Shane
“Shane works at Suncoast too and is the epitome of adorable! He’s 17 and isn’t going to college until later. We flirt NONSTOP and yea, he totally likes me. OH! He also just got arrested for drugs, but we can overlook this minor flaw.” –Age 15
Remember how much fun your job was when you were in High School? The shift was short, the responsibility minimal, and your $200 bi-weekly paycheck bought a shit ton of Old Navy pajama pants. Suncoast was more fun than I could have imagined. I learned a lot about life, and close to nothing about good business practices. It was a subsidiary of the dying Tower Records Company; a video store nestled in the darkest corner of the mall, just waiting to go bankrupt.
::sigh..:: Shane.
He was the reason I applied for the job to begin with. I was passing by Suncoast when I saw him laughing behind the counter…H O T. I walked in and asked if they were hiring and the manager replied with “Yes! Do you want the job?” I became an employee a couple of days later and began my quest to make Shane fall in love. We were young, hormonal and trapped alone together in an infrequently visited cave. It wasn’t long before we were making out in the back-room atop piles of Pokémon cards. Once I found out he played the guitar, we were officially dating.
Suncoast became a second home and left an impression on what “work life” could be. To the dismay of many bosses, I have treated most workplaces similarly; as a hunting ground for new friends and lovers. Suncoast was our Empire Records with an uglier cast. Because of this, an astonishing number of life events happened at work, and Suncoast was no exception. Shane and I had our first kiss, we visited the store before heading to my senior prom, and shortly after my 18th birthday I lost my virginity there; under fluorescent lights and the approving card-board grins of Erin Brockovich and Tigger.
Anime
"I’m RICH now, I GOT A RAISE! $5.32 PER HOUR! WooHoo! I’m considered a key holder too, although I have no keys. OH! Also, busted out a perv today, it was a good day.” – age 16
During my three years of dedicated service, the store churned more managers then it had customers. And the customers we did have rarely purchased anything, because the prices were outrageous and the selection so limited. We did have one draw that brought in a specific type of customer like the pied piper; a mammoth collection of Anime Porn. This wall spread the width of the store, and saw more people than all other aisles combined. 8 rows of busty and scantily clad power-puff girls beamed down at hopeful teenage boys. They would stand there for hours, plotting how to scrape up $49.99 so that Sailor Moon’s slutty cousin could bounce in the background while they emptied out their Jergens bottle. To a fifteen year old girl, this was hysterical. I loved hiding behind the sales counter until some pimply faced kid walked up. They would look over both shoulders, to make sure they were alone, and pick up a particularly savage anime movie. I gave them a few seconds to enjoy the synopsis before I would pop out and scream,
“THERE’S NOTHING LIKE A GOOD TENTACLE RAPE, EH?”
It never got old.
Lewis
"Lewis, the NEW manager is HILARIOUS. We all laughed today about Carl getting fired for stealing- OH THE IRONY!” Age 17
Carl, our manager, was a round-faced weirdo who stole gift cards and tried using them at other stores across the state. When confronted, he cried and sputtered about “feeding his family”. One day he was shamefully escorted out by security and never heard from again. Lewis, a quick witted 21 year old stepped up to the managerial plate. Lewis disregarded HR policies and provided the biting sarcasm that our little store had been lacking. Prior to managing the Suncoast he had been arrested for dumping a milk concoction into the return slot of a Family Video.
The reason for the “irony” of Carl’s termination was we (the rest of the staff) had been stealing from Suncoast for the better part of a year. It got so bad that it rivaled an underground drug cartel, but we dealt in v.h.s tapes and movie t-shirts. Sure, they had measures to prevent internal theft, but most of them involved spying on your fellow co-workers. This does not work when everyone is doing it. We were all under 21 and most of us were either friends or lovers or both. We were supposed to pat each other down (not in a sexual way, as learned from the training video) every night after close. You step outside, lock the gate, pat each other down, and give the camera a proud “thumbs up” for a job well done and no merchandise lost. We went through this charade nightly; patting each other down while videos were tucked into our pants. We would peer deep into backpacks filled with Bose headphones, and then give the congratulatory “thumb’s up” to the camera. We performed our show with such charisma that we were called out during a region conference call as a “team to emulate”. It was around this time that I was personally awarded “District Employee of the Month”. To celebrate I stole an entire collection of the X-files, because hey- I’d earned it.
