The
only thing that ever got in our way of truly falling in love was all of her
many boyfriends. I existed, to her, in
a stasis between her most honest love for me and the physical definition of who
she was supposed to be in-love with.
All her boyfriends were the rough, stupid jock types. (Not a
stereo-type, believe me. I have met too
many wonderful, intelligent jock types to know that stupid is as stupid
does.) I never understood her passion
for jerks who treat her with the littlest respect, and gave their own trophies,
trucks, and “buddies” more regard. I
always thought that attracted her because her father acted distant to the
family, mired in work and business, and seemed to lack a backbone. I met him
only once in the five years I was around Jennifer. He would later seek a divorce.
This would be a tent of turmoil for Jennifer, as the miniature version
of the civil war replayed itself in another family.
I
always talked to Jennifer’s mom, who liked me very much, unlike the other men
in Jennifer’s life. She would always
say so, to Jennifer, in front of me.
"He's so much nicer than [what’s his face]!" I would give Jennifer rides home from
school, when she had no other ride, since we both had to stay late for band
rehearsal during the football season. I
always thought of Jennifer as the most beautiful girl on the flag-corps. I would stay for a while at her house, we
would talk, and laugh. Her mother was
always pushing her to grab my arm and hang on to me for good. I was young then, but I could tell that her
mom knew that I had in me the kind of love that was based on the person
inside. She was always telling me that,
if she were younger, she would have snatched me up. I always wanted Jennifer to grab me. I waited to be grabbed, and remained the nice-guy to the last.
When
I was a junior, and she a sophomore, one of the mothers decided to throw a
party before the Friday night football game, and get a huge group of us ripping
drunk. It was a fun party, I suppose.
The thought I couldn’t get out of my mind was how hard I was trying to be with
my dear friend Jennifer. I was wishing
that the moment would arise when we could finally kiss again, and be done with
the tippy-toe situation our relationship had fallen into since she booted her
previous boyfriend. To me, the timing
seemed perfect. Then again, there is
always the woman’s prerogative. It
seemed that I was the safe bet I had always been, but the tuba player, freshly
transferred from places elsewhere, and was the flavor of the day. When I couldn’t find her, and the bedroom
door was locked, I needed no other hints as to where I stood. I decided to take the pint of Southern
Comfort, stand out on the back porch and smoke.
When we all had to go to the game,
many were stumbling, and most were busted at the game for intoxication. I was lucky, as I well practiced at arriving
at the game drunk. My part-time job at
McDonalds had come with an unexpected perk: cocaine. As I drove Jennifer, and her new lust to the game, I did a few
lines as they made out in the back. I
only did enough to cut through the alcohol and straighten myself up for the
game. I had to pass the staring eyes of the band directors who were wondering
where all these stumbling children were coming from, and why they looked so familiar. I felt I should have been wearing my
marching uniform, as it was a tuxedo styled suit that only lacked the
limousine-drivers cap.
Next Page: