Arvada, Colorado, November
You should ask Heather out.
It was a simple sentence. It turned out to be more complex and involved then a five-word sentence had any right to be.
I looked at Bryan, absorbing his statement. I rolled the words around in my head. You - meaning me, should a suggestion, ask the action verb, Heather the subject of said verb, out. Out meaning the time honored tradition of adolescent males requesting permission of, then taking adolescent females to various local venues in an attempt to get to know one another better. With any luck, such an event would lead to at the very least, the opportunity to go out again. In the late 1980s this meant a movie, maybe a light dinner, perhaps a round of miniature golf. It also meant summoning reserves of self-esteem to be gambled and projecting an air of self-confidence. No mean feat.
Now, there is no reason why I couldnt ask Heather out. I was fully capable of speech. We were, I was pretty sure, of the same species. So there was not a chance I would be breaking the laws of nature or man. We were almost the same age. We lived about 2 miles apart. She was a girl. I was a boy. I spoke English; she spoke English. She knew my name, and I knew hers. We both could read and both were efficient exchangers of oxygen for carbon dioxide. On paper there appeared to be compatibility that any teenaged male would consider ironclad. For if there is one thing teenage males excel at, it is self-delusion.
The words rolled around in my head until they ran full stop against the wall of common sense and the urge for the preservation of my self-esteem. No, I replied, firmly.
You should ask Heather out, Bryan repeated. Just as with the first time, he uttered the words with a solidity and confidence that only someone who was not going to attempt the suggested act could utter. Where Bryans thought process started and ended sometimes was a mystery to me. We were currently occupying the basement of his father townhouse watching The Terminator on VCR. What motivated him to make this particular suggestion during the film I do not know, nor did I fully want to explore the implication of how a movie about a killer cyborg led him to posit such a suggestion.
No, I said, hoping this would get the subject dropped. Arnold was sticking a scalpel into his cyborg eye.
Bryan rejoined, Well, why not?
No. I figured I could wear him down with monosyllabic responses and he would just give up this line of reasoning. If I could hold him off until Arnold started to shoot up the police station, the cinematic violence might put paid to this idea.
Why not? You were going to ask her to your prom last year, Bryan smugly pointed out.
This was true. I had intended to ask Heather to my schools prom. My plan was to ask her after a sports award banquet we were both attending. I figured the euphoria of being awarded several plaques and the recognition of her peers might make her more receptive to the idea. It was a pretty good plan, as far as plans go developed and executed by a teenage boy. Heather and I went to different high schools, and I was pretty sure I was the only person she knew at my school, and no one knew her at my school. So she could go totally incognito with me to my prom and never have to tell anyone about it. In case things went sour, always good to provide your date the option to completely disavow the operation. Fool proof, my thinking went. It would be a great chance for her to enjoy a night of dinner, my clumsy dancing (ok, maybe not so enjoyable), my schools after prom party (and since it was an all boys school we really went the extra mile for our prom and after prom) with complete and total deniability. A black operation prom, as it was. The plan, of course, fell through.
Surrounded by her friends all night, I never got the chance to ask Heather. (Well, that is not totally true, a one point in the evening, I was coming out of the mens restroom as she was coming out of the womens, even as a self-deluded teenaged male, I saw that as being slightly awkward. Mainly because the towel dispenser in the mens room was broken and I was flapping my wet hands in an attempt to dry them as I exited. Nothing like being asked out by a guy with wet hands trying to fly outside the bathroom.) Asking her to my prom was going to take a vast amount of personal courage and fortitude. And such courage and fortitude did not extend to presenting such a question in front of her friends. Now, Heather would have been her normal gracious self and declined (if she declined) politely with a minimum of fuss. Of course, I could not be sure that such decorum would extend beyond her, and never attempted to ask. So rather then ask her to my prom, I congratulated her on her awards and gave her what I to this day hope was a jaunty wave and exited in the same manner the British Army did Dunkirk.
Ok. Yeah, I was going to ask her. But I didnt. So, I, started to finish Bryans insightful question.
You should ask Heather out. Now. Bryan said, emphasizing with a pointed finger. Like him pointing at me was suddenly going to make me more compliant. Although, the pointing finger was a good indication that Bryan was going to see this particular idea through to the end, even if Arnold started killing police officers off in job lots.
Look, this is not a good idea. Seriously. We dont even go to the same school, I hardly see her, you see her more then I do. I was approaching whining. Whining might work. If I was annoying enough at it, Bryan might quit this runaway idea train.
Well, thats true, Bryan admitted. I saw a brief flash of an exit. But I am not the one who wants to take her out, he finished. And the exit shut.
I took a deep breath to start up a fresh round of whining. And no whining, Bryan pointedly said, cocking his fist back, if you do, I am gonna punch you. The sure-fire defense to whining, the dreaded punch in the arm. Check and mate.
Time to resort to basic logic. What if she says no? This was a good point for me to make.
Of course, Bryan being no dummy realized this was a binary solution set and replied, What if she says yes? Also a good point.
And then with a flourish, he produced a piece of paper, I have her phone number.
I snatched out of his hands. Where did you get that? I said staring at the seven numbers. Wow. Heathers phone number. Her number, written in blue ink on a scrap of notebook paper. It was there, in my hands! Heathers phone number! This was big time stuff. In 1980s someone had to give you the number, you could not just willy-nilly look it up. Getting phone numbers required research, dedication, bribes even. Bryan must have cut a deal in the smoky back rooms of high school with the influence peddlers and information swapping brokers. I could see Bryan exchanging a bootleg Calculus I homework assignment for the number or maybe a dog-eared copy of Cliff Notes to Animal Farm over lunch. Or, less exciting, he simply asked someone for it.
Bryan grinned and shrugged, Its a secret. To this day, I do not know how he got that number, and more importantly, I dont even know if it was Heathers phone number. Knowing Bryan, it was probably the number to his favorite gyro joint and he was using it as a prop to encourage me.
If you dont call her, I will and do it for you. Bryans grin was even bigger. I was trapped. Images of the many, many ways this could go so horribly wrong passed through my brain. I could see Bryan pretending to be me. Or worse, Bryan acting like some kind of demented duenna trying to broker a date. The mental image of Bryan in a black shawl speaking with a bad Spanish accent was a sobering one. Allowing Bryan free reign to attempt to engineer a date for me with Heather could only end in the cold fire of embarrassment and the need to wear a mask in public to hide my identity. And importantly, it would make me look like a wienie.
I had to find a way out of this, one that did not result in public humiliation or perpetual wienie-hood. My fate was in my own hands here, I could act, or let Bryan do his best to be helpful and forever suffer the reputation as a guy who could, in the parlance of the times, not take care of his own business. I had to admit, the thought that Heather might go out with me was much better then the cold certainty that she wouldnt. Living in that gray area of might be was infinitely more comfortable then the bright line of knowing that she wouldnt. I had to weigh the pros and the cons of this, comfortable not knowing versus certainty. Potential embarrassment versus definite embarrassment. Taking Heather out Hmmm. The potential of taking Heather out seemed to be winning.
It is 8:30. It is too late to call. I knew that calling attention to the time was only a momentary reprieve. Bryan would be sure to bring this topic up and demand action later. But perhaps I could buy myself some time. A few days maybe. Time to plan. Time to go into hiding. Bryan nodded sagely. I could see he was considering what to do if I went into hiding or fled the country.
After a moment he said, You should give her flowers. Leave them on her car.
I started to protest. Fear, Bryan said, is the mind killer. When your friends start quoting Dune at you, you know you are in trouble.
I gave this new suggestion some thought. Flowers. Hmmm. That was actually pretty safe of an idea. Drop them off under the cover of darkness, scamper away and put the ball in Heathers court. Have her respond. No need to call or have to lock eyes with her and potentially have to embarrass both her and I. But this new plan of dropping off flowers, it was aggressive, yet passive. Passive aggressive, I liked it. Low risk, high potential for reward. And what teen girl does not like flowers? This could work. I could claim to have done something, but at the same time mitigate the potential embarrassment. This, this could work.
Thirty minutes later found us scouring suburban Arvada for flowers at 9:00pm on a Friday. Eventually winding up a Safeway, going through the self-serve florist section.
Howza bout these? Bryan asked, holding up an arrangement of lilies. I pointed to the purple ribbon around the flowers.
It says Sorry for Your Loss. Giving a girl a funeral arrangement usually does not encourage them to go out with you. I helpfully provided. Bryan shrugged and kept looking.
I was looking at roses when he called out again, These? This time it was a large arrangement about three feet in length incorporating grasses, bird of paradise and other bright tropical flowers.
Good Lord! I want to ask her out, not if she wants to be sacrificed to appease the volcano spirits! What is wrong with you? I am going to get some roses."
Roses, Bryan sniffed, are common. You should do something uncommon. Make an impression. Like orchids.
You see any orchids Nero Wolfe? Do you?
Well, it is not my fault you waited to 9:00 to do this. How about this? Bryan was holding a potted iris in hand opposite the tropical arrangement.
Seriously. A potted plant? There are rules and commonly accepted practices here.
What do you mean rules? Is there a book or something?
You cannot just go around giving random flowers or potted plants, you have to stay in the commonly accepted practices and customs. Roses. Everybody gives roses. Its standard. Everyone knows what that means.
Sure if you want to be like everyone else. Try being original. Put some thought into it.
I am putting thought into it! I was raising my voice now. The thought is, here are some nice flowers, lets go see a movie. If I give her the Ye Olde Fertility Godde Arrangement you are holding she going to wonder why someone stacked a pile of sticks and weeds on her windshield! It will look like I tried to build a campfire on the hood of her car! Like one of the Three Little Pigs got a building permit! No. No. No!
I think it looks rather bright and festive.
I am getting roses. End of discussion.
Roses are so very common and unoriginal.
Dont start with me VanWagenen. Dont start with me. I am not giving her funeral flowers, the virgin sacrifice arrangement or any other weird flowers. Roses. Simple, neat and to the point.
You know, there are plenty of decaff coffees that provide the same full rich flavor without the caffeine.
The flowers finally purchased, and into the November night we drove to Heathers house. And, as luck would have it, her car was parked out in the street. We parked about a half a block away. I stepped out of my car and started to walk, well, more like slink, up to it. Then it occurred to me. Why was I slinking? Was I not a man (well, man-boy or boy-man, one of them anyhow)? Confidence, straight spine, take the bull by the horns!
Dont forget the note. Bryan called after me.
I stopped. Note? What note? I asked, slightly deflated now.
The note asking her out you moron. What, you were going to leave flowers with no note? Is Heather telepathic or something? She is just going to know it was you? Bryans voice was filled with amazement that I would be so dense.
I deflated a little bit more. You never said anything about a note. I was pretty sure he did not say anything about the note, as the instigator of this plan, it was upon him to lay out the nuts and bolts. Besides, I was a big picture kind of a guy. A note, should have been part of the original plan and Bryan should have said so. This was minor oversight. But it is usually these minor details that tend to sink the grandest plans and strategies. And there I was standing in the middle of the street at 10:00 at night, in the words of my sainted Irish grandmother like a feckin idjet, holding flowers, with no note. No note, was sinking the grand plan.
You are right. We need a note, I conceded, deflating even more.
Hang on a sec. Bryan called back. I walked the few steps over to his side of the car. He rummaged around and with a flourish produced a greasy Wendys bag and a black Sharpie. Here. Use this.
I looked at Bryan. I looked at the Wendys bag. I looked at the Sharpie. I looked at Bryan. Really? This is what you think is a good idea? I should write her a note on a greasy paper bag? I asked a little forcefully. I was shaking the flowers at Bryan. He was the one who helped get me into this scheme and now he was offering suggestions that would produce that, as my religion teacher Fr. Marclowski would say, sub-optimal results.
Easy there sport-o. You are shaking the babys breath lose. Bryan was pointing to some of the babys breath working its way out of the arrangement.
I grabbed the paper bag out of his hands. No way. Not leaving a note on a Wendys bag.
Bryan looked thoughtful. You could write on her car with the Sharpie. Or the windshield, he offered.
I started to flail my arms, Write on her car with a Sharpie. Yes, acts of petty vandalism are a sure way to impress a girl. Especially if you do it to their car. You know, I think I will just carve a message in the hood with my keys. How about that? Or I could write Heather will you go out with me in lighter fluid in the street and set it on fire. Or better yet, I could pee that message in the snow in the front of the house! How about that?!?! Hunh?!?
Bryan looked nonplussed, Now, you are just being ridiculous. And you are still messing up the babys breath. And you are going to wake the neighbors. He pauses and then continued, Although, I would pay you five bucks if you could actually pee that proposal into the snow.
I shot Bryan a look that would have killed a lesser life form. Bryan, just grinned at me in sincere innocence of man simply trying to help his fellow man.
I guess we will have to go get a note, or a card or something. I finally admitted.
Bryan just kept grinning at me.
And so, flowers in hand, we drove back to Bryans house.
Stomping back into Bryans house, we marched up to his room. I flopped down on this bed, this ninja flower thing was tiring. Bryan started a search for appropriate instruments for which to write this note among the detritus of his desk.
Bryan produced a stack of wide lined paper. I looked dubiously at the stack.
That is a tad sixth grade. Got any Son of Big Chief tablets?, I chided.
Boy, you sure are a picky guy, Bryan said, rummaging through the desk, moving a stack of Fangoria to the floor. How about, he said pulling out another stack of paper, this?
College ruled. Way to narrow. Not enough room to print on that, I criticized. It will make the note seem all scrunched up. And, look how much room it would leave. A note like this should be six lines, eight, tops. Thats a lot of blank paper under that. Too much room, I think
I was cut off as Bryan whopped me on the head with a rolled up Fangoria. He pointed the magazine at me. Fine. No wide ruled, no college ruled. All I have left is my sketch pad.
Glancing at the sketchpad, I opened my mouth to nix it as appropriate, but Bryan was still holding the rolled up magazine. I couldnt tell if he was hoping I would take the sketchpad and just write the note or if he was hoping to crack me on the head again. In a perfect world, I suppose both.
I took the sketchpad and removed a sheet. A bit to large, quickly raising a hand to fend off the magazine. I started to fold the page, But, I think if I rip it in half I split the page down the middle. I should be able to use it.
Good. Here write it with this. Bryan was holding out a deep purple felt pen. It will stand out.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, bracing for another Fangoria beat down. I dont want to use a purple felt tip. One, I dont like the color. And, two, if it gets wet, it will smear and run. A more durable ink would...
A black BIC rollerball collided with my face. Picking the pen up from the floor, I said, This will be just fine. And I started to write the note
When I was finished, Bryan wanted to read the note. I suppose I could have argued, but by this time, Bryan had worn my resistance pretty much down. If he suggested I draw unicorns and dot all my is with hearts, I just may have done it.
I sat and waited as he read it, expecting him to make some comment that would make me re-write the note. I watched his face for the signs. Finally, he said, You missed something.
And what, my jaw clenched in reply, would that be?
I would write at the end, Bryan says Hi.
Get, I said through gritted teeth, Your coat.
And thus began the second attempt.
Halfway there, I was having some doubts. I dunno. Maybe this is a bad idea? You know? Maybe this is too impersonal. I should wait and do it in person. Like, in a month or something. I was whining again. Perhaps it was impersonal, this leaving of flowers and notes. Face to face is better, this was too impersonal, too at a distance. Besides, this was going to leave evidence. A note. Flowers. Physical evidence I was here. This was in for a penny in for a pound territory. No backing out once it was dropped off. Face to face, I could always chicken out again. But this, once committed, I was in.
Bryan listened to my whining as we drove over. Bryan interrupted my steady stream of self-defeatism. Dude, it is not like she is going to burn your house down and salt the earth if she says no. I really dont know what you problem is.
I was going to explain to Bryan the socio-anthropological implications of teenage dating rituals, when he interrupted my train of thought.
Look, if she says no, what is the big deal? You move on and find someone new to embarrass yourself in front of. And besides, arent you used to embarrassing yourself by this point in your high school existence?
Boy, you sure are a font of motivation and support. Dont do any peer counseling, I shot back. But he did have a point. By this my senior year, I was pretty much short on dignity and was rapidly becoming immune to what people thought about me. I parked the car in the same spot as the first attempt.
If she says no, thats the end. But, if she says yes. Bryan let that sentence hang out there.
True, if she said no, really, what was the harm? But if she said yes, well, that was worth a potential no, wasnt it? The pros were really outweighing the cons on this one. Before I could give an answer, Bryan had reached over me, opened my door and was pushing me out of the car. I was half in and half out, trying to keep my balance.
Hey! Hey! I am going! I pleaded, Stop pushing. I extricated myself from the seat belt, mustered my dignity and prepared to move forward with the plan. I heard Bryans car door open, then close.
What, already knowing the answer but asking anyway, are you doing?
Bryan came around to my side of the car. Grabbing me by the collar of my coat, he muttered I am going with you. And there we went. Up the street. To Heathers car. To leave the flowers. And the note. And, there, much to our mutual surprise, there was something already on the windshield of Heathers car. And, it was not flowers.
Sometimes, when presented with a situation so outside of the normal, ones brain shuts down to process the information. Sort of a momentary pause to double, triple check the sensory input to make sure it is being read correctly, so the brain can formulate a proper response. It was Bryan whose brain that was faster off the mark.
There is a deer leg on Heathers car. He said it in a very flat, matter of fact manner. He repeated himself, this time with a bit more emphasis and amazement. There is a deer leg. On Heathers car.
He tried the phrase on more time. There. Is a deer leg. On Heathers car. This time I had more inflection then the first two tries. I think he was going for a fourth try when my brain caught up finally.
Intelligently bobbing my head to show I heard him the first three times and that my own sensory input matched his, I agreed, Deer leg. On Heathers car.
There was, in fact, a deer leg on Heathers car. Specifically, the right rear leg and haunch of a deer. The two of us were spellbound. None of the previous planning covered this. There was no Deer Leg On Heathers Car Contingency Plan Alpha. This clearly fell outside of the parameters of our planning. This was not normal, this was Arvada, there were zoning regulations and stuff. I looked a Bryan. He looked at me. We clearly had no idea what to do, but then the decision was made for us, for we were suddenly illuminated by the security light on the garage coming on.
We hoofed it.
In retrospect, there was no reason for us to flee. It wasnt like we were doing anything wrong at 11:00 at night in the dark next to someone car with a severed deer leg on the hood holding flowers. No one would consider that odd or strange or worthy of comment, or even a call to the police, right? Bryan and I bolted for my car. (Which clearly, if any one had seen us, would have confirmed any suspicions that we were up to no good.) The babys breath was sure taking a beating.
Back in the car, we huddled down in our seats. You should have left the flowers and note, Bryan offered. I paused to formulate a response that did not involve shouting or damaging the babys breath any further.
I should have left the flowers note along side the deer leg? I panted. You realize, I continued, that if I had done that, she would think that I left the deer leg, right? She is gonna think there is some Godfather action going on here with the flowers, and the note and the severed frickin deer leg. No girl is going to go out with a guy who she thinks left her a deer leg. If she thinks I left her a severed deer leg she will flip and her brother will find me, palm my skull like a basketball and shake me till my ears bleed!
Bryan looked offended. I know Heathers brother. He wouldnt do that. He is a nice guy.
Even if he thought I was leaving severed animal parts for his sister? I queried.
Bryan paused, his face scrunched up calculating the odds that Heathers brother would be moved by familial concern enough to enact violence upon my person. Yeah. You are probably right, hed make you cry, was Bryans thoughtful reply. So, whats the plan?
I raised my head over the dash and took a peek. Some one was getting something out a car in the driveway. They did see the leg o deer on the windshield of Heathers car. I watched the person go back inside of the house. The coat and hat they were wearing, combined with distance, proved to cloak their sex.
Coast is clear, I observed, Someone grabbed something out of a car in the driveway. I kept watching, the light went out after a few minutes later.
New plan, I started, I drop off the flowers, you grab the deer leg.
I dont want to grab the deer leg, said Bryan.
Look. I am dropping off the flowers, you grab the deer leg off the car, I hissed.
I dont want to grab the deer leg. Why do I have to grab the deer leg? Why cant you do it? Bryan asked. I understood Bryans reluctance to grab the deer leg. Who knows how long that leg had been severed from its previous owner, it was not an appetizing prospect. Although, it was November, so really the severed limb should be pretty solid.
I stated to Bryan, Because as you so fricking helpfully pointed out early, I am the one who wants to take her out, so you fricking grab the fricking deer-fricking-leg off the fricking car.
Frick. I added for good measure.
Good point, Bryan said, obviously swayed by the logic of my argument and clever use of the word frick, But what should I grab the leg with?
I handed him the Wendys bag. Use this.
So with that, we left my car in attempt number three to leave the note and flowers. We strode to Heathers car. And with drill team like precision, we executed the latest version of our plan. Bryan removed the severed leg of the deer with one hand, and pulled up the driver side windshield wiper with the other one. I put the note under the windshield wiper, along with the flowers. I looked at Bryan. He looked at me. And then once again we illuminated by the security light on the garage coming on.
We hoofed it. Again.
Back in the car, we slid into our seat far enough not to be seen, but still could see over the dash. My earlier assessment of the leg being solid was a bit off. The deer leg was still a little drippy.
Man, keep that thing away from me, I gasped as the eau du deer leg hit me. Bryan was holding with his left hand. It swayed and bobbed over the center console and look as if to liquefy any second.
I am trying, I dont want any of it on me, Bryan countered. Hey, he continued, isnt that Heathers brother?
And sure enough, Heathers brother came down the driveway. He walked past Heathers car. Stopped. Looked. And kept walking.
Thats odd. I observed while dodging the wobbling leg and trying not to breathe too much.
I made to start the car. Bryan cut off the motion with the deer leg and a Hey! He is coming back.
Heathers brother walked past Heathers car. Stopped. Looked. And kept walking.
That is odd. Bryan observed, Why isnt he taking the flowers? Try breathing through your mouth, its not so bad that way.
He is shaking his head though, I added. I tried to get close to the pine tree freshener hanging from the rear view, but it brought me too close to physical contact with the deer leg. I tried to move to the left as far as I could, maybe if I pressed my face against the cold glass of the drivers side window, the cold would lessen the stink.
We should get out of here. I offered. I really wanted to get rid of the deer leg. It appeared to be soaking through the paper bag.
Wait Bryans voice trailed off.
The front door of the house opened, and out into the night spilled Heather, making a beeline for her car. Apparently, Heathers brother told her about the flowers on her car. And, it appeared he told the three friends trailing behind Heather as well.
Hmm. She must have been having a party, Byran mused.
I sunk lower in my seat below the dash. This was not what I had planned. In fact, this was what I as trying to avoid, a big scene involving Heathers friends.
I cannot watch. I tried to cram into the footwell of the car.
Well, she got your flowers now. Bryan was running a play by play. The situation and the deer leg stench was making my stomach queasy. And now they are looking at the flowersoh! Someone found the note.They are reading the note out loud. And they are giggling. No laughing. No giggling.
I stopped him. Are they laughing or giggling? There is an important distinction here, I said from the footwell. The footwell was not only uncomfortable due to its small size, but also due to my teenage angst. And the deer leg was apparently emitting an odor that was heavier then air, as the stench seemed to be settling down upon me.
Some are laughing, and some are giggling. It is a fair split. You know, there were a lot of variable we did not figure into this plan. Oh, they are going back inside. Bryan rolled down his window and stuck the deer leg out of it. I heard something plop with a wet smack on the pavement as I emerged from my position on the floor of the car, rolled down my window and gulped a lungful of clean air.
Bryan looked out the window at what ever had detached itself from the deer leg, That is nasty, then at me, You should write a book about this shit.
I started up the car and drove off. Bryan held the deer leg out the passenger window all the way down W80th Avenue, little pieces blowing off as we traveled. Eventually the deer leg wound up in a dumpster behind Dennys on Wadsworth, unceremoniously ditched as the capstone to the evening.
I never heard from Heather. Never did find out who left the deer leg or why. But I know without a doubt who I could rely on after that night. Anyone who will hold a decomposing deer leg for you while you ninja deliver flowers to a girl in the dead of night, that there, is rare.
Addendum
Bryan, I can say hands down was one of my best, if not my bestest, friend. I lost track of him and he me as the Navy took him around the world and I followed my academic path. We managed to reunite three years ago. And a year after that, Bryan passed away from liver cancer. I am glad we managed to reconnect before the end, and I am glad I managed to tell him, "I love you Moose."
Please take the time to follow the link: The American Liver Foundation
You should ask Heather out.
It was a simple sentence. It turned out to be more complex and involved then a five-word sentence had any right to be.
I looked at Bryan, absorbing his statement. I rolled the words around in my head. You - meaning me, should a suggestion, ask the action verb, Heather the subject of said verb, out. Out meaning the time honored tradition of adolescent males requesting permission of, then taking adolescent females to various local venues in an attempt to get to know one another better. With any luck, such an event would lead to at the very least, the opportunity to go out again. In the late 1980s this meant a movie, maybe a light dinner, perhaps a round of miniature golf. It also meant summoning reserves of self-esteem to be gambled and projecting an air of self-confidence. No mean feat.
Now, there is no reason why I couldnt ask Heather out. I was fully capable of speech. We were, I was pretty sure, of the same species. So there was not a chance I would be breaking the laws of nature or man. We were almost the same age. We lived about 2 miles apart. She was a girl. I was a boy. I spoke English; she spoke English. She knew my name, and I knew hers. We both could read and both were efficient exchangers of oxygen for carbon dioxide. On paper there appeared to be compatibility that any teenaged male would consider ironclad. For if there is one thing teenage males excel at, it is self-delusion.
The words rolled around in my head until they ran full stop against the wall of common sense and the urge for the preservation of my self-esteem. No, I replied, firmly.
You should ask Heather out, Bryan repeated. Just as with the first time, he uttered the words with a solidity and confidence that only someone who was not going to attempt the suggested act could utter. Where Bryans thought process started and ended sometimes was a mystery to me. We were currently occupying the basement of his father townhouse watching The Terminator on VCR. What motivated him to make this particular suggestion during the film I do not know, nor did I fully want to explore the implication of how a movie about a killer cyborg led him to posit such a suggestion.
No, I said, hoping this would get the subject dropped. Arnold was sticking a scalpel into his cyborg eye.
Bryan rejoined, Well, why not?
No. I figured I could wear him down with monosyllabic responses and he would just give up this line of reasoning. If I could hold him off until Arnold started to shoot up the police station, the cinematic violence might put paid to this idea.
Why not? You were going to ask her to your prom last year, Bryan smugly pointed out.
This was true. I had intended to ask Heather to my schools prom. My plan was to ask her after a sports award banquet we were both attending. I figured the euphoria of being awarded several plaques and the recognition of her peers might make her more receptive to the idea. It was a pretty good plan, as far as plans go developed and executed by a teenage boy. Heather and I went to different high schools, and I was pretty sure I was the only person she knew at my school, and no one knew her at my school. So she could go totally incognito with me to my prom and never have to tell anyone about it. In case things went sour, always good to provide your date the option to completely disavow the operation. Fool proof, my thinking went. It would be a great chance for her to enjoy a night of dinner, my clumsy dancing (ok, maybe not so enjoyable), my schools after prom party (and since it was an all boys school we really went the extra mile for our prom and after prom) with complete and total deniability. A black operation prom, as it was. The plan, of course, fell through.
Surrounded by her friends all night, I never got the chance to ask Heather. (Well, that is not totally true, a one point in the evening, I was coming out of the mens restroom as she was coming out of the womens, even as a self-deluded teenaged male, I saw that as being slightly awkward. Mainly because the towel dispenser in the mens room was broken and I was flapping my wet hands in an attempt to dry them as I exited. Nothing like being asked out by a guy with wet hands trying to fly outside the bathroom.) Asking her to my prom was going to take a vast amount of personal courage and fortitude. And such courage and fortitude did not extend to presenting such a question in front of her friends. Now, Heather would have been her normal gracious self and declined (if she declined) politely with a minimum of fuss. Of course, I could not be sure that such decorum would extend beyond her, and never attempted to ask. So rather then ask her to my prom, I congratulated her on her awards and gave her what I to this day hope was a jaunty wave and exited in the same manner the British Army did Dunkirk.
Ok. Yeah, I was going to ask her. But I didnt. So, I, started to finish Bryans insightful question.
You should ask Heather out. Now. Bryan said, emphasizing with a pointed finger. Like him pointing at me was suddenly going to make me more compliant. Although, the pointing finger was a good indication that Bryan was going to see this particular idea through to the end, even if Arnold started killing police officers off in job lots.
Look, this is not a good idea. Seriously. We dont even go to the same school, I hardly see her, you see her more then I do. I was approaching whining. Whining might work. If I was annoying enough at it, Bryan might quit this runaway idea train.
Well, thats true, Bryan admitted. I saw a brief flash of an exit. But I am not the one who wants to take her out, he finished. And the exit shut.
I took a deep breath to start up a fresh round of whining. And no whining, Bryan pointedly said, cocking his fist back, if you do, I am gonna punch you. The sure-fire defense to whining, the dreaded punch in the arm. Check and mate.
Time to resort to basic logic. What if she says no? This was a good point for me to make.
Of course, Bryan being no dummy realized this was a binary solution set and replied, What if she says yes? Also a good point.
And then with a flourish, he produced a piece of paper, I have her phone number.
I snatched out of his hands. Where did you get that? I said staring at the seven numbers. Wow. Heathers phone number. Her number, written in blue ink on a scrap of notebook paper. It was there, in my hands! Heathers phone number! This was big time stuff. In 1980s someone had to give you the number, you could not just willy-nilly look it up. Getting phone numbers required research, dedication, bribes even. Bryan must have cut a deal in the smoky back rooms of high school with the influence peddlers and information swapping brokers. I could see Bryan exchanging a bootleg Calculus I homework assignment for the number or maybe a dog-eared copy of Cliff Notes to Animal Farm over lunch. Or, less exciting, he simply asked someone for it.
Bryan grinned and shrugged, Its a secret. To this day, I do not know how he got that number, and more importantly, I dont even know if it was Heathers phone number. Knowing Bryan, it was probably the number to his favorite gyro joint and he was using it as a prop to encourage me.
If you dont call her, I will and do it for you. Bryans grin was even bigger. I was trapped. Images of the many, many ways this could go so horribly wrong passed through my brain. I could see Bryan pretending to be me. Or worse, Bryan acting like some kind of demented duenna trying to broker a date. The mental image of Bryan in a black shawl speaking with a bad Spanish accent was a sobering one. Allowing Bryan free reign to attempt to engineer a date for me with Heather could only end in the cold fire of embarrassment and the need to wear a mask in public to hide my identity. And importantly, it would make me look like a wienie.
I had to find a way out of this, one that did not result in public humiliation or perpetual wienie-hood. My fate was in my own hands here, I could act, or let Bryan do his best to be helpful and forever suffer the reputation as a guy who could, in the parlance of the times, not take care of his own business. I had to admit, the thought that Heather might go out with me was much better then the cold certainty that she wouldnt. Living in that gray area of might be was infinitely more comfortable then the bright line of knowing that she wouldnt. I had to weigh the pros and the cons of this, comfortable not knowing versus certainty. Potential embarrassment versus definite embarrassment. Taking Heather out Hmmm. The potential of taking Heather out seemed to be winning.
It is 8:30. It is too late to call. I knew that calling attention to the time was only a momentary reprieve. Bryan would be sure to bring this topic up and demand action later. But perhaps I could buy myself some time. A few days maybe. Time to plan. Time to go into hiding. Bryan nodded sagely. I could see he was considering what to do if I went into hiding or fled the country.
After a moment he said, You should give her flowers. Leave them on her car.
I started to protest. Fear, Bryan said, is the mind killer. When your friends start quoting Dune at you, you know you are in trouble.
I gave this new suggestion some thought. Flowers. Hmmm. That was actually pretty safe of an idea. Drop them off under the cover of darkness, scamper away and put the ball in Heathers court. Have her respond. No need to call or have to lock eyes with her and potentially have to embarrass both her and I. But this new plan of dropping off flowers, it was aggressive, yet passive. Passive aggressive, I liked it. Low risk, high potential for reward. And what teen girl does not like flowers? This could work. I could claim to have done something, but at the same time mitigate the potential embarrassment. This, this could work.
Thirty minutes later found us scouring suburban Arvada for flowers at 9:00pm on a Friday. Eventually winding up a Safeway, going through the self-serve florist section.
Howza bout these? Bryan asked, holding up an arrangement of lilies. I pointed to the purple ribbon around the flowers.
It says Sorry for Your Loss. Giving a girl a funeral arrangement usually does not encourage them to go out with you. I helpfully provided. Bryan shrugged and kept looking.
I was looking at roses when he called out again, These? This time it was a large arrangement about three feet in length incorporating grasses, bird of paradise and other bright tropical flowers.
Good Lord! I want to ask her out, not if she wants to be sacrificed to appease the volcano spirits! What is wrong with you? I am going to get some roses."
Roses, Bryan sniffed, are common. You should do something uncommon. Make an impression. Like orchids.
You see any orchids Nero Wolfe? Do you?
Well, it is not my fault you waited to 9:00 to do this. How about this? Bryan was holding a potted iris in hand opposite the tropical arrangement.
Seriously. A potted plant? There are rules and commonly accepted practices here.
What do you mean rules? Is there a book or something?
You cannot just go around giving random flowers or potted plants, you have to stay in the commonly accepted practices and customs. Roses. Everybody gives roses. Its standard. Everyone knows what that means.
Sure if you want to be like everyone else. Try being original. Put some thought into it.
I am putting thought into it! I was raising my voice now. The thought is, here are some nice flowers, lets go see a movie. If I give her the Ye Olde Fertility Godde Arrangement you are holding she going to wonder why someone stacked a pile of sticks and weeds on her windshield! It will look like I tried to build a campfire on the hood of her car! Like one of the Three Little Pigs got a building permit! No. No. No!
I think it looks rather bright and festive.
I am getting roses. End of discussion.
Roses are so very common and unoriginal.
Dont start with me VanWagenen. Dont start with me. I am not giving her funeral flowers, the virgin sacrifice arrangement or any other weird flowers. Roses. Simple, neat and to the point.
You know, there are plenty of decaff coffees that provide the same full rich flavor without the caffeine.
The flowers finally purchased, and into the November night we drove to Heathers house. And, as luck would have it, her car was parked out in the street. We parked about a half a block away. I stepped out of my car and started to walk, well, more like slink, up to it. Then it occurred to me. Why was I slinking? Was I not a man (well, man-boy or boy-man, one of them anyhow)? Confidence, straight spine, take the bull by the horns!
Dont forget the note. Bryan called after me.
