Welcome to Fred (The Fred Books) (12 page)

Mac wasn’t much at preaching the gospel, but he was a pretty good hand at living it.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
After a few weeks of high school, I decided that the time had come for drastic measures. In a bold move, I modified my wardrobe in one clean sweep to nothing but Levi’s. And, in a stroke of brilliance that I later regretted, I went directly to the office before first period, canceled my business class and transferred to Ag!

In band I was telling Jolene about my schedule change when I stopped in midsentence, unable to speak. Jolene followed my gaze across the room to a girl with short brown hair, green eyes, and a halo hovering over her head. Well, maybe Jolene didn’t see the halo, but I did.

“Hello?” Jolene looked at me. I didn’t say anything. “Is this the Warren Stare-Down Open? What’s yer handicap?”

“Wha . . .”

“That’s Becky Tuttle. Don’t you know her?”

I shook my head. The rest of the hour was a blur. In the hall I stood nonchalantly next to her and gauged her size. I thought my arm would fit very nicely around her shoulders. The very thought gave it spasms and I dropped my books.

Becky was a year younger, which meant we didn’t have any other classes together. A lesser man might have been daunted and abandoned the enterprise right there, but I was consumed with a passion that laughed at such petty obstacles. I made another trip to the office to change my art class to typing. This strategy ultimately proved to be a good one. Although it didn’t help me get to first base with Becky, I did learn how to type.

Actually, it’s amazing that I learned to type at all, considering the fact that I spent more time looking at Becky than the Gregg typing chart on the wall. The keys on the typewriter had no letters on them. We had to look at the chart on the wall to find out where the letters were. I never did memorize the keyboard, but I memorized every detail of every visible feature Becky possessed. When she wasn’t looking, I stared at her with such intensity that I’m surprised it didn’t change her hair color.

I studied her like I had discovered a new element on the periodic table. I memorized her full name, address, phone number, class schedule, birthday, social security number, favorite color, favorite perfume, shoe size, everything. I would have memorized her boiling point, melting point, specific gravity, and density, but the information wasn’t available. Through the journal entries I made while sequestered in the Fortress of Solitude, I practically kept a notebook on her. She was as documented as an endangered species.

But not all fools rush in where angels fear to tread. Some more cautious fools like myself simply tiptoe around the perimeter and stare through the fence.

Coward that I was, the thought of revealing my affection terrified me. Why would this beautiful girl who dated football players want to spend time with me, a pale, skinny nerd who couldn’t keep his hair out of his eyes? So, each day I sat across the aisle in class, burning with such passion that I began to wonder why my desk wasn’t reduced to a pile of ashes, with me sitting atop the smoldering heap like a Buddhist monk.

I got most of my ideas about love from the same source that I got my ideas about everything else, from literature. I gleaned examples of romance from tales of chivalry and unrequited love, noble deeds done in the name of fair maidens who only heard confessions of love from the dying lips of a chaste and pure knight. I was at least chaste, if not pure, since I had no other choice, but I couldn’t envision any noble deed to be done on Becky’s behalf. There were no dragons in the halls of Warren High (except for maybe the librarian), no black knights to capture her and prompt me to a heroic rescue. And if there were, what would I oppose them with, my slide rule? Plus, I hoped to experience the affections of the fair maiden in some context other than while dying. When it came to love, I preferred the requited variety.

I dismissed chivalry as unrealistic and turned to the Romantic poets for source material. Here was passion with a vengeance and in a context more suited to my personal style—effusive script. In the afternoon sanctuary of the Fortress of Solitude, I flooded my journal with freshets of sentimental scribbling. Fortunately, none of this material has survived or I might be tempted to include samples, which would get my poetic license revoked. It was maudlin beyond belief. I wouldn’t dream of boring you with it. You would be amazed and disgusted by it. Absolutely out of the question. Well, I guess a short, little sample wouldn’t hurt.

Dare I bid compare thee to a rosebud?
It would be a slight to thy fair beauty.
Though the bud would mayhap bloom and flower
And its beauty far exceed the former,
One day it must fain decay and wither,
Falling from the zenith of its glory.

Thy fair countenance by contrast only
May increase, more fair than flower living,
As thy bud unfolds into a blossom
And from glory unto glory further
Rise above the plane of earthly beauty
’Til thou rival all of heaven’s angels.

Pretty disgusting stuff. But, eventually, the Romantic poets also failed to meet the test of reality. The excessive hyperbole made me wince. No human female could match the standards they set in their verse. Or if one could, I would never have the nerve to ask her out. In their world, no girl ever burped or suffered from zits or had an accent so thick you could grease wheel bearings with it or went through half a day of school with an ink mark on her nose or stepped on her shoelace and tumbled in a cascade of textbooks down the bleachers. How could I write syrupy verse if I was in love with such a girl?

I moved on to ’60s psychedelic.

ykceb becky echo ohce
molten passion dripping into
outside flawlessness inside transcendence
contour quintessent form
embodiment archetype
echo ohce ykceb becky

I had serious doubts that Becky would understand how this expressed my strong feelings for her. I wasn’t sure I understood it myself.

