "Dear Diary. . .
" letter of confession in hopes that he one day stumbles
upon this site while searching for his name on Google. Though
while I'm thinking about it. . . BRETT AMBLER BRETT AMBLER BRETT
AMBLER. No, what I mean when I say that I "loved the idea of
Brett" is this: I hated my job, you see, hated it not in
that disgruntled postal worker, rifle in the belltower way. But
more in that run-down way where you know you don't enjoy
something, but habit has killed your resolve to do anything about
it. I didn't like working, but I worked myself into overtime each
week. I preferred not to be there, but I spent the majority of my
time in the building. I wanted a new job, but I worked too much
at this one to have time to look for another. Then, one day, in
the midst of my own personal rendition of "Sixteen
Tons" it occured to me that Brett made things better. I
looked forward to our little moments by the coffee makers. Hell,
I looked forward to getting there in the morning to talk to him.
The more his pen flipped, the more attached I became. I didn't
have a crush, I just. . . craved his conversations. Because they
made my days better. I don't know if it makes sense, but the
point I'm trying to make is this: not everything is platonic or
romantic. Not everything is love or like. Sometimes. . . .
sometimes it's just nice to have someone who can make your life
happier, just by showing up.
I moved home, and forgot to track down Brett's number before I
did. Maybe one day he will find this, he'll be so moved by these
couple of paragraphs that little animated hearts form over his
head, and suddenly we'll be the stars of a Nora Ephron romantic
comedy. More than likely he'll never see this, and I'll never
talk to him again. And that's okay. It makes me sad, of course,
and I do miss him. But I'll be sentimental and say that maybe
it's for the best. Maybe our friendship, borne in the walls of
that one crappy family restaurant, should stay there. Maybe I
love Brett because he makes me think fondly of a job I hated. Of
pointless conversations on lunch breaks, amidst overly shellacked
memorabilia stuck to the walls. Thinking of Brett makes me look
with a fresh coat of nostalgia at abrasive fellow employees, and
ridiculous customers who stick quarters into their slice of
cheesecake, just to get a free desert. He makes me think of
perennially unwashed aprons, overstuffed breakfast burritos, and
motor-mouthed food expiditers. And most of all he makes me think
of flipping pens. Always, flipping a pen.
If I were less of a writer, I might've started this post out by spewing some trite overdone bullshit about how amazing it is, the way one person can change your life without even trying. It's not amazing, it's the nature of our existence. We as people go through our lives, passing (or passing through) various other instances of humanity. Some of them come in like lambs and leave like lions, some of them are not much more than ghosts that leave the hair on your neck standing at attention. And some of them are mixed metaphors symbolizing my own literary shortcomings. But, if we're lucky, some of the instances stick.