Love in the Wings
Oct. 8th, 2012 04:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfieldThis piece was my runner-up. It’s clearly more of a traditional memoir than the macaroni & cheese piece and is probably the most “relatable” of my three drafts. A few people liked this one best, including my wife, and one other person who argued that its “pathos and bittersweetness … exert a stronger pull.”
Then again, one person found it rather pedestrian, saying, “I can't even get through [it] without checking my Facebook page every other word I'm so bored by it.”
This one eventually lost out because I thought the ending was kind of weak and the overall tone was more wistful than lighthearted.
The version below was edited to exceed the original 1,000 word limit (currently 1,076) and includes pictures..
This is going to sound like one of those stories about the crazy things that a guy will do for a girl. It’s true that I would never have been in that mess if not for The Girl, and it’s true that this was just the first in a series of events seemingly choreographed by The Girl to destroy me. But the real villain of this story is the spotlight, and how hot it burns.
In the summer after my junior year of college, I was smitten with a woman who held a leadership position on the alumni outreach club, the primary purpose of which is basically kissing up to major donors – the kind of dedicated philanthropists who endow professorships and have memorial urinals named after them.
Since I was pursuing my own special kind of “targeted outreach” to The Girl, I signed up as an auxiliary volunteer for the annual June “Thank You, Alumni! Say, We Could Really Use a New Podiatry Wing” Event. For me, this pretty much meant inconsequential jobs like stuffing gift bags and scheming possible places to sneak away and make out.
On Saturday afternoon, however, we were to host the keynote luncheon on the main quad and I was tasked with supporting the First Aid and cooling station. The temperature was expected to touch 95 degrees that day, with humidity approaching the consistency of plasma, and the organizers were concerned that some of the more elderly alumni might die before they had a chance to amend their wills. But before I had the chance to nurse any wealthy benefactors back to mere infirmity, The Girl came to me with a unique opportunity.
At the luncheon we were to unveil a brand-new costume for the university mascot, the Yellowjacket – a costume subsidized by alumni contributions. But the volunteer mascot performer was ill, or had perhaps melted in his car on the way over. “Would you be willing to fill in?” she asked. I quickly accepted, the way a dog quickly accepts a ride to the vet.
Not only was I saving The Girl’s day, but it was a chance to recapture the glory of my youth as a drama nerd. At the risk of immodesty, I confess I was a pretty big deal back in the day, bringing almost inappropriate levels of sensuality to the role of Nathan Detroit in “Guys and Dolls.” But alas, after high school I was scared away from the collegiate theater program by all the cigarette smoking and artistic integrity.
My adrenaline surged as I imagined delivering the mascot performance of a lifetime, so impressing my audience that they would insist on repeat Yellowjacket performances, propelling me to a full-time Yellowjacket gig, which I would then parlay into a guest Yellowjacket appearance on a Sportscenter commercial and, ultimately, a successful run the U.S. Senate.
And then put on the brand-new costume for the first time.
The head alone was 25 pounds of thick fiberglass and black fur, attached a by body harness – like a giant athletic supporter – presumabily designed to stabilize the head for gymnastic maneuvers, linebacker collisions, etc. The Girl, along with the school’s alumni affairs representative, appeared baffled by the various bands and buckles as they strapped me in.
Then they wrapped me in a thick polyester-and-mohair jumpsuit, along with puffy yellow mittens and black slippers. Already the headpiece was getting stuffy, but I could see and breathe clearly enough through the black mesh eyeballs. And what I saw in the mirror was something less than the heroic image I had envisioned.
While I was nominally a “yellowjacket,” there was nothing at all fearsome about me, except possibly the long, pointed “stinger” protruding from my headpiece at eye level. I looked more like a fat bumblebee, a cross between “The Fly” and Jack-in-the-Box. The only sensuality I evoked was a mild itchy sensation.