I experimented with an alternative, ’70s realism.

Though I know all of that rouge and powder
Hides from human view a zit still growing.
Though I’ve seen you pick your nose with vigor
When you thought that no one else was watching.

Though your mother’s short and fat and ugly
And so one day you will surely follow.
Though your hair is straight and thin and greasy
And you supplement your form with padding.

Still I love you as I love no other.
Love has blinded me to every blemish.
I can only pray that in full fairness
It will do the same to you for my sake.

I shrank from offering such frank confessions of love as well. Somehow, I didn’t think it would have the desired effect. Evidently, in love, honesty wasn’t always the best policy. Which would I have to sacrifice, my integrity or my passion?

I finally resorted to Hollywood for my images. I would lay back in the Fortress and daydream soft-focus, slow-motion scenes of rolling meadows and flower-saturated fields where Becky romped through glistening brooks in rustling white lace and an enormous floppy straw hat. The radio provided an unlikely sound track of Doc Watson and “Dr. Zhivago.” Although these fantasies were as impractical as chivalry, they were contemporary and therefore seemed more attainable. These were the meditations I practiced in my tree-house shrine to romance. Then, each day I returned to school and slowly burned down the stew of my passion into a thick, dark rueroux, strong and potent.

As the year wore on, I became more desperate to declare my devotion. When Valentine’s Day drew near, I searched for a relatively risk-free method of expression and finally decided on the old secret-admirer ploy. The first step was to find the right card: a perfect combination of wit and affection. I had to dig through quite a stack before I found the winner. In the reject heap were such jewels as:

Finally, I came across the card that was unmistakably right. On the front was a drawing of a dumpy old woman with her hair in a bandanna, Aunt Jemima style, sitting at a kitchen table with a shy, goofy expression of infatuation. Striding seductively through the doorway was an archetypical, dumpy plumber serenading her on a tuba. In the corner sat a wide-eyed dog with claws extended and ears pointing straight up. Inside it read, “Weave your magic spell, my darling, for I am a slave of your love.”

I withdrew to the Fortress of Solitude to compose an irresistibly romantic inscription. After several false starts, during which I endured a medley of Farin Young and Caruso, I finally settled on, “You are the music of my soul. Love, your secret admirer.” I sealed the envelope, slapped a stamp on it, and put it in the mail.

I waited days for some sign that Becky had received an unexpected valentine. Finally, when I had all but given up, I saw her walking down the hall with the envelope. Her expression did little to inspire hope, because it was a picture of confusion. She came up to my locker and looked at me for a second. Then she opened up the envelope. “Did you send me an empty envelope in the mail?”

I looked down through the screen of hair that fell between us and, sure enough, it was empty. “Uh . . . no. Why would I do that?”

“But this looks like yer handwritin’.” She flipped it over and, sure enough, she was right again.

I decided total denial was the only way out. “No, that’s not my handwriting. Well, it looks a little like mine, but I didn’t send it.” I eyed her closely for signs of a prank. “Why would somebody send an empty envelope? Are you sure nothing was in it?”

“Yeah. I opened it myself, and it was empty.”

“Huh. Go figure,” I said weakly. What else was there to say? I endured the rest of the day and the long bus ride home in agony. I raced out to the Fortress of Solitude and dug out the ammo case. There it was, sitting right on top. I couldn’t send it now or she would know for sure that I was the fool who had sent the first envelope. I tore up the card in frustration and burnt it—a sacrifice on the altar of unrequited love.

I now despaired of finding a way to reveal my devotion to Becky without risking a humiliating rejection. In desperation I decided on a last attempt at the secret-admirer approach. I chose the typing class as the most anonymous route.

Following the form in my Gregg typing book, I composed a simple letter of recommendation as follows.

March 2, 1971

Becky Tuttle
Row 2, Thord Third Desk form the Leftt
Room 122
Warren High School

Dear Miss Tuttle;:

I am writin gthis letter in refereence to a certaing admirer who is seeking a position currrently available as the center of yor affection.I have known this admirerer intimately for 15 years and can perosnally vouch fpr his character. heHe is dedicated and loyal and showzs a commemdable attention to detial, particularlly where you are concernd. he would be willing to spend overtime perforing his duties as youer ardent suitor .
if you have nor not filled this positino yet,, I hpoe you will give seruios consideratoin to this admirer. If you are intersted in my recommendation, leave a not to that affect in yuor type-writer and I will contaact you in hte newar futur.e

Yours truely,

Anonymous

We had typing immediately after lunch, so the next day I sneaked down the hall during lunch and put the note in Becky’s typewriter. When the bell rang, I hurried to class and was the first one in the room. I glanced at the note when I passed by Becky’s desk. It wasn’t there! I went to my own desk, dropped my books in a heap, and scurried over to Becky’s desk. The note was nowhere to be seen. Students began arriving, and I was forced to abandon my search.
It wasn’t until I was leaving the class that I discovered its fate. I was walking out and glanced at the bulletin board. There it was—with a D– in red at the top. All the mistakes were marked and at the bottom it read: