March 14, 2000

You probably think that I, because of this wild infatuation, am on the verge of doing something really silly, that I would make a big play, a big pass, for this Mary, catch her alone after school, give her a ride to the ocean, seduce her young, unmolested flesh, press my worldly lips against her tender innocence, provoking tears, confusion, recriminations, a hell of a scandal at Big Blue.

Well, if you thought that, you'd be misinformed. What do you take me for, some pervert?

You'd be wrong on a number of counts. First of all, I have no wild infatuation at all with Mary, or anything of the sort. Carol I was infatuated with. We save that story for alternate days. What I feel for Mary is in a whole other arena. It's not even a sexual thing. Drifts in and out of that on the hour. (Take my temperature in an hour or two...) Would you categorize it as love? Is this the sort of thing people have been writing about all these years?

If it's love, it's an uneven love. Sometimes I wonder why I hang around her at all. So much immature chatter, an undeveloped brain in the most mundane mode of self-discovery. At these times I want to take her and shake her by the scruff of the neck, then run away, put myself out of this misery, join a mixed-sex bridge or bowling league for young professionals, stop teaching Latin: Get away from all of those weird ancient stories.

But then I know there's no escaping. I catch sight of her by the evenings last practice lights, turning her head to emphasize why I should drive her home, why I should buy her frozen yogurt, why I should let her feed me, smashing my cold cash up my nose. At those times, at these times I know it's hopeless, that I'm hers, that I'm lost, forever.

It's not so much that I've chosen Mary, but that this situation has chosen me. I can live a lonely life, or a lonely life with Mary. Even if it's a frozen picture, a snapshot in time, one time-lapsed, retrograde orbit, after which point she spins off to a dull, mediocre young adulthood, I'll still have that picture, that reverse spin, to keep with me here and now, then and forever.

At any rate, the way to a young girl's heart is, well, through her heart. You set a trap and wait for her to decide when she's good and ready to realize that she has fallen into it, that her heart has grown accustomed to it, that she can't comfortably live outside of it, outside of your love.

Oh, she'll teeter on that edge, forever sniffing, forever vamping, talking your fool head off about this and that; about some cute boy in her class that looks nothing like you; about her parents; about her best friend falling for some college degenerate who's downright ancient at the reckless age of 18; about you fixing her biccycle, taking pictures of her in her swimsuit so she can send them to some suspicious LA contest, etc. etc.

But you stick around, sniffing around, looking for the most meager morsel of her casual, indirect affection. Why? Because any time spent with her is time lived. Because you love her.

And just when you're about to give up all hope, feeling all is lost, that you're old and tired and your life has lost its balance; when your heart is past the point of literally bursting, over a whole stack of ungraded papers and some forgotten Italian soda flavors and dessert morsels, she falls for you, pledging her unwavering love to you, through reddened cheeks, iridescent tears, and insanely long, drunken hug, begging you to never ever let her go.

And when she falls, she falls on you. And it's so heavy. Now tell me who's the one that's trapped?

And the real question is: Do I really want to subject my life to such a hopeless situation?

This is a rhetorical question. It's already way too late.