Rabbit1
08-24-2006, 03:50 AM
Tell us about your first date....where did you go, what did you do, describe your partner....etc....give as many details as possible. After you have written your assignment (no time limit) please PM me that you have finished it.
Catch Me When I Fall
Hello, my name is Jessica, and I’m a recovering redneck. Okay, so maybe I’m not a redneck – I’m much too eccentric for that, but I was darned close to becoming one.
I come from a very conservative, tiny town in the middle of nowhere, Oregon. It was a town where people judged you by the way you looked and what church you attended, rather than the strength of your character. I taught Bible school in the summers, attended Bible camp, was a Girl Scout. Oddly enough, though, I also learned to shoot a gun at age nine, mix alcoholic drinks at age twelve, to smoke at fourteen. Typical rebellion, right? Maybe. My best friends were poor as church mice, from single-parent families, and were social outcasts; the very antithesis of myself – rich, two parents (four, if you counted my step-parents, which I did), semi-popular. Did I also mention I have epilepsy? Yeah, that did wonders for my social life.
I wasn’t allowed to date. I was allowed to go with friends (all girls, of course) out to the movies or to school dances. No one-on-one dates. I wasn’t old enough, my parents said. Okay, I thought…it’s not like there was anyone in that town that interested me anyway – the boys were either Future Farmers of America or they were jocks. At least, that’s how I rationalized it. Deep down, I wondered who would want the freak? Looking back, I think it was my parents’ (okay, my mother’s) way of keeping me from making the same mistakes, and winding up getting hurt. But the one thing that the “no dating” rule didn’t help – I still got hurt. Only I had no one to run to, no haven from the storm.
So, when the world tipped on its axis, I had no support. My step-father had a nervous breakdown and we went bankrupt. We lost our house and had to move to “The Big City” in order for my mother to have more working opportunities. We stopped going to church; we became insular, isolated. As a result of this, my mother relied on me more and more to take care of the house and my sister when I wasn’t in school. My reward for being so responsible and helpful and supportive? Dating.
Yes! I’d hit a gold mine!
No…wait. Dating meant that I would have to have a boyfriend, right? Didn’t have one of them. I didn’t know how to have a boyfriend. Didn’t particularly want one, either, come right down to it. I was rather cynical about the whole love/like/relationship thing. Love meant pain, meant vulnerability, meant hurting. I wanted nothing to do with that. Not then. Ben was that way, too. Maybe that’s why Ben and I hit it off so well.
Ben was a sophomore at my new school. I met him through one of my friends in art class. He was incredibly, amazingly gifted with his art; he could sketch out the most amazing portraits that were so delicately drawn, it appeared the subject were living, breathing mirror images of the models he used. He could also, in a matter of a few bold lines, create caricatures that you couldn’t help but laugh at, even if the caricature was of yourself at your absolute worst. I still have the one he drew of me somewhere; eyes covered by large glasses, manic toothy grin, all massive hips and big boobs under neo-hippie clothing, holding an enormous cup of steaming coffee. He knew me well.
He was as witty as he was artistic; his deep brown eyes often danced with merriment and warmth. He wasn’t exactly drop-dead gorgeous; he was handsome though, with high, chiseled cheek bones and squared jaw. He had deep dimples, one on each cheek, just above the corners of his mouth; when he smiled, the dimples were the first thing you noticed. When he laughed, you couldn’t help but be carried along by the infectious way it spilled from his lips. He had a rich sounding tenor voice; soothing on the ear and somewhat breathy. Even now, I can hear it echoing through my memories, and I haven’t seen him in nearly twenty years. I remember how he used laughter and wit like a weapon, deflecting with sarcasm and humor any attempt to get past his defenses and get to know him. But somehow, I managed to do it; I managed to break through those walls.
I remember the days of seeing him in school, how his face would light up when he saw me, how he would greet me with a hug in the hallways. His hugs were the best; strong, comforting, genuine. We would just stand there for a minute, a small island in a sea of teenage angst, two very close friends against the world. Ben was just an inch or two taller than I; he was wiry – one of those whipcord and steel physiques that is just naturally defined without a spare ounce of body fat on it. Part of me was envious of the fact he could eat like a horse and not put on any weight, but then again, what teenage girl wouldn’t be jealous of that? I remember, too, that whenever I hugged him, he’d have to hold onto his hat, literally. He had the most gorgeous hair - thick and naturally curly, the color of sunlight on newly minted copper with deeper bits of russet and cinnamon that I envied whenever I compared it to my own natural ash brown. And he almost always had a hat on, whether it was a black leather fedora (this was the 80s after all, and you just weren’t cool if you didn’t have a fedora!), or a baseball cap turned backward.
And so…two years passed at that high school; two years of daily hugs from Ben, of eating lunch with him and hanging out after school before picking up my sister from daycare. I never went out on solo dates with a guy in high school. I didn’t have time, and I didn’t drive (my doctor wouldn’t allow it until I’d been seizure free for 3 years – and the longest I’d gone was 2 ˝ years). And I didn’t trust them not to hurt me. If I went out, it was always a group of people that would go; and usually Ben was a part of those outings. He was one of my best friends. I was happy with that arrangement; I was safe with him. Until the summer before my senior year.
I remember we’d all gathered to have a party to toast the end of “Bloom County” (yes, the comic strip with Bill the Cat and Opus the Penguin). (I never said I wasn’t a geek, okay?) Our entire crew of ten had gone over to my friend Kelly’s house for this party after going out to coffee. We were amped up on caffeine and sugar (supplied by refill after refill of coffee so strong you could stand a spoon up in it and several massive slices of Ma’s Famous Seven-Layer Chocolate Cake), and had caravanned over to his house in two cars (Kelly and Ben were the only drivers with cars at the time). The laughter was there, and the drama that is always a part of high school get-togethers.
My foster-sister had gone out to the park with some of my friends, as well as the boy I liked then (whom I had, naively thought had liked me as well), and she’d ended up hooking up with him. If they’d just made out, I could understand that. I think. But they didn’t. They’d done the horizontal mambo in the park, in front of witnesses. The friends came back full of stories that caused my cheeks to burn, first with scandal, then with anger, then, finally, with a horrifying realization that I’d been overlooked, cheated and used – again.
So…I went into the kitchen and began to write. And I wrote. Pages upon pages, each word that flowed from my brain through my pen to the paper becoming more malicious and spiteful as the pain of what I saw as a vicious betrayal by someone I trusted seeped into my heart. And what began as a trickle of words on a page, somehow loosed a flood of anguish and self-loathing. I found myself crying. I remember flinging my pen across the room and having it ricochet off of a cabinet door with a loud bang. The pen was quickly followed by the notebook, which was launched off the table with a noise akin to a scattering of a flock of pigeons as a half-scream, half-sob of frustration escaped me.
The resultant noise of it landing on the floor and skidding across the linoleum, coupled with the sound of my sobbing, brought Kelly in to investigate. He asked me what was wrong; I wouldn’t answer, couldn’t speak past the lump in my throat that was choking me, couldn’t breathe for the anxiety that pressed down on me in horrible waves. He put his hand on my back and turned to someone else and said two words I will always be grateful for:
“Get Ben.”
And before I could move, Ben was there, pulling out the chair next to me and leaning in, strong arms wrapping around me, sheltering me, saving me from drowning in misery as he rocked me. He took off my glasses, pushed my head against his chest and just held me until I’d cried myself into exhaustion. I recall hearing the ‘thum-thump’ of his heartbeat in my ear as a counterpoint to the crooning sounds he made. I remember him quietly shooing everyone that came in to check on me back out of the room so that I wouldn’t have to face them. I remember clinging to him, clutching his shirt that was soaked with my tears, afraid to let go, terrified that if I did let go, I would lose myself all over again. I didn’t want to be alone any more. I needed to know that if I did let go, if I fell, someone would be there to catch me.
And I remember him pulling back a little to look at me, and my being unable to meet his gaze; I was mortified that I’d lost control like that. I remember him putting his hand under my chin to lift my face to his. I remember him asking me to look at him, and feeling very uncomfortable as I looked up. Those expressive eyes of his, the ones that normally danced with mischief, were somber as he looked into mine, mirroring the pain I was feeling.
“Are you okay?” he asked me. I couldn’t speak at first; I was afraid I’d break down again. I simply nodded.
“Do you want me to take you home?” I nodded again. I felt like an idiot. Of course I wanted to go home and hide! DUH!!
“Is your mom there?” Slower nod. Jesus, I hoped not…she’d kill him because she’d jump to the conclusion he’d done something when he was innocent. And I was in no condition to deal with a rant from her. “I’ll take you home, but I don’t want you to be alone.” Somehow, that struck me funny, and I hiccupped out a strangled laugh.
“I’m always alone, Ben. I can deal with it,” I said, my voice sounding thick and clogged with unshed tears as I sat up and wiped my face. All I wanted was to go sleep. I didn’t care who was there at home, or who wasn’t there, or who had landed on the frickin’ moon. I just wanted the oblivion that sleep brings. “I’ve been alone all my fucking life. What’s one more night?”
Ben silently ran a fingertip down my face, tracing the curve of my jaw, and pushed back his chair. He picked up my scattered possessions, and tucked them into the bag at my feet, then he handed me back my glasses. As I put them on, sniffling the whole time, he stood and fished out his keys from his pocket, then went out to talk with Kelly to let him know I was leaving. When I was ready, he helped me out the back door of the house and into his car.
We drove in silence; that much I do remember. The rest was a fog, until he pulled up in front of my house. He killed the engine of the Samurai and we sat for a long time, until I sighed and put my hand on the latch. He put his hand on my wrist and I stopped.
“Call me when you wake up,” he said. I nodded and slipped out of the car and into my house.
True to my word, I called him first thing.
“Be ready to go in an hour,” he said.
“What?”
“You’ll see. Oh,” he said. “Wear your sneakers.” He told me, and before I could say anything else, I heard the dial tone in my ear. I quickly dressed, making sure I wore my sneakers with my shorts and tank top. And, true to his word, he was at my door in an hour, ushering me back out to the Samurai.
There was a backpack in the backseat of the car, and I looked at him, a puzzled frown on my face.
“Uh…where are we going?” I asked him as we pulled into traffic. He looked over at me and pulled down his shades to peer over the rims at me. His eyes were soft.
“We’re going to hike the Falls. I packed lunch.” He said. I laughed. “I’m serious,” he said. “It’s a gorgeous day, the Falls are beautiful, and you need this.”
“Right.” I sounded skeptical, and I was. Was he just humoring me?
“You do,” he said. “So…we’re going on a date. To the Falls.”
I didn’t know what to say. So…I said nothing. A Date! I just grinned as he popped in Love And Rockets and cranked the stereo when “Ball of Confusion” came on. He hit the gas, and off we went, doing 70 mph down the freeway. An hour later, we pulled into the parking lot at Multnomah Falls Lodge, and climbed out of the car. He shouldered the backpack then came around the car to where I stood. He grabbed my hand and twined his fingers through mine.
“Come on. The hike’s not getting any shorter,” he laughed, tugging me forward. “We’ll eat at the top.” He said. I looked up; the top of the Falls had to be at least three miles away. I groaned.
Two hours, three miles and a blister on each heel later, we were there. We’d conquered the switchbacks, our calves and thighs screaming in protest at each step up the steep hill, sunburned and sweating buckets as we collapsed on the bank of the small river just past the headwaters of Multnomah Falls. I peeled off my shoes and socks and stuck my feet in the frigid water, feeling the current swirling around my toes and sighed. He followed suit, gasping at the temperature, the expression on his face making me giggle.
“Fuck! That’s cold!” he said.
“Duh!” I replied. “It’s a river, dork, it’s supposed to be cold!” I laughed. He nodded and pulled his feet up on the bank. He reached around to the side and opened the backpack, pulling out our lunch. He handed me a sandwich and pulled out a bag of Doritos and opened it.
“I don’t want to hear it,” he said, flashing me a dimpled smile. “Here. Eat.”
We sat, eating and talking animatedly, about everything from music to books to the party the night before.
“You know,” he said between bites of his ham and Swiss on sourdough, “You had us all scared last night.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” I replied, pulling the crust off my bread and eating it.
“Nothing to apologize for,” he said. “Just not used to seeing you that upset,” he said.
I shrugged, concentrating on my own sandwich. “Not used to letting go, I guess,” I said. “No one’s ever really given a fuck about me or how I feel,” I told him. “I just got tired of it.”
He reached down and grabbed a stem of grapes from the Ziploc, and tossed two into his mouth. He chewed a moment, watching the river, then looked at me.
“I do.” He said quietly. My heart did a half-gainer in my chest and landed somewhere in the vicinity of my left big toe. I blinked and looked down at my hands, letting my hair fall into my face. Was he saying what I thought he was saying? Positive I was now completely losing my mind and having auditory hallucinations, I shook my head. “I’m serious. I do, Jess. I…you mean so much to me.”
Okay…I thought. Not crazy. Not hallucinating. Was he asking me to be his girlfriend?
Then he leaned over and kissed me.
Yep.
I’d like to say that first kiss was fireworks in the midnight sky, trumpets and oompa bands, a thunderstorm over the desert, but it wasn’t. It was soft, bashful, and gentle. It was comfort and acceptance, safety and security, full of promise and hope. It was everything I had ever dreamed of, and, as he’d said earlier, exactly what I needed.
We stayed there for another hour, touching, smiling, occasionally kissing, until we couldn’t put it off any longer and had to pack up the remnants of our lunch and head back down to the car. We took the shorter trail back down to the parking lot (I really wished I had known it was there on the hike up, as it was MUCH easier of a hike), holding hands and laughing with each other, our friendship drawing us that much closer as we got used to the idea that we were a new couple.
As we pulled out of the lot at the Falls, I rested my head against the seat back and chuckled. He looked at me, grinning, his smile bringing out the dimples in his cheeks as the setting sun made his red hair look like it was on fire.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I replied. “Just didn’t think I’d ever…”
“Ever end up with me?” he asked. I nodded, echoing his grin with one of my own. “Hon, this is just the beginning.”
He was right. We were together nearly two years because of that date. And it was the beginning for me; because of him, I began to trust. And I came to learn that, while yes, love was vulnerability and pain, it was also beauty and tremendous strength.
Thanks, Ben. Thanks for catching me, and not letting me fall.