When looking through my old diaries, I came across a “Nightly Closing Checklist” that Lewis had created. Please remember this was posted in our backroom:
1. Count the money
2. Laugh at the fact that Carl got fired for stealing
3. Vacuum
4. Suck the genitals of your co-workers
5. Re-stock the shelves
6. Mock the payless girls
7. Steal the required number of movies
8. Laugh about Suncoast thinking they’re some kind of corporate juggernaut
9. Pat each other down
10. Laugh one more time about Carl
11. Lock the gate.
Store Closed.
Sign off.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Saturday, October 9, 2010
The List
" List of things NESSESCARY for a good boyfriend:
1. Funny
2. Hot
3. Rockstar
4. can read
5. Cowboy" - AGE 15
FINALLY! A diary entry that has stood the test of time. I'm not even embarrassed by it. I'll admit that some of my "qualifications" were a bit specific, but on the whole- a solid list. I'm proud of my fifteen year old self for putting "funny" in the top ranking spot. It has, and always will be the epitome of attraction for me. I've had on the whole, 11-12 serious to semi-serious boyfriends. They may not have been hot (by societies standards) but they were all hilarious people. Growing up an ugly duckling, I understood early that looks will fade (or not be bestowed on you whatsoever). Humor though, stands the test of time. So congratulations fifteen year old me!
That being said, "hot" is placed ahead of my potential mates literacy levels. For somebody who spent most of her time reading, this is surprising. Also, I didn't say "he can discuss the religious symbolism in Dylan Thomas' poetry". No, my standards were much lower. All I put was "can read", it's not even capitalized! I was fifteen years old, and I'm certain I didn't know a single person over the age of five who couldn't read. Yet here I was, expecting nothing more than "can read". I would like to point out this also falls below "rockstar", which let's face it- is exactly how it should be. Rockstar's are awesome and who cares if they can read?? They can croon, and pull off decades of wearing nothing but jeans and chuck taylors. As your lead singer boyfriend dedicates a song to you on a dirty bar stage whilst simultaneously throwing back a shot, do you think you care about his scholastic apptitude? The answer is "Fuck No". Speaking english isn't even imperative at this juncture. He just DEDICATED A SONG TO YOU. No girl can resist the calloused hands of a mediocre guitar player. I was barely out of puberty and I knew that. I can only think of one boyfriend who wasn't in a band. (Well two, if you count my first boyfriend Aaron, who is now gay. But he DID sing in musicals and it had the same effect).
I attempted dating "non-musicians". You know the type; financially stable/independent men who own a button down shirt, and a bed that's not just a mattress on the floor. But they all bored me to tears. I could always pay my own way, had my own bed, and if worse came to worse- I could buy them a nice polo. I had no use for these average joe's. There was no passion, no angsty hermit vibe and definitely no spotlight. I may have grown up awkward, but I've always loved the spotlight. Even if it's my man's spotlight and I happen to fall inside of it, that's fine with me. Rockstar's always have spotlights, even the bad ones. And I would immerse myself in the rays of those neon florescents. It is glorious.
