In the beginning it was Dominique Price. If there was any factor in my life
that afforded me some normalcy in relation to other kids, it was the crush I had
for her. She was my “Winnie Cooper” only with a better tan and larger breasts.
Though she was my proverbial “girl next door,” she had in fact not lived
directly next door but across the street. To get to her, I’d have to cross that
dividing line of sparse traffic and emotional distance. Behold the symbolism,
and while you’re there, queue the music.
"It was safe to say that 'awe-inspiring support in the
clutch' was not one of my mother’s skill sets."
The minor symbolism about
Dominique doesn’t really make her significant—I just like to think
that’s why she has yet to fade from memory. The truth is that we
never dated, hadn’t really embraced in any adolescent passion, and
were rather distant in the later years when I met up with her again.
Perhaps it just feels nice to reminisce about a crush as I’d imagine
“normal” kids would. I mean, despite her beauty (which grew with the
passing years actually), Dominique and I truly only shared
awkward moments of intimacy. She’s the only woman to leave me in
stitches (physically), and she incited the incident that would
instill a lifelong aversion to sharing personal issues with my
mother. It’s pretty safe to say she had no idea what effect she had
on my life. I’d imagine that makes her all the safer as well.
First of all, I had always been an “early adopter” in both social
interactions and technology. When it came to approaching girls about how I felt,
I was a pioneer amongst my peers. Armed with a charm composed entirely of wit
and conversational congeniality, I openly admitted my crush to Dominique back at
age 11. It was a dynamic moment in adolescent dialogue, if not human discourse
itself. Sitting beside her on the school bus, the scene was set for a move
critics would later call “picturesque” and “clearly ahead of its time.” I
believe the dialogue went something like…
Me: So, I like you a lot.
Her: *Quizzical look*
Me: I mean, I really like you.
Her: *Noticeable flushing of cheeks. Trademark giggle of shyness.*
[Together]: *Awkward pause*
Yours Truly: So, yeah....
An instant conversational classic, as you can see. Something tells me that my
audience wasn’t quite expecting such a stellar performance. One might infer that
perhaps such awkward intimacy would prove rational grounds for her later hitting
me in the head with her purse, resulting in her playful yet awkward smile to
reconfigure into that of abject terror. Indeed, dear reader, she managed to open
the essence of my heart and
the scalp on my skull—oh, that we might all be so lucky. Between her leading
me by the arm to her house, having a relative call the hospital, and apologizing
for the mistake (apparently, she mistook me for another possible trauma victim),
I’d say I came out of that situation better than I entered. Eleven stitches
later it would become clear to me just how much love, in fact, hurts.
After such a fateful moment in our relationship, I’d encounter intense
emotions (oh, the drama of grammar school) a year later when Gerald, my best
friend at the time, would later ask me for permission to “go with her.” Such
vibrant youthful terminology merits an exclamation point (as seen in “Vamanos!”)
and a swing band accompaniment. Instead, it merely meant he’d get to utter lines
similar to the dialogue above but to an audience somewhat more eager to embrace
his body of work.
I admired his dedication to our friendship (though I’d yet to assess how him
even considering the opportunity was a
breach of Man Law protocol). But since my testes had yet to drop, I gave him
the go-ahead. Man Law wouldn’t be applicable for another 3 years. If only I had
aimed a little higher, I could have shot myself in the face instead of the foot.
Remarkably, the loss of a crush to a friend wasn’t really what made this
situation so memorable. What stood out was the response my mother gave upon me
confiding my inner turmoil: “That’s what you get.”
It was safe to say that “awe-inspiring support in the clutch” was not one of
my mother’s skill sets. Though the “tuff-love” demeanor her response exuded
might indicate a personality-strengthening exercise, such was not my mother’s
intention. She would later confirm this by inquiring, “Well, what would you have
liked me to have said?” Way to phone in the support, Mom. I do give her kudos
for being around to “phone it in” before my very eyes. My father would take that
expression literally and thus call annually. Regardless whether my mom was
inquiring rhetorically or not, I stand by the following preferred maternal
reactions:
1. Something supportive.
2. Something critical and the accompanying discussion on how to handle similar
situations in the future.
3. Something indicative of her acknowledging my distress.
4. Overall, anything other than nonchalantly reconfirming the causal chain.
Something tells me that I had a firm grasp of what occurred and how. I recall
feeling as if I was let down. I know I gave Gerald “permission,” but his gesture
was more customary than requisite. I doubt a refusal on my behalf would produce
anything less than additional attention to the attraction between him and her.
In retrospect, I’d have looked like both a dick and a sore loser too. Instead, I
was just shit out of luck and disappointed that my mom offered less support than
Pamela Anderson’s training bra. My father had me “flying without a net” after he
left us years prior. There was hardly any source of support whatsoever. Perhaps
it’s peculiar that I didn’t need motivation to achieve the
extraordinary—instead, my instincts merely sought to minimize emotional scar
tissue. Besides, if I was going to become some manner of prodigy, I’d have to
find inspiration elsewhere. The well from which my parents may have once sipped
was tapped dry.
Here’s a little background on my folks. They married early, separated early,
divorced late, and remarried even later… to other people. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Since my mom got custody, I got a front-row seat for the ensuing “battle of the
suitors,” or what I’d later describe as “Guess Who’s Coming (but Not Necessarily
to Dinner).” Oh, this epic dating ritual of single parents hints at why the
aftermath is far more harrowing than the divorce itself.
As you may imagine, my parent’s inability to forge healthy adult
relationships should have tipped me off during the advice scenario above. What
can I say? I was a sucker at 11. But that phase could only last 20 years or so,
right? Unfortunately for my naiveté though, I left home two years later. Of
course, that’s where my lofty aspirations of romanticism fastened their
seatbelts, returned their trays and seats to the upright position, and
began their descent towards reality.