I stopped. Note? What note? I asked, slightly deflated now.
The note asking her out you moron. What, you were going to leave flowers with no note? Is Heather telepathic or something? She is just going to know it was you? Bryans voice was filled with amazement that I would be so dense.
I deflated a little bit more. You never said anything about a note. I was pretty sure he did not say anything about the note, as the instigator of this plan, it was upon him to lay out the nuts and bolts. Besides, I was a big picture kind of a guy. A note, should have been part of the original plan and Bryan should have said so. This was minor oversight. But it is usually these minor details that tend to sink the grandest plans and strategies. And there I was standing in the middle of the street at 10:00 at night, in the words of my sainted Irish grandmother like a feckin idjet, holding flowers, with no note. No note, was sinking the grand plan.
You are right. We need a note, I conceded, deflating even more.
Hang on a sec. Bryan called back. I walked the few steps over to his side of the car. He rummaged around and with a flourish produced a greasy Wendys bag and a black Sharpie. Here. Use this.
I looked at Bryan. I looked at the Wendys bag. I looked at the Sharpie. I looked at Bryan. Really? This is what you think is a good idea? I should write her a note on a greasy paper bag? I asked a little forcefully. I was shaking the flowers at Bryan. He was the one who helped get me into this scheme and now he was offering suggestions that would produce that, as my religion teacher Fr. Marclowski would say, sub-optimal results.
Easy there sport-o. You are shaking the babys breath lose. Bryan was pointing to some of the babys breath working its way out of the arrangement.
I grabbed the paper bag out of his hands. No way. Not leaving a note on a Wendys bag.
Bryan looked thoughtful. You could write on her car with the Sharpie. Or the windshield, he offered.
I started to flail my arms, Write on her car with a Sharpie. Yes, acts of petty vandalism are a sure way to impress a girl. Especially if you do it to their car. You know, I think I will just carve a message in the hood with my keys. How about that? Or I could write Heather will you go out with me in lighter fluid in the street and set it on fire. Or better yet, I could pee that message in the snow in the front of the house! How about that?!?! Hunh?!?
Bryan looked nonplussed, Now, you are just being ridiculous. And you are still messing up the babys breath. And you are going to wake the neighbors. He pauses and then continued, Although, I would pay you five bucks if you could actually pee that proposal into the snow.
I shot Bryan a look that would have killed a lesser life form. Bryan, just grinned at me in sincere innocence of man simply trying to help his fellow man.
I guess we will have to go get a note, or a card or something. I finally admitted.
Bryan just kept grinning at me.
And so, flowers in hand, we drove back to Bryans house.
Stomping back into Bryans house, we marched up to his room. I flopped down on this bed, this ninja flower thing was tiring. Bryan started a search for appropriate instruments for which to write this note among the detritus of his desk.
Bryan produced a stack of wide lined paper. I looked dubiously at the stack.
That is a tad sixth grade. Got any Son of Big Chief tablets?, I chided.
Boy, you sure are a picky guy, Bryan said, rummaging through the desk, moving a stack of Fangoria to the floor. How about, he said pulling out another stack of paper, this?
College ruled. Way to narrow. Not enough room to print on that, I criticized. It will make the note seem all scrunched up. And, look how much room it would leave. A note like this should be six lines, eight, tops. Thats a lot of blank paper under that. Too much room, I think
I was cut off as Bryan whopped me on the head with a rolled up Fangoria. He pointed the magazine at me. Fine. No wide ruled, no college ruled. All I have left is my sketch pad.
Glancing at the sketchpad, I opened my mouth to nix it as appropriate, but Bryan was still holding the rolled up magazine. I couldnt tell if he was hoping I would take the sketchpad and just write the note or if he was hoping to crack me on the head again. In a perfect world, I suppose both.
I took the sketchpad and removed a sheet. A bit to large, quickly raising a hand to fend off the magazine. I started to fold the page, But, I think if I rip it in half I split the page down the middle. I should be able to use it.
Good. Here write it with this. Bryan was holding out a deep purple felt pen. It will stand out.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, bracing for another Fangoria beat down. I dont want to use a purple felt tip. One, I dont like the color. And, two, if it gets wet, it will smear and run. A more durable ink would...
A black BIC rollerball collided with my face. Picking the pen up from the floor, I said, This will be just fine. And I started to write the note
When I was finished, Bryan wanted to read the note. I suppose I could have argued, but by this time, Bryan had worn my resistance pretty much down. If he suggested I draw unicorns and dot all my is with hearts, I just may have done it.
I sat and waited as he read it, expecting him to make some comment that would make me re-write the note. I watched his face for the signs. Finally, he said, You missed something.
And what, my jaw clenched in reply, would that be?
I would write at the end, Bryan says Hi.
Get, I said through gritted teeth, Your coat.
And thus began the second attempt.
Halfway there, I was having some doubts. I dunno. Maybe this is a bad idea? You know? Maybe this is too impersonal. I should wait and do it in person. Like, in a month or something. I was whining again. Perhaps it was impersonal, this leaving of flowers and notes. Face to face is better, this was too impersonal, too at a distance. Besides, this was going to leave evidence. A note. Flowers. Physical evidence I was here. This was in for a penny in for a pound territory. No backing out once it was dropped off. Face to face, I could always chicken out again. But this, once committed, I was in.
Bryan listened to my whining as we drove over. Bryan interrupted my steady stream of self-defeatism. Dude, it is not like she is going to burn your house down and salt the earth if she says no. I really dont know what you problem is.
I was going to explain to Bryan the socio-anthropological implications of teenage dating rituals, when he interrupted my train of thought.
Look, if she says no, what is the big deal? You move on and find someone new to embarrass yourself in front of. And besides, arent you used to embarrassing yourself by this point in your high school existence?
Boy, you sure are a font of motivation and support. Dont do any peer counseling, I shot back. But he did have a point. By this my senior year, I was pretty much short on dignity and was rapidly becoming immune to what people thought about me. I parked the car in the same spot as the first attempt.