The alumni affairs guy gave me three rules: (1) don’t break, tear, soil or otherwise damage the suit. (2) Absolutely no gestures that might be construed as lewd, violent, offensive or otherwise inconsistent with the university’s family-friendly mission and spirit. And (3), no talking, in keeping with mascot tradition, although onomatopoeic “buzzing” would be permitted.
They carted me out to the luncheon tent around dessert time with great fanfare. As the alma mater played, I sprinted down the aisle entreating high-fives from the alumni, who sat unmoved and mildly confused.
The Girl introduced me personally to several very important individuals and couples, to which I could only respond with enthusiastic pantomimes like “thumbs up!”, “put up your dukes!”, “my arms are crossed!” and “let’s do the Twist!”
The alumni response was tepid, perhaps because they were stuffed with salmon and actively hickory-smoking under the midday sun. Desperate to raise the energy level, I started dancing with some of the children in attendance.
My sweating quickly became more profuse and my breathing more labored as my dance moves slowed to the point where I was simply swaying back and forth. It wasn’t until I stopped dancing that I realized how dizzy I was. It gradually occurred to me that I might be in some physical danger, but out of actorial professionalism I was reluctant to vocalize it or gesticulate too wildly. The last thing I remember is raising my hand, as if to say “Hey, wait a minute.” Unfortunately, one of the larger, stronger kids misunderstood this as “High five!”
I woke up at the First Aid tent, with The Girl pouring cold water over me. It’s still unclear whether I had heat “stroke” or “exhaustion” or whatever; all I know is that I was so foul and sweaty, I couldn’t determine if I had in fact soiled the costume.
Glancing inside the giant helmet/death-mask steaming next to me, I saw a small black lump inside the crown. A closer look revealed a battery compartment and an on/off switch with the label “ventilation fan.” The Girl looked at me, said “Oops, sorry,” and smiled her get-out-of-jail-free smile.
We dated for a year or so after that and had some laughs. With her devious charm she my heart aflame, until the damned thing was burnt to cinders. It occurs to me now that our whole relationship – like my acting career – was born and died of too much heat.
Sadly, the heart has no ventilation fan. And some of us will just never be cool.
Then again, one person found it rather pedestrian, saying, “I can't even get through [it] without checking my Facebook page every other word I'm so bored by it.”
This one eventually lost out because I thought the ending was kind of weak and the overall tone was more wistful than lighthearted.
The version below was edited to exceed the original 1,000 word limit (currently 1,076) and includes pictures..
This is going to sound like one of those stories about the crazy things that a guy will do for a girl. It’s true that I would never have been in that mess if not for The Girl, and it’s true that this was just the first in a series of events seemingly choreographed by The Girl to destroy me. But the real villain of this story is the spotlight, and how hot it burns.
In the summer after my junior year of college, I was smitten with a woman who held a leadership position on the alumni outreach club, the primary purpose of which is basically kissing up to major donors – the kind of dedicated philanthropists who endow professorships and have memorial urinals named after them.
Since I was pursuing my own special kind of “targeted outreach” to The Girl, I signed up as an auxiliary volunteer for the annual June “Thank You, Alumni! Say, We Could Really Use a New Podiatry Wing” Event. For me, this pretty much meant inconsequential jobs like stuffing gift bags and scheming possible places to sneak away and make out.
On Saturday afternoon, however, we were to host the keynote luncheon on the main quad and I was tasked with supporting the First Aid and cooling station. The temperature was expected to touch 95 degrees that day, with humidity approaching the consistency of plasma, and the organizers were concerned that some of the more elderly alumni might die before they had a chance to amend their wills. But before I had the chance to nurse any wealthy benefactors back to mere infirmity, The Girl came to me with a unique opportunity.
At the luncheon we were to unveil a brand-new costume for the university mascot, the Yellowjacket – a costume subsidized by alumni contributions. But the volunteer mascot performer was ill, or had perhaps melted in his car on the way over. “Would you be willing to fill in?” she asked. I quickly accepted, the way a dog quickly accepts a ride to the vet.