I'm proud to say that I married a rockstar. I basically dated musician after musician until I found the most talented one. I wasn't aware of this at the time, but I'm pretty sure that's what happened. We met and there was instantaneous attraction. How could there not have been? He had a twin-sized mattress he kept against the wall that he only pulled down when he had "ladies" over. He owned more pets than chairs and his clothes looked to have come out of the trash bin at the good will. I didn't see him sober for the first 3 months that I knew him, and he only slept at odd intervals, but never at night. Occassionally I would find guitar picks and/or quarters embedded in his back from him passing out on the floor of his living room. He was a dream come true. And then, AND THEN he sang. He sang and it was the most glorious sound I had ever heard. Girls swooned when hearing him, he was mezmerizing. He sang, and he wrote a song about his unrequited love for me, (titled "Secret Heart" in true angsty, rockstar fashion) and that was that. I loved him. He was everything I had dreamed of.
His name is Ian and he's my husband. He now sleeps on a king size therapedic, wears ties and has a respectable sales job. BUT he's in a band, and it's a good band and he is phenomenal. I go to every show I'm allowed into (staying true to my groupie self), even when I have to get up early for work. Because when he sings it melts my heart. Plus I have to be there to beat down any younger versions of myself who might try to seduce him. Skanky groupie bitches.
So basically I got the best of both worlds. What young girls don't realize is that if you stay with a musician long enough, he usually grows up. Sure, you might have to buy your own dinners/flowers/his dinners for the first couple of years, but who cares? The music will carry you further than any trust fund. If you're patient and expectant, a musicians ambition may surprise you. In other words, don't knock it till you've tried it.
Oh, and one more thing- Please notice that number 5 on my list reads "cowboy". This is a wild-card, but I'm glad I put it on there. Because if you're boyfriend isn't a musician, and he's not a cowboy either... You've been jipped.
1. Funny
2. Hot
3. Rockstar
4. can read
5. Cowboy" - AGE 15
FINALLY! A diary entry that has stood the test of time. I'm not even embarrassed by it. I'll admit that some of my "qualifications" were a bit specific, but on the whole- a solid list. I'm proud of my fifteen year old self for putting "funny" in the top ranking spot. It has, and always will be the epitome of attraction for me. I've had on the whole, 11-12 serious to semi-serious boyfriends. They may not have been hot (by societies standards) but they were all hilarious people. Growing up an ugly duckling, I understood early that looks will fade (or not be bestowed on you whatsoever). Humor though, stands the test of time. So congratulations fifteen year old me!
That being said, "hot" is placed ahead of my potential mates literacy levels. For somebody who spent most of her time reading, this is surprising. Also, I didn't say "he can discuss the religious symbolism in Dylan Thomas' poetry". No, my standards were much lower. All I put was "can read", it's not even capitalized! I was fifteen years old, and I'm certain I didn't know a single person over the age of five who couldn't read. Yet here I was, expecting nothing more than "can read". I would like to point out this also falls below "rockstar", which let's face it- is exactly how it should be. Rockstar's are awesome and who cares if they can read?? They can croon, and pull off decades of wearing nothing but jeans and chuck taylors. As your lead singer boyfriend dedicates a song to you on a dirty bar stage whilst simultaneously throwing back a shot, do you think you care about his scholastic apptitude? The answer is "Fuck No". Speaking english isn't even imperative at this juncture. He just DEDICATED A SONG TO YOU. No girl can resist the calloused hands of a mediocre guitar player. I was barely out of puberty and I knew that. I can only think of one boyfriend who wasn't in a band. (Well two, if you count my first boyfriend Aaron, who is now gay. But he DID sing in musicals and it had the same effect).
I attempted dating "non-musicians". You know the type; financially stable/independent men who own a button down shirt, and a bed that's not just a mattress on the floor. But they all bored me to tears. I could always pay my own way, had my own bed, and if worse came to worse- I could buy them a nice polo. I had no use for these average joe's. There was no passion, no angsty hermit vibe and definitely no spotlight. I may have grown up awkward, but I've always loved the spotlight. Even if it's my man's spotlight and I happen to fall inside of it, that's fine with me. Rockstar's always have spotlights, even the bad ones. And I would immerse myself in the rays of those neon florescents. It is glorious.
