James Joyce
A Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man
Since I was tall for my age, and had pubic hair (whew!) by the time I started seventh grade (Stan didn't and boy did he hate showering after P.E.), I was never conspicuously young for my class. So it wasn't until high school that I was "embarrassed" again by my age. Everyone I knew in my class high school got their driver's licenses, and started dating, when they were sophomores in high school. My junior year was almost half over before I was old enough to drive. That fact alone put me a little behind socially. Thus it was the fall of my senior year before I had the courage to ask out Marcia Stewart. Our Key Club Queen. The previous year's Class Homecoming Princess. The future head cheerleader and Homecoming Queen. A bold invite on my part that was accepted by Marcia. To the amazement and envy of all my friends.
I had insured my chances of her saying yes in a number of thoughtful, perhaps I could say plotful, ways. First, she was not "going steady." Second, I had figured out that if someone else had a date with her on say a Friday, he wouldn't ask her out for a subsequent Friday until the end of that date. Presumably that gave me an excellent chance of asking her out during the time period 13-8 days prior to the Friday I had in mind. Asking more than two weeks ahead of time was "too eager," and asking less than seven days ahead of time was too risky. I had only one chance. I'd never risk asking twice.
I surmised since she was a nice person, as well as stunningly beautiful, she'd have a harder time telling me no in person. Thus I wasn't about to risk asking her out over the phone over the weekend. So, I wouldn't start looking for an opportunity to ask her out until the Monday at school eleven days before the proposed date. I also knew better than to approach her in a group. As long as I "ran into" her when she was alone, no one else would have to know if she did turn me down. All my friends and I knew the daily migrating patterns of the five most beautiful girls on campus. We had girl watching down to a science. I knew my best opportunity would be at the end of nutrition when her usual friends headed towards the regular classrooms and Marcia headed by herself towards the "temporary" bungalows on the other side of the school quad. Even though I started watching for my opportunity on Monday, it was Thursday before I found her alone with enough time to pose the request.
Next week's football game? At San Diego High? Friday night? She'd love to. But. The house rule was that I'd have to meet her parents. And not the night of the date. Before.
The only reason I didn't absolutely hate that idea is that I guessed it was a restriction that had helped make her "available" to go with yours truly to said football game. So, on Monday evening, after the dinner hour, I drove to her home for the first time. Nervous. Very nervous. All those movies about class distinctions in high school, all those John Hughes' movies like Pretty in Pink and Breakfast Club are very accurate about the awkwardnesses of class differences. I was proud and confident of my family and home. But that her family had much more expensive cars and home did make me feel a little awkward. Not inferior. Just unsure. Such that when I parked on the long steep slope that led to their house, and when after my first attempt to use the emergency brake, my Chrysler started rolling back down the slope that led to their house, and after I pulled the car forward yet a few more inches and set the brake again, and for the moment it didn't roll, and I went inside the palatial house, and met her father, and met her mother, and passed their test, and had some assurance Marcia would accompany me to Friday's football game, a delight I had thought that could not be surpassed, I was even more delighted at the relief of returning to my car and finding that it had not rolled back down the driveway and into the street. Absolutely relieved. Perhaps astonished. Excited.
Friday night. The subtle use of Clearasil to hide that hint of adolescent acne near the chin. Old Spice deodorant. The not so subtle fragrance of English Leather cologne, the scent Alhambra's homecoming queen had recognized on Eddie, (Only years later did she reveal she recognized it because she hated it. So it gose.) Penny loafers. White socks. Farah slacks. Gant shirt. Aging Chrysler. Hopefulness. Setting out on the road.
I was barely out of our neighborhood when a black cat darted across the street in front of my car. I'm not making this up. A black cat. I slammed on the brakes although even if I had stepped on the gas I wouldn't have actually run it over. But there I was stopped in the middle of a residential street considering turning around so that a black cat would not have crossed my path. Reassuring myself that I wasn't superstitious, I proceeded in the same direction. More cautious. Only sixteen. Presumably of sound mind. This time I parked on a flat spot at the bottom of Marcia's hill.
Marcia answered the door. A vision of loveliness. She called goodbye to her parents. No new interview. Sheepishly I mentioned I'd parked at the bottom of the hill. She lived off a very busy street. Mild perspiration as I waited long minutes for a clear opportunity to make a left turn. Small talk until we reached the vicinity of the stadium. Had Eddie deliberately given me wrong directions? The stadium. Narrow streets built for less traffic. Finally a parking space. Parallel park. First try. Nice job. Just in time for the opening kick off.
After nearly three quarters the game was scoreless. On a Mission Bay punt an opposing player touched the ball down and walked away. Free ball. Mission Bay recovers. Referee missed the play. Darn! Darn! Helplessness. Frustration. No hand holding here. San Diego romps in the fourth quarter. We waited to leave until after the singing of the alma mater.
We returned to the car, which was parked on the very small dead end street. Someone who had parked after me had boxed me in. And I was driving a very large Chrysler. After much inefficient and perhaps unnecessary fussing with the steering wheel I turned the car around. There were parked cars on both sides of the dead end street as well as on the larger street we needed to turn on. Traffic was exceedingly heavy, but at least I only needed to turn right with the traffic; not left across traffic. But it, too, was a very narrow street. Finally a small break in traffic. I made the quick right turn. Whack! I scraped exactly forty dollars worth of chrome off the station wagon parked on the corner. Anger. Fear. Embarrassment. I pulled into a parking space ahead of the station wagon. I hit my bumper again on the very high curb. Extreme embarrassment. One way to make a distinct impression on the school's most beautiful girl. A father, mother, children arrived at their now damaged car. I apologized. Gave the requisite information. Must have looked addled because the mother kept asking if I was okay. Back to my car. Marcia wanted to know if I was ok. Did I see the people crossing the street as I drove back down the now less trafficked street?
At a loss. Unsettled. Wary. Apologetic. Profusely apologetic. Drove her towards home. The long way. By my church. The way I knew best. Vaguely reassuring. Still apologizing. Said good night. Went home. Brooding about the night's events. To bed. Sleep.
Curiously, a few days after I wrote the precursor to this volume, a third person piece turned in to Mrs. Coleman's English class. I dubbed it, "An Incident From the Life of Clod Jackson." I showed it to Marcia. I honestly do think she liked it; but I still never asked her out again.