You Don't Know What I'm Up Against

Well, the good news is I didn't have to wait until Wednesday. This email was waiting for me in my inbox last night.

Thank you for your interest in an opportunity with Apple retail. At this time we have chosen to move ahead with candidates who better meet the business needs today. We wish you the best in your future endeavors.

Thank you again for your time and interest in Apple Inc.

So that's it. I'm boned. I did really good Friday, I know I did. I mean, I would have bought something from me. But it wasn't good enough. They tell you that you don't have to pressure customers and selling isn't a big deal because people come in four times before they buy something, but they're full of shit. All they care about is if you can get someone to buy their overpriced crap. Clearly having an extensive history using the product first hand holds no bearing. I've been using these stupid computers on a daily basis since high school. Whenever one of them starts acting wonky at work, I'm usually the one that figures out the problem and how to fix it. That is, unless Joe discovers it first and immediately calls IT to have someone come in on the company dime. Did I really just write "the company dime?" God. Well, whatever, the point is, it takes maybe thirty seconds to look up the problem on the internet, and more than likely you'll find someone who had the exact same problem and, more importantly, a way to fix it. And it costs nothing! Why is that so hard to do?

I think I got a little off track. What I'm getting at is I'm well versed in Apple computers. Apparently, that means absolutely dick to them. What is it you want? In the depths of your ignorance, what is it you want?

What they want, what they mean by someone who can "better meet the business needs today," is retail experience. I've never worked retail, so I could be Steve Jobs and they wouldn't hire me. And that's understandable, but what about all these teenagers that work retail as their first job? How did they get hired? It's not that I can't do it, it just that I haven't done it yet. Is this going to happen at every retail place? Am I so colossally awful that no one will even give me a chance?

And people come in four times before they buy something? Really? And they don't look at the price until the third time. Really? They have to know it's there. This isn't The Price is Right, there's no cardboard placard covering up the retail value, the first time you come into the store BAM! the price is plainly displayed. It's the first thing I look at when I got to a store. I can't for one minute believe that anyone not suffering for deep-rooted psychological problems would walk into a store three times before "asking" a salesperson how much something costs, only to have the salesperson tell them THE EXACT SAME THING THAT'S WRITTEN ON THE DAMN SIGN THAT'S BEEN THERE THE WHOLE TIME! I know when they give these little examples they're not meant to be taken literally, but nothing about that whole four times thing makes any sense at all. People browse. That's all they need to say. Four times. Give me a break.

Screw Apple and their smug commercials. Justin Long seems like a good enough guy, but if I ever meet him in person I kind of feel like I have to punch him in the face.

I don't know where this leaves me now. I've got a list of places that I've applied to multiple times since the summer, but I think if I apply to them any more times I'm going to get hit with a restraining order. I haven't tried Circuit City yet. Actually, I didn't even think about Circuit City until last night, since I haven't even been in there since Best Buy opened, and that was about ten years ago. But if I were to work there, maybe I'd be persuaded to spend some of my paycheck there...so what do you say, Circuit City? Will you let me sit on the couch with John Elway and Mike Ditka, or are you going to be dicks like Apple?

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Ever See An Apple That Could Take A Bite Outta You?

I don't have the hiccups anymore. So I've got that going for me. Which is nice. Unfortunately, I've spent every waking hour the past couple of months filling out applications for part time jobs and not one callback. It's the holiday season. Everyone is hiring, how hard can it be to get a job, right?

I don't know how many of you have every taken that 30-page personality test that accompanies nearly every online application, but if you have, and then went on to actually get the job, I ask you, what kind of crazy magic voodoo did you use to pass that thing? I've taken it for Best Buy, Borders, AMC Movie Theaters, Petco, Staples, Home Depot...always the same stupid questions. After several weeks of not hearing anything, I went into Best Buy and Borders to talk to an actual person and get an interview. The response at both places was that you can only apply on the computer, either at the store or online, and if you didn't score high enough on the personality test, the application isn't even sent to them. What is so important about that idiotic test? Don't those stupid assholes know there's nothing wrong with my personality?

Here's one of the statements, and in case you've never taken one of these before, each question is answered by a response of either "Strongly agree", "Agree," "Disagree," or "Strongly disagree":

You do things carefully so you don't make mistakes.

Does that mean "You do things carefully to avoid mistakes," or "You do things carefully. Therefore, you do not make mistakes"? The first statement means that you're efficient, which is what they're looking for, so you'd agree. But the second interpretation implies infallibility. And since no one is infallible, you are either lying or extremely arrogant--neither traits sought after by employees--so I can clearly not choose the wine in front of you. I mean, say agree.

What about this one:

You like to be in the center of a large crowd.

Well that depends, which way is the crowd facing? Is it facing in at me, in which case, why didn't they just ask the more straightforward question "Do you like to be the center of attention?" Or are they facing out away from me, as in "Do you like to blend in with the crowd?" And which one would they prefer? Are they looking for someone who's outgoing and proactive about helping customers as opposed to an introvert who scares away children, or are they trying to weed out the prima donnas (quick sidenote, I though it was pre-Madonnas until I was in High School) and loudmouths who spend all day talking to their friends instead of helping customers. It could go either way. Poorly written, ambiguous questions. God, I hate this test.

Then last week, I filled out an application for the Apple store. Guess what?! They don't have that ridiculous test! I was finally starting to feel good about a part time job. Optimistic, even. I just may save Christmas after all!

I got to the store last night, just before it closed. They ushered out all the customers, closed the doors and then me and five other guys sat at the back of the store with two employees, who showed us a couple of video presentations and slide shows. Did you know Apple opens 9 stores a day? Or that they generate over $4,000 per square foot per year? Or that Mac OSX Leopard turns water into wine? By the time the show was over, I couldn't wait to start working for the best company in this or any other time period in the history of mankind.

But first, a little test. The six of us were split into two groups of three, and asked to pick a product, either an iPhone, iPod, or Mac, and talk it up during a two minute drill to try and persuade our Apple employee hosts, who posed as a couple, into buying it.

My group chose the iPod. There was a Nano in a speaker display close to where we were sitting, so I suggested we get up and check it out. Man, those things are tiny. We examined it, one guy pulled out his Mastercard to confirm that the Nano is, in fact, considerably smaller than a credit card. I ran off a string of features, from the variety of colors available to the benefits of both the 4G and 8G models. I was doing pretty good.

Then the actual drill began. The other group went first. They picked the iPhone. The first guy started off explaining the phone itself and it's ease of use. He then passed it on to the next guy to talk about the iPod functions of the phone, and finally handed it off to the third member of the group, who talked about the remaining features and applications. Having three people try to sell you something seems a little impractical, but I've got to admit, they did a good job. The happy couple bought four hypothetical iPhones.

When it was our turn, we hadn't really thought out delegating who says what, and I was the last one to speak, so by the time it got to me, nearly everything that we'd thought of, including all my stuff, had already been said. I literally said something like, "It's small...headphones...um...I'm sorry. I died." All week long I was so excited about going to this thing. It's something I knew I could do, and I was filled with confidence, which never happens. But then, in that moment, I just completely blanked. The only way it could have gone any worse was if I accidentally set them on fire.

When I got outside, I thought to myself, "Questions! I should have asked if they had any questions!" Even if everything had already been said, I still could have answered any questions they might have had. And if I really couldn't think of anything, the saving grace would have been to mention the free personal shopping. If the store is busy or about to close, or if a customer just wants your undivided attention, they can sign up for a personal shopping appointment, which means that on a specific day and time, the customer can come in and speak to you for like an hour and a half. It's a great idea, actually, and a nice cop-out if your drawing a blank during a fake sale. "Actually, we'll be closing in a few minutes, but if you'll come over here, I can set you up for a personal shopping appointment and we can talk more about the Nano in detail tomorrow." Yeah, that's absolutely what I should have said. It would have covered the fact that the other two guys already went over everything and would have shown I was paying attention during the presentation.

But instead, they got, "It's small...headphones...um...I'm sorry. I died." Damn it. I just ruined Christmas.

Then I thought about earlier during the presentation, when the woman asked if anyone noticed that all the Apple stores only have the logo on the front, without any words. She asked if we could think of any other company that could do that and it would still be recognizable to people. I don't know why, but the first thing I thought of was when the Batman movie came out in 1989 and the poster was just the Batman logo. I remember this because at the time I was ten, and wasn't into comic books, so I didn't recognize it as the Batman logo. In fact, I didn't see a bat at all. I was looking at the yellow part, thinking it was teeth, and the black part was a big, open mouth. I wondered what movie was about some guy with big, crooked yellow teeth.



It's not that I'd never heard of Batman. I was well aware of Batman, and even had a few Batman toys, but they all had that 60s Batman logo, where it's his head and cape with the word Batman on it. Anyway, that's the first thing I thought of, and when she asked, I said, "Batman."

"Oh. Well, yes, if Batman had a store, they could use the logo on the front." (polite chuckling ensues)

Crap, that's not what I meant! I was just giving an example of logos being used with identifying text. And it was a good example. How did it end up making me sound like the special ed kid in kindergarten? Can I even show my face in that store again?

Maybe this doesn't mean anything. One of the things they said was that Apple employees don't work on commission, so not making a sale isn't a big deal. They also said customers usually come into the store four times before the make a purchase; first to look it over, second to ask questions, third to find out the price, and finally to buy. So assuming the test couple were in asking questions about the iPod, that'd be there second visit and they'd still have to more times before they make a purchase, right? So I'm good. It's cool. It's totally cool. I did all right. Please, God, let me do all right. I'll find out by Wednesday. I really need this job.

In happier news, congratulations to the Boston Red Sox on winning the World Series. You know what that means...it's PEANUT BUTTER JELLY TIME! Or something.

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Loss

...continued from Ten Years Gone

Summer came and went and I eagerly waited to see her again. But I never did. High School was not Junior High. I barely saw her anymore and we never talked. I wanted to, but I just couldn't face her. A lot had happened since Virginia. During the summer between 9th and 10th grades my face broke out with a vengeance and I found out I had to wear a back brace at night because my spine curved too much. Even though there was never any indication that she would feel any different towards me, I felt like a monster and hid from her. Of course, she never made any effort to talk to me, either. The longer we didn't talk, the harder it became to start up again. It got so that I was even afraid to look at her. I wasn't good enough.

Also, I was in the Voc. One thing they don't tell you when you sign up for the Vocational School is that regular High School kids hate the Voc kids. That's not in the pamphlet. I lost most of my friends, including my best friend since kindergarten. Oddly, it didn't bother me as much as losing her, even though I knew him since I was six and I'd only known her for a few months. A few days, really.

I got by. I made new friends. Nick, Jose, Jim, Mike and Wah-Kee. Good old Wah-Kee. They were a little weird at first; Nick had about thirty people living at his house at any given time, and Mike is the personification of the word "spaz," but they stuck by me when the people who where supposed to be my friends bailed. I was really lucky to have friends like them.

I still thought about her all the time, even if I was too afraid to actually talk to her. Seeing her in the hallways caused my throat to dry up and my heart to start pounding in my chest so fast I thought it was going to burst. As time went on, in my mind I just kept replaying what little time we'd spent together and building her up until she became this untouchable goddess. She was like the Ark of the Covenant; one look and I'd melt like a Nazi.

Even so, in the back of my mind I imagined scenarios where we'd have some chance meeting one day and everything would go back to the way it was before. I just needed that one moment. And it kept almost happening.

Sophomore year I had Mr. Welsh for honors English first period. She had Mr. Welsh for honors English...third period. For me, third period was Principles of Technology with Mr. Soule. Mr. Soule wore glasses with one tinted lens. He explained his unique eyewear on the first day of class.

"You're probably wondering about my eye," he said as he removed his glasses to reveal one eye that looked straight at us and the other facing Mecca. As if he really needed further explaination, he told us that he had a lazy eye and the darker lens was to correct it. Mr. Soule was a great teacher, but Principles of Technology was just a fancy name for "applied physics," which itself is just another name for "math stuff." Since I'm what some people might call mathematically retarded, this probablly wasn't the best choice of classes, but it was part of a required program for kids in Tech Prep. I spent three years in that class and I think all I got out of it is that there's something called foot-pounds. The point is, I did horrible in this class and if I had any sense at all, I would have switched to biology. I know I would have done much better in Biology, which if I had taken, would have been first period, meaning I would have had the third period English class. Could have been that one chance I was looking for. If only.

There was a school magazine called Reflections. When my mom was in school, it was a quarterly magazine (and called "Reflector"), but in its current state it was only put out once a year. Anyway, it offered an opportunity for creative types to share their work with the whole student body. Or at least the six people that actually bought or was even aware of Reflections. I signed up to be part of the staff, but after a couple of weeks of sitting in an empty library waiting for the rest of the staff to show up for the meetings, I stopped going. When yearbook time rolled around, guess who was in the group photo of the Reflections staff? Missed her again.

Senior year, the guidance councilor suggested that I take a creative writing class. I didn't have any room for one on my schedule, but I was able to work out a deal with Mr. Landry, my graphic arts teacher. Instead of having graphic arts for the last three classes of the day, I'd leave sixth period for my creative writing class and come back to finish the day in the shop. It was a second semester class, and I knew it was my last chance to have a class with her. I remember actually pleading with God for her to have sixth period creative writing class. As it turned out, I had Mr. Welsh again. And she did have creative writing sixth period...with Mr. Ghiorse. She was in the next room! It's like God was saying, "You should have been more specific. Hehe."

That's the way it went. I was always just missing her. And I saw signs all over the place, like our phone numbers were one number off on the first and last digit. Even our birthdays separated by one month and one day. It couldn't just be a coincidence, right? This was bigger than just two people. This was destiny. I could feel it.

One time I went with Nick to his locker. Out of nowhere I heard, "Will you hold my orange juice, Hammel?" I turned around and there she was. I couldn't believe it. She handed me the juice while she opened her locker. A million thoughts raced through my head as I tried to think of what to say to her, but all that came out was "Phlarmmmble..."

Without turning away from what she was doing, her reaction to was, "What, did you spill it?"

Oh, that's it. Screw you and your stupid orange juice. You haven't said a goddamn word to me in two years--two years-- and now you decide you're going to speak and the first thing you say isn't 'Hi,' or 'How are you?' it's 'Hold my orange juice.' Well why don't you hold it between your knees?!

Of course, I didn't say that, I just said "Okay" and held her drink, while she got something from locker, took her drink back, and walked away again. I should have been mad, but I wasn't. She remembered my name.

I never told anyone about my feelings for her, and when Nick finally did found out, he was determined to get me to talk to her. Or at least nag me about it incessantly. As more people found out, they all seemed to take Nick's stance. He even stole my yearbook and got her to sign it for me during the senior cruise. My cousins saw her comments in the yearbook and immediately hopped on the "You gotta talk to her" train.

But it was too late. We had different lives. I wasn't about to bother her just because I had some repressed feelings I needed to express. Despite what everyone insisted, it was best for all involved just to let it go. Then something happened that made me change my mind.

After graduation we found out that my grandfather had cancer. Esophageal cancer. I couldn't understand it. He never smoked or anything. He was one of the healthiest people I knew. He used to swim laps in his pool every day and he competed in the senior olympics. But he still got cancer.

He went to the hospital Memorial Day weekend for what was supposed to be a simple opperation, but there were complications. They flew him to Brigham and Women's Hospital from South Shore. My grandparents lived next door to us, and seeing him in the hospital everyday and watching my family, especially my grandmother, try to cope was too much to bare. That's what finally drove me to write her; I was trying to get back to a place in my life when I was truly happy in an effort to ease the pain I was going through. I was trying to escape the misery that had enveloped my life. So I wrote to her and told her what was going on. I also foolishly confessed to loving her all those years ago, despite the fact that she now had a boyfriend and seemed quite happy.

I took a huge risk, and waited for her to write back. But she never did.

My grandfather's health continued to deteriorate. My parents went up to the hospital every night. I usually stayed home and watched my brothers. He died December 10, 1997, after five months in five different hospitals. I was a pall bearer. The funeral home was in North Weymouth. It was right next to her house. I remember that my grandmother was upset that they did something to his face. She said it didn't look natural and she kept crying. It was just too much for me, so I went out side and sat on the steps, hopelessly looking at her house, wondering if she was even there.

Then, just before Christmas, I got an envelope from her. I had just moved in with my grandmother to help her cope with losing the man she'd been with for over fifty years. I went into my room and opened the envelope. It was a Christmas card. She said she was sorry for not writing sooner and she asked how I was. I couldn't help but think she completely missed the point of the letter I sent, if she even read it at all. She told me to write back.

I wrote back to her and told her about my grandfather's passing. I waited for a response. And waited. Damn it, she did it again.

My friends and family continued to ask how things were going, and said the letters weren't working. If I wanted to resolve this thing I'd have to call her.

You have to call her. You have to. After hearing that over and over again, I finally called the day of my dad's 50th birthday party. We had this huge tent in our backyard and everybody was there. We even had some black people. I remember thinking, "Wow, I've got black relatives. I did not know that."

I called her and she put me on hold. We were on the phone for about an hour, but most of that time I was on hold. I'm not really even sure what was said. I just remember her saying "Oh God, this is so awkward." a bunch of times. That's not a good indication that things are going well. There was something in her voice; but I couldn't tell if she was laughing or crying. Was she laughing at the pathetic loser who can't let go of the past, or was she crying because she really did care for me once, but now has a happy life with someone else? My money's on that first one. I asked her how she felt back then. I didn't even care how she felt now. I knew it was too late. I just had to know. That's all I'd wanted to know all these years. If nothing else, I needed closure. She said she had to go.

Please, I said. Please.

She said again that she had to go, and I said okay and hung up. That was it. I always wondered if she liked me all along, as so many others suggested, or did I confuse friendship and kindness for love? I had been asking myself that since ninth grade, and I'll never know, because she wouldn't tell me. Honestly, that hurts a thousand times worse than if she said no. At least she didn't hang up on me, so that was classy of her.

And that was that. I thought the hero was supposed to get the girl. That's when I realized that maybe all those similarities and close calls I was so quick to point out really were signs after all. But I'd been reading them wrong. In each case, I was always just missing her, or a number was one off, etc. It seems so obvious now. I was destined to be the guy that doesn't get the girl. I wasn't John Cusack. I was John Cryer.

I don't think about her anymore. It hurts to. It doesn't matter now. I've got the best girlfriend I could hope for, and for the first time in nearly a decade, I'm happy.

Now she's just a memory. It's strange how someone that once brought so much happiness can cause so much pain. I hate memories.

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Ten Years Gone

Memories. I hate memeories. For the longest time, that's all I had. Just memories. Memories of a better time. Of her. Everyone has that one story. That one person that changed their life. She was mine. This is my story.

It starts in ninth grade Science class. I had Mr. Galiano. I hated that guy. I'm sure the feeling was mutual; he didn't like anybody. Some people become teachers to educate and inspire. Not Galiano. He became a teacher so he could yell at people all day and get paid for it. He never bothered to learn anyone's name; he just called everyone "freshman" in that condescending, excessively monotone voice of his. It was equal parts Ben Stein and Darth Vader.

Hello, freshman.

Where's your homework, freshman?

You underestimate the power of the Dark Side, freshman.

He'd get right up in your face and all you could see was this forest of tree-trunk-like nose hairs and horrible, nasty teeth that would make a dentist wake up in cold sweats.

There was only one thing that made sitting through that class tolerable. The girl that sat behind me. I didn't even know her name; it was the only class we had together and Galiano always called her "freshman." She knew my name though, probably because the only time Galiano would break his rule and say your name was if he was yelling at you. Let's just say everybody knew my name.

She always asked me how to do the lab assignments, and I never had a clue. I'm more of an English major guy. So I'd turn to my lab partner, Wah-Kee, then go back and tell her whatever he just said. Good old Wah-Kee. I found out much later that she was on the honor roll and probably didn't need help anyway. Maybe she was just wanted to talk to me. Or not.

She was just nice. To everybody; even people undeserving and unappreciative of such kindness. I actually looked forward to that class just so I could talk to her. It also didn't hurt that she was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. There was a whole world in her eyes; you could get lost in there. And her hair; she had those hangy-down things framing her face. I don't know what they're called, but I love those things.

The class trip that year was to Williamsburg, VA. I went there with my family when I was younger, and decided to go again. This time around, there was no Winnebago, and anyone that wanted to go had to pay $300. I raised the money selling candy. It wasn't easy. The school gave us Kit Kats and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups to sell. I figured since everyone was selling the same thing, if I brought in a box of Snickers, I'd have the edge. Give people an extra choice. Apparently, that was illegal. I was forced to stop immediately and was told everyone must sell the same thing. Sounds a bit like Communism to me, but rules are rules.

Maybe a month or so before the trip, Ms. Qualey held a meeting for all the students going. The girl from science class was there. All this time I didn't even know she was going. She had bought some of my candy bars, and I never saw her selling any herself, so it was a bit of a surprise to see her there. Ms. Qualey asked if everyone had a roomate, and neither of us raised our hands. I remember her looking over at me. Of course, co-ed hotel rooms were out of the question, but knowing that she was going to be there put a smile on my face.

The day of the trip finally came. May 25th. I'd just turned fifteen. About forty of us ended up going. We had to be at the school at five in the morning, which meant waking up around four. My dad dropped me off in the school parking lot, I put my bags away, and got the bus. I had never been so exhausted in my life. I found a seat next to Jason Crevison. Crevison's father was teacher at the junior high; I had him for Graphic Arts. The two of them are like shaved Yetis. They're huge. Very cool people, but still...huge. He gave me the window seat, which was probably a bad idea since now I was wedged between the wall and this massive kid, but I didn't really care at that point. All I wanted was to sleep. Never happened. No sooner had I closed my eyes, I heard someone say, "Hey, wake up!" It was her, sitting in front of me, smiling. If it'd been anyone else I would've punched them in neck. Instead, I sat up and we started talking. It was a little weird trying to carry on a conversation with her without the benefit of knowing her name, but after all these months I wasn't about to say, "By the way, who the hell are you?"

At first we talked about a video we saw in science class about a con-artist guy that said he could bend spoons with his mind and faith healers that smack little old ladies to expel their inner demons. I demonstrated the process for her, saying "Satan be gone!" Then, "BAM!" I'd take my palm to Crevison's forehead. I'm lucky the kid didn't break me in half. She loved it, though, even after about eight hours.

Satan be gone. BAM! You've been healed, praise Je-hee-zus!

I was saying "BAM!" way before that Emeril guy.

By the time the bus pulled into the Quality Suites hotel we'd talked pretty much nonstop for twelve hours. Twelve hours, I couldn't believe it. It went by so fast. We just went back and forth, going on about different topics. I even finally got her name, albeit through hearing someone else speak to her. All the while I couldn't help thinking, "What's a girl like this doing hanging around with a loser like me?" It seems someone else was thinking the same thing.

Rich Bagan. The Moriarty to my Holmes. The Joker to my Batman. The Newman to my Seinfeld. The man who will forever be known as Dick had his own grisly plans for her. Plans that most likely involved whipped cream and gelatin. The fact that she had spent the entire ride down talking to me did not sit well with him, and he was ready to do all within his power to stop it.

Hey, show her your chest.

Damn. See, I've got a bone sticking out of my chest, slightly resembling the creature bursting out of John Hurt scene from Alien. My sternum, the reason I could never have a Slip and Slide when I was a kid. It serves no purpose, other than maybe conveniently fitting in the crevice between a woman's breasts. Hell, maybe that's what it's for, but I had yet to find a girl that wasn't freaked out by the damn thing. It was the sole reason for my role as an outcast of society. It was a constant reminder that no matter how much I tried to fit in, no matter how many people said they like me, they know I'd always just be a freak. Just a freak. I wish I could say that didn't hurt, but it ate away at me every day of my life. Funny thing is, I never even noticed it until I was in seventh grade. That's the first time we had to get changed for gym. The other guys were like, "Ahh! What's that thing?" At the same time I was thinking, "Hey, where's your lump?" What the hell did I know; I thought everybody had one.

There I was. Trapped. Damn. She was going to find out. I knew if she saw that I was just a freak, she'd never want to see me again. I wouldn't let that happen. I wouldn't let Dick win.

No.

C'mon, show her.

Show me what? What are you guys talking about?

Before I could protest, Dick reached over and pulled my shirt up, revealing my hideous deformity for all to see. She didn't say anything for a few seconds, but seemed relatively unfazed. I sat back in my seat and she picked up the conversation from where we left off before Dick interrupted. She didn't care. Wow. Didn't see that coming. I could almost see Dick twirling an imaginary mustache, muttering, "Curses! Foiled again!"

I never told her how I felt about her. I was too afraid. I knew she liked me a little, but I also knew she didn't feel the way I did. She couldn't. I looked like a failed genetics experiment. It's not easy going through life as a scrawny sack of bones that doesn't look like it's put together quite right. I have no ass. It hurts when I sit. Being skinny sucks. Every time I hear people complaining about wanting to be thinner, all I can think of is how I have to grab a hold of something every time a gust of wind blows by, for fear of being swept away to Munchkin City. Something to think about before you go buying all that GNC vitamin-enriched fat-free health food crap. I tried that Weight-Gainer stuff. What a load of garbage that stuff is! It's just chocolate milk, for Christ's sake, and it doesn't even mix right; it just lumps together at the bottom of the glass. Then again, maybe I just couldn't stir it hard enough with my tiny, useless arms.

I don't think petty stuff like that really mattered to her. But I felt that she deserved better than me. I didn't know what to do. She was unlike anyone I'd ever known. This was far beyond a schoolyard crush. I loved this girl.

I realized this when we were in Jamestown. It's a lot like Plimoth Plantation we have in New England, except for all the southern accents. We split apart from the rest of the group and went to look at the horses with a few of her friends. After a while I looked up and noticed that her friends had left. I don't know where they went; to the bathroom or something. It doesn't matter, they were gone. It was just us. I looked at her as she watched the horses. There was something about that moment as she stood there with the sunlight on her face; she was like some majestic beauty you always hear about in books and movies, but could never exist in real life. Yet there she was. She looked at me and I looked into her eyes. Those eyes held so many stories. I wanted to know them all. I could have stayed there forever. The perfect moment. Neither one of us spoke, we just looked at each other. That's all. It was at this moment that I realized how deeply I felt about her, but I didn’t say anything. I wish I had.

One incident that will always stick out in my mind is the flume ride at Busch Gardens. I was waiting in line with three other guys, Phil, Olsen and, you guessed it, Dick. She was ahead of us with her girlfriends, Cindy, Andrea, and some chick I didn't know. She turned around and asked me if I wanted to ride with her. I almost went into cardiac arrest right then and there. I collected my nerves and said, "Sure," as I looked over at Dick and gave him the most evil grin I could muster. I switched places with Cindy. Now you might think that riding the flume with the most perfect girl you ever met would be a good thing, what with all the screaming and wetness, but that just wasn't the case this time.

While we were waiting in line, Wayne decided he wanted to ride with us, too. Wayne. This kid epitomized nerddom to such a terrifying degree that...let me put it this way: he spoke fluent Klingon. Klingon! It's not even a real language!

The thing that kills me is that I still don't even know where he came from. He wasn't in line with us; it's like he just sort of...materialized. The flume log seats four single-file. Ours managed to squeeze in five: the three girls in front and me and Captain Kirk in back. She sat in front of me, separated by a bar that divided the front and back portions of the log. Wayne was behind me. As the log clicked its way up the incline, I sat there baffled as to why Wayne was on my ride stealing my thunder. Again, where did he come from? We were standing in line for forty-five minutes and he was nowhere to be seen. I didn't have much time to think about it, because a few seconds later we went down that steep hill, and I slid forward into the bar (which caused severe man-pain), and my head flew back and landed between Wayne's legs. Somehow when I started I didn't think this ride would end up with my head nestled in Wayne's crotch. I washed my hair about fifteen times that night.

All my insecurities and embarrassing mishaps aside, the major thing I had going for me was that the entire time we were there, from the bus to Jameston to Virginia Beach to the Air and Space Center to Busch Gardens, I never left her side. Well, almost never. Our group of about twelve people kept getting smaller and smaller as kids broke off to go on different rides. She wanted to go on the roller coasters. Screw that. I had this thing about roller coasters. They scared the hell out of me. Now I go on them all the time, mostly because I got tired of seeing little five year old girls do something I was afraid to do. If I had a time machine, I'd go back and beat the crap out of me until I agreed to go on a roller coaster with her. But I don't, so she went off to go on the big coasters the park is famous for, and I, like a giant lump of concentrated idiot, stayed firmly on the ground and just sort of...wandered. I'm still not sure exactly what happened, but before I knew it, I was alone and lost. I walked around for hours, trying to find somebody --anybody-- I recognized. All this time she was in one of those booths making a video with Cindy and Phil. They did the Beastie Boys' "Fight for Your Right to Party" under the name the Hammels. She named her group after me. That's so cute I could vomit. Of course, at the time I was completely oblivious to all of this, because I was lost in a giant amusement park. Ever been lost in a giant amusement park? It can be very traumatizing.

That night, after she had us watch the video several times, I headed back to my room and went to bed. Crevison was my roommate. He stayed up watching Platoon on TV. I was half asleep, but I kept waking up because the guys on TV were shouting "Ammo! Ammo!" but I was hearing "Hammel! Hammel!" I guess I fell asleep when that scene was over. And some time after that, the phone rang. Crevison answered. It was her. She asked for me, but rather than wake me up, he told her I was asleep. Gee, think it might have been an important call, Sasquatch?! I didn't find out until she told me at breakfast. But she didn't say what the call about. What could she possibly have called me for in the middle of the night, I wonder?

Whenever the group went out to eat, we'd always sit together, and if I didn't, she called me over to sit with her. Sometimes I'd sit somewhere else just to see if she'd call me over, and every time, without fail, she would. Everywhere I went, "C'mon, Hammel!" She'd grab my hand and take me with her. I don't think there's any greater feeling in the world than that feeling you get when a girl calls for you. But she never called me John. It was always Hammel. Did that mean she wasn't interested? I mean, you call your buddy by his last name, but I've never heard a girl say, "This is my boyfriend, Smitty." It just doesn't happen. That must have been what I was thinking of when I made The Mistake.

On the bus ride home, Dick kind of put me on the spot. Again. His earlier plans to get her away from me didn't work. This time he conjured up something far worse. I was sitting next to her now. I don't know how I managed that. Before the last rest stop I was sitting next to this kid who asked to borrow my Gameboy, and then I watched in horror as his festering, pus-oozing thumb mashed down on the B button for half an hour. But there I was. Sitting right next to her. Dick leaned over and asked me if we were going out.

Trapped. Again. What do I say? There was a number of things I could have done to get out of that situation. I could have just ignored him. I could have even asked her then, "Hey, are we going out?" I didn't really know. We were in a hot tub together, but there were other people in it too, so does that count? We were pretty much inseparable, and I mean, the Hammels? C'mon. But I couldn't help thinking it was all just a fluke, and that I didn't belong with her and it was only a matter of time before it fixed itself. I could have done lots of things but instead I blurted out "We're just friends."

We're just friends? We're just friends?!! Argh!! I never thought I'd live to see myself use the "we're just friends" line. What right do I have using that line? We're just friends, what the hell is wrong me? I should have let her answer. If she said no, she said no. None of the blame would lie with me, as it does so heavily now. I made the wrong move and Dick won. Dick's a jerk.

Regardless, the rest of that year we continued to talk in science class pretty much every day. A few days after we got back, she even wrote me note.

Hammel,
Did you get your pictures developed yet?
Danielle.

Tomorrow: The story concludes in Loss

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