He was seven feet tall, weighed 300 pounds, was built like a Hereford bull and jumped tall buildings at a single bound.
He was all-state in every sport, and all-American with the girls. He made Fonzie look like an amateur. To top it off, his dad was rich.
I coveted everything about the guy, but secretly hated him, just as I hate anyone who is perfect. I kept it secret because I value my life.
For this column, I'll refer to Mr. Perfect as Brad Cruise, a pseudonym borrowed from Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise.
This guy was a member of my high school class, and through osmosis, he was a dictator.
If he wore white buck shoes we rushed to the shoe store the next day. If Brad changed his hair style we stampeded to the nearest mirror to rearrange ours. Where Brad went, we followed. When he rolled his pants cuffs up two notches, we did likewise. I longed to be as popular as Brad, as did every guy in my school.
Brad drove a powder blue Ford convertible with every conceivable piece of chrome available thereto affixed. You knew that the only reason you went steady with a certain girl was because Brad didn't want her. If he wanted her, he got her.
One summer night at the drive-in movie, I saw this great-looking girl at the concession stand. She was slathering relish on her hot dog. I made a pass at her.
I used a creative get-acquainted line:
"Hi, I see you like relish, too. I just love relish."
"I can't stand the stuff," she said.
"Gee, you use a lot of relish for a girl who doesn't like it."
"Oh, this hot dog is for my date," she said.
"Where is he now?"
"He went to the rest room."
"Why don't you and I skip out," I suggested in my most seductive voice. "By the way, I was just kidding, I hate relish, too."
I drew closer to her.
"My date wouldn't like that."
"Who cares? I'll handle your date."
"OK," she said. "Here he comes."
I turned. Brad lumbered toward me. The building shook. Brad scowled. My knees turned to Jell-O.
"Brad is your date?"
She nodded.
"This guy botherin' you, honey," Brad asked. "If he is, just say the word and I'll kill him."
He came close. I looked into his belly and said the first thing that came to my fear-ravaged brain.
"No need of killing me, Brad, I just learned today that I have an incurable disease and I'll probably be dead in a couple of months anyway."
For a millisecond Brad's smile flickered, and I knew I would live to see the rest of the movie.
"Can I help carry some stuff to your car or anything?" I asked.
He said no, turned and left. Shakespeare said, "parting is such sweet sorrow", but he never said goodbye to Brad. There was no sorrow in it.
Brad came to our fortieth class reunion. He should have stayed home! The years weren't kind. His wavy locks are gone, replaced by a drum-tight scalp that could split at any second.
I guess he never was seven feet tall and 300 pounds of muscle. If he was, he's shrunk. In fact, he's about my height now, and that 300 pounds of muscle has morphed into 250 pounds of dough. He has three chins and a severe case of gout---which explained the loafer on one foot and the floppy green slipper on the other. He couldn't leap the photograph of a tall building.
He married the beautiful blonde cheerleader I met at the drive-in snack bar. She makes Rosie O'Donnell look like a Baywatch lifeguard. Their children are fat and ugly.
His father's gas station went belly-up. He works at a factory. He worries about his house payments. He spends a week each summer in a bone-gray, rented cabin on a small lake in Minnesota.
Funny thing. I don't hate Brad any more.
Copyright 2006
By Marty RicKard
Marty RicKard Bio
Marty RicKard holds a BS degree in journalism from the University of Southern Mississippi. He also has a Masters Degree in photography. Marty was a technical writer for White Motor Company, and page one editor for four Iowa daily papers. He owned New Sharon Star, where he was twice named Iowa Master Columnist. For ten years, Marty's regular column appeared in the Professional Photographer magazine. In addition to his writing credits, Marty has won numerous photography awards and has lectured in 48 states. He is a regular columnist for Lens Magazine, and a full-time writer of fiction and poetry. He has published three books. He currently is editor of his local newspaper in Florida.
|
