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I didn't want to rewrite this, so this is copied from an early spring blog entry of mine:
I'm sure I'm not alone in this: do you ever have moments when something completely innocuous triggers memories you haven't thought about in years?
I say this because as I was out shopping--rather aimlessly, I might add--for food yesterday, I happened to wander down the soft drink aisle, and there I spied--and I didn't think they made it, anymore--cherry 7-Up. Gasp! Shock! Awe! Horror! That one soft drink alone takes me back to being 17 and having the very first real love of my teenage life. So I thought I'd just ramble down memory lane some and take you along. You're welcome to gag in disgust if you like at the potential for cutesy-ness.
His name was Tom Lightle--and I ain't changing no names 'cause no one's innocent--and he was two years older than me. I met him on Halloween downtown, and truth be told, it was his really his friend Aubrey that I had a crush on. Aubrey was in a gorilla suit, I think I was just dressed in my usual goth regalia, and Tom went as a prison bitch. (Any wonder I'm attracted to perversity?) For some reason, Tom and I ended up talking for a long period of time, and he hoped to see me around even after my friends dragged me to lamest Halloween party in existence. I thought he was cute and funny, but again, I was 17 and didn't know any better.
Fast forward to a month or so later. There were tons of late night phone calls--you know, those earnest adolescent ones where everything has meaning? He worked in an vet's office and would drive a good ways into the suburbs to hang out with me at my folks' house. He always brought small presents for me.
Namely, Cherry 7-Up and Camel lights. Ah, nicotine and sugar. Isn't that what young love is comprised of? Our entire relationship lasted through winter so my recollection of those days is tinged with the sort of grayish-peach sky that comes with those months, with woodsmoke and incense and cold leather. Two punker kids wanting to learn everything about each other because too much was not enough.
He was an artist; a damn good one, too. He painted/drew these strange landscapes. I would sit in his bedroom for hours watching him work. He did the same. He used to watch me clack away on this decrepit old typewriter I used to have. With the door closed, Tom Waits playing like a mad carnival, he would sit on the bed, thumb through 'zines, and ask me about whatever story I was typing.
That Christmas he bought me a silver cross pendant inlaid with a single amethyst. I don't remember what I bought him. I met his family, they all adored me, and at the end of the evening he, his sister, and I sat at a Waffle House strung out on some sort of painkillers. (Hey, I was young and a Goth living in a shitty town. What did you think we did for entertainment?) I remember thinking all that time of a line from Edgar Allan Poe: "We loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee."
When I did sleep with him, it was like touching fire, touching heat, and the impression of that passion has lingered with me still.
But young love doesn't last. It's not supposed to.
One New Year's Eve, he went out with his friends, I went out with mine. My friend Megan and I dropped a good deal of acid and things just went weird from there. A couple of days later I sensed an unhappiness in his voice and knew in my heart that it was over. Just like that. As clean an ending as a beginning. It was the first time I knew that a heart could break. Could shatter neatly in two.
We saw each other from time to time after that. Always in crowds, or at parties, but we never really spoke again.
So...back to the soda aisle. I saw the Cherry 7-Up, I bought it, and upon tasting it, was reminded what the mouth of a 19-year-old boy tasted like. That sweetness, that sorrow, that one moment bottled up inside.
See? I'm more of a softy than you think.. |
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