I'm proud to say that I married a rockstar. I basically dated musician after musician until I found the most talented one. I wasn't aware of this at the time, but I'm pretty sure that's what happened. We met and there was instantaneous attraction. How could there not have been? He had a twin-sized mattress he kept against the wall that he only pulled down when he had "ladies" over. He owned more pets than chairs and his clothes looked to have come out of the trash bin at the good will. I didn't see him sober for the first 3 months that I knew him, and he only slept at odd intervals, but never at night. Occassionally I would find guitar picks and/or quarters embedded in his back from him passing out on the floor of his living room. He was a dream come true. And then, AND THEN he sang. He sang and it was the most glorious sound I had ever heard. Girls swooned when hearing him, he was mezmerizing. He sang, and he wrote a song about his unrequited love for me, (titled "Secret Heart" in true angsty, rockstar fashion) and that was that. I loved him. He was everything I had dreamed of.
His name is Ian and he's my husband. He now sleeps on a king size therapedic, wears ties and has a respectable sales job. BUT he's in a band, and it's a good band and he is phenomenal. I go to every show I'm allowed into (staying true to my groupie self), even when I have to get up early for work. Because when he sings it melts my heart. Plus I have to be there to beat down any younger versions of myself who might try to seduce him. Skanky groupie bitches.
So basically I got the best of both worlds. What young girls don't realize is that if you stay with a musician long enough, he usually grows up. Sure, you might have to buy your own dinners/flowers/his dinners for the first couple of years, but who cares? The music will carry you further than any trust fund. If you're patient and expectant, a musicians ambition may surprise you. In other words, don't knock it till you've tried it.
Oh, and one more thing- Please notice that number 5 on my list reads "cowboy". This is a wild-card, but I'm glad I put it on there. Because if you're boyfriend isn't a musician, and he's not a cowboy either... You've been jipped.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
The Birthday
“Well, I’m 18 now and officially the most embarrassed person ALIVE!!!”
God Damn it.
I blocked parts of my 18th birthday from memory until I read this page. Usually I can look back on the embarrassing moments of my life and laugh, or think “ohhh that wasn’t so bad.” This is not one of those times. Honestly, this might be the only memory that forms instantaneous puke bubbles in my throat. Even as I type this, I’m sipping on Alka-Seltzer and swallowing long-forgotten pride. Ok, here we go-
My birthday is June 12th, so I didn’t turn 18 until after we had graduated. The last day of school I told everyone about my party. It was going to be in my Mom’s backyard and there would cake and no alcohol because I was a square. I expected my group of friends to be there and maybe a few stragglers. There ended up being a shit ton of people and for the first two hours it was a blast. Shortly after the fun part, three specific and terrible things happened. Let’s go through each of these in bloody detail.
My guests and I were grilling burgers outside when an angelic mist rolled in, I thought I heard harp strings and suddenly MATT rounds the corner of MY backyard. (For you faithful followers, I’m referring to the same Matt who made an appearance in “retard”). Matt was the love of my high school heart. What was he DOING there? I suppose I had invited him, but not in a million years did I think he would show up. He sauntered in with his bff’s Ben and Danny. I suspect they’re the ones that dragged him to the party. I was on better terms with them, considering I didn’t turn into a drooling, fat, hopeful troll when they were around.
I immediately darted inside for a hairbrush. I don’t know why. A hairbrush!? Yea, unless that hairbrush could comb away four years of awkward encounters, it probably wasn’t going to help. I ran for it anyways, because I had nothing left to lose, or so I thought.
#1 Terrible thing:
First things first- some fucking genius decides that we should all play VOLLEYBALL. Let me reiterate that I have NO athletic skills and hate sports of all kind. I’m also terrified of flying balls. It was going to take all of my energy not to scream anytime the ball came over the net. But, Matt was going to be on my team, so I had to suck it up.
