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I Want the One I Can't Have
April 5, 2006
(I guess it's old crush week here at my blog. That's what comes from listening to old music.)
It seems appropriate that it was the Smiths concert we were going to when rob, aka robby, aka wobby the wabbit arrived to pick me up. With another girl.
I think it's also telling that I can’t remember if this was before or after our several thousand hot makeout sessions on my mother’s couch, or if it was before or after we went to my sophomore year prom and his fly was down the whole time and my white face makeup was all over his collar and no, we really never did anything but kiss and, well, maybe a little more, but not much. Certainly not enough to warrant anything but accidental fly-downness. That prom was funny. We sat around long enough for someone to take my picture for the yearbook, me in my black velvet dress and shiny vinyl rainboots and millions of necklaces and flammable hair, and robby looking amazingly cute in his little short jacket and sticky-up hair and his red-red lips that were not the result of all of my black/red lipstick. And then we set the balloons free at our table, and those balloons were stuck up in the rafters of the gymnasium for all of my high school years, and they are probably STILL there today, and then we left, and drove around talking to each other like we were in a soap opera.
At any rate, on the day of the Smiths concert, I do remember that when I got in the car. In the back seat. To be transported to the Smiths concert with my pseudo notaboyfriend at least not tonight, I cringed when SHE put her cold drink cup in his lap and said “That oughtta cool you down.â€
And it really doesn’t matter if it was before or after our hot makeout sessions, because I was unobtainable. I wouldn’t have taken him up on it had he offered, and it’s definitely for the best that we never ever ended up hooking up in spite of several near misses spanning the entire 10 years or so of our friendship.
But it does add a certain lyrical charm to things that I went to a Smith’s concert with the boy I couldn’t have. The boy with the thorn in his side, thinking “please, please let me get what I want!†And sitting in the back seat, thinking I never had no one ever. (I probably COULD go on and on, but I won't.)
Seriously. How perfect is that?
I don’t really remember much after the “cool you down†thing. It was pretty silent in the car on the way to the concert, and once we got there I found Other Friends To Hang Out With and the weirdness with Robby was quickly forgotten. I spent the entire concert wondering how Morrissey kept his pants up, and sweating with another boy I had a crush on. It was so. Freaking. Hot. And we spent a good deal of the time in between bands trying to pretend like we were in the arctic and we were so cold that we could barely stand it. It didn’t work, but it was fun pretending.
I think that was the show, too, that I spat on someone. On purpose. Because she annoyed me. Maybe I was just sublimating.
At any rate, I didn’t end up hating robby after that night. I would hug him so hard if I could see him right now. He’s somewhere in Chicago being a daddy and a husband and I’m totally not jealous now, either. Like a lot of boys I knew growing up, I got to know robby in a way that I don’t think a lot of people ever got to know him. That might be true of some of the boys I have met in my adult years, as well. I have that. If nothing else. And that’s a terribly nice thing to have.
I remember when I first met robby. I was at McGreevy’s dancing and I accidentally dropped one of my pet rocks that I carried around with me. They had names. The plain one was Norm, and the other one was Bjorn. Bjorn had a bandaid, and I had scrawled “I am a gimmick†on him in permanent marker. If I close my eyes, I can picture my rocks. I really can. I carried Bjorn around with me for 2-3 freaking years. Norm, I lost him at the cure show. They made me leave him at the gate because he was an alleged “projectile object†– as if I would throw ROCKS at the cure! As if I could even throw hard enough to get past the middle seating section from way up in general admission.
At any rate, I had Bjorn and Norm, and I dropped one of them and there was a panic as I started crawling around on the floor of the dance club looking for him. It was dark except for the light show, and I was trying to avoid getting stepped on. McGreevy’s was at it’s hoppingest at that point. And as I was crawling around, this super cutie pie got down on my level and asked me what I was doing.
"I’m looking for my pet rock," I told him. He didn’t even hesitate. Not even to look at me funny. I probably, thinking back, might have hesitated a bit, if asked to look for someone's pet rock. Instead, he instantly said “Well, I’ll help you find him.â€
Suddenly, it seemed like the entire place was crawling around looking for that damn rock. Robby found him, though. He held him over his head in victory! Hooray for robby! Now he gets the honor of talking to the crazy chick who carries rocks and teddy bears around with her everywhere she goes. Hahahahaha.
I remember robby referring to that incident several times as his “in†to talking to me. Because he had wanted to talk to me for awhile…and that was a way for him to cross the barrier. Shit. Robby could have said anything to me and I would have found it interesting. Not just because he was a super cutey pie, but because he was so so sweet and nice and interesting to talk to.
Well, OK, mostly because he was a super cutie pie, but he also ended up being sweet and nice and interesting to talk to.
Over the years, I made out with robby a lot. He was one of my very favorite makeout boys ever. He had really nice lips, and just…it was nice. I can’t even explain why. I think he was an ear nibbler. I like ear nibblers quite a bit, as long as they don't get all drooly about it.
I remember the last time we made out was the night of my housewarming party. I was feeling pressured to choose between two male friends of mine who were both potential makeout boys, but who probably would have been pissed with me if I chose to makeout with one and not the other. So, fuck it, I ran off with robby while everyone was getting drunk and we sat on a stoop outside of a hotel room near the shore and made out.
Years later, when I was married, I returned to Chciago and hung out with robby. We talked (a bit wistfully, I thought) about what good kissers we were, but nothing happened. I wrote about it. About the gaping maw of his open bedroom door. About how making out would have probably led to Other Things. And I still wonder if that would have been such a bad thing. Robby was always such a nice boy. I wonder where he is now. Because even when we weren’t makeout buddies, we were really good friends. He always wrote me nice letters and drew pictures and would illustrate anything I asked him to, and he was (and probably is) just an all-around sweetheart.
Hm.
Anyway, yeah. So, the smiths remind me of wobby the wabbit and his naughty bits being “cooled down†and making out and hot summer nights and blue velvets and partying and friends and decisions and all manner of choices and paths that twist and turn and one time robby wrote in a letter “May our paths be forever braided, my friend.†And I agree that I wish that this was so.
Robby, with whom my relationship was fluid enough to withstand the shifting shapes of desire and the lack thereof. Robby, who thought I was beautiful, and knew I thought he was beautiful, but somehow also understood that fact didn’t obligate either of us to fuck the other. Or fuck the other over.
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