Not only was I saving The Girl’s day, but it was a chance to recapture the glory of my youth as a drama nerd. At the risk of immodesty, I confess I was a pretty big deal back in the day, bringing almost inappropriate levels of sensuality to the role of Nathan Detroit in “Guys and Dolls.” But alas, after high school I was scared away from the collegiate theater program by all the cigarette smoking and artistic integrity.
My adrenaline surged as I imagined delivering the mascot performance of a lifetime, so impressing my audience that they would insist on repeat Yellowjacket performances, propelling me to a full-time Yellowjacket gig, which I would then parlay into a guest Yellowjacket appearance on a Sportscenter commercial and, ultimately, a successful run the U.S. Senate.
And then put on the brand-new costume for the first time.
The head alone was 25 pounds of thick fiberglass and black fur, attached a by body harness – like a giant athletic supporter – presumabily designed to stabilize the head for gymnastic maneuvers, linebacker collisions, etc. The Girl, along with the school’s alumni affairs representative, appeared baffled by the various bands and buckles as they strapped me in.
Then they wrapped me in a thick polyester-and-mohair jumpsuit, along with puffy yellow mittens and black slippers. Already the headpiece was getting stuffy, but I could see and breathe clearly enough through the black mesh eyeballs. And what I saw in the mirror was something less than the heroic image I had envisioned.
While I was nominally a “yellowjacket,” there was nothing at all fearsome about me, except possibly the long, pointed “stinger” protruding from my headpiece at eye level. I looked more like a fat bumblebee, a cross between “The Fly” and Jack-in-the-Box. The only sensuality I evoked was a mild itchy sensation.
The alumni affairs guy gave me three rules: (1) don’t break, tear, soil or otherwise damage the suit. (2) Absolutely no gestures that might be construed as lewd, violent, offensive or otherwise inconsistent with the university’s family-friendly mission and spirit. And (3), no talking, in keeping with mascot tradition, although onomatopoeic “buzzing” would be permitted.
They carted me out to the luncheon tent around dessert time with great fanfare. As the alma mater played, I sprinted down the aisle entreating high-fives from the alumni, who sat unmoved and mildly confused.
The Girl introduced me personally to several very important individuals and couples, to which I could only respond with enthusiastic pantomimes like “thumbs up!”, “put up your dukes!”, “my arms are crossed!” and “let’s do the Twist!”
The alumni response was tepid, perhaps because they were stuffed with salmon and actively hickory-smoking under the midday sun. Desperate to raise the energy level, I started dancing with some of the children in attendance.
My sweating quickly became more profuse and my breathing more labored as my dance moves slowed to the point where I was simply swaying back and forth. It wasn’t until I stopped dancing that I realized how dizzy I was. It gradually occurred to me that I might be in some physical danger, but out of actorial professionalism I was reluctant to vocalize it or gesticulate too wildly. The last thing I remember is raising my hand, as if to say “Hey, wait a minute.” Unfortunately, one of the larger, stronger kids misunderstood this as “High five!”
I woke up at the First Aid tent, with The Girl pouring cold water over me. It’s still unclear whether I had heat “stroke” or “exhaustion” or whatever; all I know is that I was so foul and sweaty, I couldn’t determine if I had in fact soiled the costume.
Glancing inside the giant helmet/death-mask steaming next to me, I saw a small black lump inside the crown. A closer look revealed a battery compartment and an on/off switch with the label “ventilation fan.” The Girl looked at me, said “Oops, sorry,” and smiled her get-out-of-jail-free smile.
We dated for a year or so after that and had some laughs. With her devious charm she my heart aflame, until the damned thing was burnt to cinders. It occurs to me now that our whole relationship – like my acting career – was born and died of too much heat.
Sadly, the heart has no ventilation fan. And some of us will just never be cool.