I ran around and flailed my arms a couple of times, pretending to “just miss it”. Unfortunately, there’s a little thing called serving, and it was now my turn. I saw no way out, so I made my way to the back of the grass court. The first time I threw the ball into the air it landed near my foot, untouched. Biffed. The second time I managed to nick the ball and also hit myself in the throat with my serving hand. I choked and spat because my hand was in a fist. I had managed to punch myself in the throat.
I was hoping this would be the end. Usually you get two turns to serve, and if you can’t manage something by then, you’re out. But everybody lobbied for me, “She’s the birthday girl! Serve it again Courtney!” I wanted everyone to fall down dead. Couldn’t they see what torture this was for me?
I get back in position, trying to see the light at the end of this volleyball hell
tunnel and I threw the ball up as high as I could. It came down hard on my wrist and (terrified) I smacked it away with my open palm. It flew magnificently through the air, and completely sideways. Matt was slowly turning around to see what had happened just as the ball smashed into the side of his face.
I let out an asthmatic gurgle while his head spun sideways from impact. Everyone started laughing and cheering. I ran over to him, blaring “OH MY GOD I’M SO SORRY, I’M SO SO SO SORRY! OH MY GOD!” He said it was fine, rubbed his damaged ear and walked towards the house. Needless to say, the volleyball game was over.
#2 Terrible Thing:
Shortly after the volleyball catastrophe everyone wanted me to open presents. Okay, now THIS was something I could do. I can accept gifts graciously and there isn’t a lot of hand-eye coordination involved. I figured it would be a safe place for me and all my guests. Everything was going smoothly until I opened up a rather flashy looking card. Out of it fell a 5x7 of Matt in skin tight pants, promoting his ass to the camera. I don’t remember who the sender was, but whoever gave me no warning. I snatched up the picture and put it face down on the floor. People started grabbing for it, asking “What is it? Come on! Show us!” I frantically looked around the room and decided I was going to eat the picture. Instead I made a snap decision and screamed, “IT’S A PICTURE OF ME NAKED!”
I don’t know why I did that. I could have said it was anything but I went with me, naked. This was no better than what the picture actually WAS, but it worked. Nobody wanted to see it after that. I stole a side-glance towards Matt. I don’t know if he had seen the picture, or if he was just thinking how gross it was for one of my friends to give me a picture of myself naked as a birthday gift- but either way he looked disturbed.
#3 Terrible Thing:
And this is by far the worst. After presents and before the cake, Danny (one of Matt’s friends) asked if he could check his email. I instantly had an ominous feeling about this, but was uncertain as to why. I said, “sure” as he sat down and clicked on the POWER button. Matt and Ben came up behind him and just as the computer was starting up, I realized what that funny feeling was. I spun around, but it was too late. There on the computer desktop wallpaper…was Matt. And it wasn’t enough for me to just put a picture of him on my computer. Oh no, I had it TILED all the way around the screen. He and his best friends were now staring at 400 images of Matt’s face. Worse yet was that it had been captured while he was in the 8th grade, before I even knew him. He didn’t even seem aware that the picture was being taken. It looked like it was taken on the sly by some sort of stealth photographer. It appeared as if I had stalked him for half his life- taking pictures whenever I could with my spy camera.
I squeaked and turned bright fuchsia. Danny quickly clicked on something else and the embarrassment montage disappeared. I started laughing nervously and ran up the basement steps to go outside. Ben followed, and I don’t remember what kind of uncomfortable exchange we had. I tried to blame the picture on the person who had given it to me, but he looked skeptical. I think we all just decided to let it go, because there was nothing to say that would make it better. At this point, I was officially the most awkward teenager on the planet. Nobody said anything to me about it, not even Matt. I had acquired enough regret in one evening to last a lifetime, and I’m assuming they thought that was punishment enough.
Sometime later we were goofing around outside and Matt “accidentally” knocked my disposable camera into a bucket of water. He left immediately. I was certain he was just reacting to that evening’s traumatizing events. How did he know where those birthday pictures would have ended up? The way things were going, it was logical for him to conclude that my next step was to tattoo them onto my body. Could I blame him? No. Everywhere he looked that night, there was another creepy picture of himself he had forgotten about. I would have “accidentally” thrown my camera in a bucket of water too.
Here’s the kicker though; this story has a twist ending. About an hour later Matt returned to my house of humiliation, and he was carrying a small bag. Inside this small bag was
a disposable camera. He had felt so badly about ruining my camera that he went out and bought me another one. He apologized profusely and told me happy birthday. I thanked him, without looking him directly in the eye (because come on, you read the story). As he walked away I was smiling like a crazed clown. Somehow I mustered up some courage and cried out “BYE MATT! THANKS! SEE YA LATER!” He waved back and turned the corner. It didn’t erase everything else that happened, but it definitely put a polish on it. That was the last time I ever saw him in person, and honestly, I hope it stays that way.
God Damn it.
I blocked parts of my 18th birthday from memory until I read this page. Usually I can look back on the embarrassing moments of my life and laugh, or think “ohhh that wasn’t so bad.” This is not one of those times. Honestly, this might be the only memory that forms instantaneous puke bubbles in my throat. Even as I type this, I’m sipping on Alka-Seltzer and swallowing long-forgotten pride. Ok, here we go-
My birthday is June 12th, so I didn’t turn 18 until after we had graduated. The last day of school I told everyone about my party. It was going to be in my Mom’s backyard and there would cake and no alcohol because I was a square. I expected my group of friends to be there and maybe a few stragglers. There ended up being a shit ton of people and for the first two hours it was a blast. Shortly after the fun part, three specific and terrible things happened. Let’s go through each of these in bloody detail.
My guests and I were grilling burgers outside when an angelic mist rolled in, I thought I heard harp strings and suddenly MATT rounds the corner of MY backyard. (For you faithful followers, I’m referring to the same Matt who made an appearance in “retard”). Matt was the love of my high school heart. What was he DOING there? I suppose I had invited him, but not in a million years did I think he would show up. He sauntered in with his bff’s Ben and Danny. I suspect they’re the ones that dragged him to the party. I was on better terms with them, considering I didn’t turn into a drooling, fat, hopeful troll when they were around.
I immediately darted inside for a hairbrush. I don’t know why. A hairbrush!? Yea, unless that hairbrush could comb away four years of awkward encounters, it probably wasn’t going to help. I ran for it anyways, because I had nothing left to lose, or so I thought.
#1 Terrible thing:
First things first- some fucking genius decides that we should all play VOLLEYBALL. Let me reiterate that I have NO athletic skills and hate sports of all kind. I’m also terrified of flying balls. It was going to take all of my energy not to scream anytime the ball came over the net. But, Matt was going to be on my team, so I had to suck it up.
I ran around and flailed my arms a couple of times, pretending to “just miss it”. Unfortunately, there’s a little thing called serving, and it was now my turn. I saw no way out, so I made my way to the back of the grass court. The first time I threw the ball into the air it landed near my foot, untouched. Biffed. The second time I managed to nick the ball and also hit myself in the throat with my serving hand. I choked and spat because my hand was in a fist. I had managed to punch myself in the throat.
I was hoping this would be the end. Usually you get two turns to serve, and if you can’t manage something by then, you’re out. But everybody lobbied for me, “She’s the birthday girl! Serve it again Courtney!” I wanted everyone to fall down dead. Couldn’t they see what torture this was for me?
I get back in position, trying to see the light at the end of this volleyball hell
tunnel and I threw the ball up as high as I could. It came down hard on my wrist and (terrified) I smacked it away with my open palm. It flew magnificently through the air, and completely sideways. Matt was slowly turning around to see what had happened just as the ball smashed into the side of his face.
I let out an asthmatic gurgle while his head spun sideways from impact. Everyone started laughing and cheering. I ran over to him, blaring “OH MY GOD I’M SO SORRY, I’M SO SO SO SORRY! OH MY GOD!” He said it was fine, rubbed his damaged ear and walked towards the house. Needless to say, the volleyball game was over.
#2 Terrible Thing:
Shortly after the volleyball catastrophe everyone wanted me to open presents. Okay, now THIS was something I could do. I can accept gifts graciously and there isn’t a lot of hand-eye coordination involved. I figured it would be a safe place for me and all my guests. Everything was going smoothly until I opened up a rather flashy looking card. Out of it fell a 5x7 of Matt in skin tight pants, promoting his ass to the camera. I don’t remember who the sender was, but whoever gave me no warning. I snatched up the picture and put it face down on the floor. People started grabbing for it, asking “What is it? Come on! Show us!” I frantically looked around the room and decided I was going to eat the picture. Instead I made a snap decision and screamed, “IT’S A PICTURE OF ME NAKED!”
I don’t know why I did that. I could have said it was anything but I went with me, naked. This was no better than what the picture actually WAS, but it worked. Nobody wanted to see it after that. I stole a side-glance towards Matt. I don’t know if he had seen the picture, or if he was just thinking how gross it was for one of my friends to give me a picture of myself naked as a birthday gift- but either way he looked disturbed.
#3 Terrible Thing:
And this is by far the worst. After presents and before the cake, Danny (one of Matt’s friends) asked if he could check his email. I instantly had an ominous feeling about this, but was uncertain as to why. I said, “sure” as he sat down and clicked on the POWER button. Matt and Ben came up behind him and just as the computer was starting up, I realized what that funny feeling was. I spun around, but it was too late. There on the computer desktop wallpaper…was Matt. And it wasn’t enough for me to just put a picture of him on my computer. Oh no, I had it TILED all the way around the screen. He and his best friends were now staring at 400 images of Matt’s face. Worse yet was that it had been captured while he was in the 8th grade, before I even knew him. He didn’t even seem aware that the picture was being taken. It looked like it was taken on the sly by some sort of stealth photographer. It appeared as if I had stalked him for half his life- taking pictures whenever I could with my spy camera.
I squeaked and turned bright fuchsia. Danny quickly clicked on something else and the embarrassment montage disappeared. I started laughing nervously and ran up the basement steps to go outside. Ben followed, and I don’t remember what kind of uncomfortable exchange we had. I tried to blame the picture on the person who had given it to me, but he looked skeptical. I think we all just decided to let it go, because there was nothing to say that would make it better. At this point, I was officially the most awkward teenager on the planet. Nobody said anything to me about it, not even Matt. I had acquired enough regret in one evening to last a lifetime, and I’m assuming they thought that was punishment enough.
Sometime later we were goofing around outside and Matt “accidentally” knocked my disposable camera into a bucket of water. He left immediately. I was certain he was just reacting to that evening’s traumatizing events. How did he know where those birthday pictures would have ended up? The way things were going, it was logical for him to conclude that my next step was to tattoo them onto my body. Could I blame him? No. Everywhere he looked that night, there was another creepy picture of himself he had forgotten about. I would have “accidentally” thrown my camera in a bucket of water too.
Here’s the kicker though; this story has a twist ending. About an hour later Matt returned to my house of humiliation, and he was carrying a small bag. Inside this small bag was
a disposable camera. He had felt so badly about ruining my camera that he went out and bought me another one. He apologized profusely and told me happy birthday. I thanked him, without looking him directly in the eye (because come on, you read the story). As he walked away I was smiling like a crazed clown. Somehow I mustered up some courage and cried out “BYE MATT! THANKS! SEE YA LATER!” He waved back and turned the corner. It didn’t erase everything else that happened, but it definitely put a polish on it. That was the last time I ever saw him in person, and honestly, I hope it stays that way.
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