If she says no, thats the end. But, if she says yes. Bryan let that sentence hang out there.
True, if she said no, really, what was the harm? But if she said yes, well, that was worth a potential no, wasnt it? The pros were really outweighing the cons on this one. Before I could give an answer, Bryan had reached over me, opened my door and was pushing me out of the car. I was half in and half out, trying to keep my balance.
Hey! Hey! I am going! I pleaded, Stop pushing. I extricated myself from the seat belt, mustered my dignity and prepared to move forward with the plan. I heard Bryans car door open, then close.
What, already knowing the answer but asking anyway, are you doing?
Bryan came around to my side of the car. Grabbing me by the collar of my coat, he muttered I am going with you. And there we went. Up the street. To Heathers car. To leave the flowers. And the note. And, there, much to our mutual surprise, there was something already on the windshield of Heathers car. And, it was not flowers.
Sometimes, when presented with a situation so outside of the normal, ones brain shuts down to process the information. Sort of a momentary pause to double, triple check the sensory input to make sure it is being read correctly, so the brain can formulate a proper response. It was Bryan whose brain that was faster off the mark.
There is a deer leg on Heathers car. He said it in a very flat, matter of fact manner. He repeated himself, this time with a bit more emphasis and amazement. There is a deer leg. On Heathers car.
He tried the phrase on more time. There. Is a deer leg. On Heathers car. This time I had more inflection then the first two tries. I think he was going for a fourth try when my brain caught up finally.
Intelligently bobbing my head to show I heard him the first three times and that my own sensory input matched his, I agreed, Deer leg. On Heathers car.
There was, in fact, a deer leg on Heathers car. Specifically, the right rear leg and haunch of a deer. The two of us were spellbound. None of the previous planning covered this. There was no Deer Leg On Heathers Car Contingency Plan Alpha. This clearly fell outside of the parameters of our planning. This was not normal, this was Arvada, there were zoning regulations and stuff. I looked a Bryan. He looked at me. We clearly had no idea what to do, but then the decision was made for us, for we were suddenly illuminated by the security light on the garage coming on.
We hoofed it.
In retrospect, there was no reason for us to flee. It wasnt like we were doing anything wrong at 11:00 at night in the dark next to someone car with a severed deer leg on the hood holding flowers. No one would consider that odd or strange or worthy of comment, or even a call to the police, right? Bryan and I bolted for my car. (Which clearly, if any one had seen us, would have confirmed any suspicions that we were up to no good.) The babys breath was sure taking a beating.
Back in the car, we huddled down in our seats. You should have left the flowers and note, Bryan offered. I paused to formulate a response that did not involve shouting or damaging the babys breath any further.
I should have left the flowers note along side the deer leg? I panted. You realize, I continued, that if I had done that, she would think that I left the deer leg, right? She is gonna think there is some Godfather action going on here with the flowers, and the note and the severed frickin deer leg. No girl is going to go out with a guy who she thinks left her a deer leg. If she thinks I left her a severed deer leg she will flip and her brother will find me, palm my skull like a basketball and shake me till my ears bleed!
Bryan looked offended. I know Heathers brother. He wouldnt do that. He is a nice guy.
Even if he thought I was leaving severed animal parts for his sister? I queried.
Bryan paused, his face scrunched up calculating the odds that Heathers brother would be moved by familial concern enough to enact violence upon my person. Yeah. You are probably right, hed make you cry, was Bryans thoughtful reply. So, whats the plan?
I raised my head over the dash and took a peek. Some one was getting something out a car in the driveway. They did see the leg o deer on the windshield of Heathers car. I watched the person go back inside of the house. The coat and hat they were wearing, combined with distance, proved to cloak their sex.
Coast is clear, I observed, Someone grabbed something out of a car in the driveway. I kept watching, the light went out after a few minutes later.
New plan, I started, I drop off the flowers, you grab the deer leg.
I dont want to grab the deer leg, said Bryan.
Look. I am dropping off the flowers, you grab the deer leg off the car, I hissed.
I dont want to grab the deer leg. Why do I have to grab the deer leg? Why cant you do it? Bryan asked. I understood Bryans reluctance to grab the deer leg. Who knows how long that leg had been severed from its previous owner, it was not an appetizing prospect. Although, it was November, so really the severed limb should be pretty solid.
I stated to Bryan, Because as you so fricking helpfully pointed out early, I am the one who wants to take her out, so you fricking grab the fricking deer-fricking-leg off the fricking car.
Frick. I added for good measure.
Good point, Bryan said, obviously swayed by the logic of my argument and clever use of the word frick, But what should I grab the leg with?
I handed him the Wendys bag. Use this.
So with that, we left my car in attempt number three to leave the note and flowers. We strode to Heathers car. And with drill team like precision, we executed the latest version of our plan. Bryan removed the severed leg of the deer with one hand, and pulled up the driver side windshield wiper with the other one. I put the note under the windshield wiper, along with the flowers. I looked at Bryan. He looked at me. And then once again we illuminated by the security light on the garage coming on.
We hoofed it. Again.
Back in the car, we slid into our seat far enough not to be seen, but still could see over the dash. My earlier assessment of the leg being solid was a bit off. The deer leg was still a little drippy.
Man, keep that thing away from me, I gasped as the eau du deer leg hit me. Bryan was holding with his left hand. It swayed and bobbed over the center console and look as if to liquefy any second.
I am trying, I dont want any of it on me, Bryan countered. Hey, he continued, isnt that Heathers brother?
And sure enough, Heathers brother came down the driveway. He walked past Heathers car. Stopped. Looked. And kept walking.
Thats odd. I observed while dodging the wobbling leg and trying not to breathe too much.
I made to start the car. Bryan cut off the motion with the deer leg and a Hey! He is coming back.
Heathers brother walked past Heathers car. Stopped. Looked. And kept walking.
That is odd. Bryan observed, Why isnt he taking the flowers? Try breathing through your mouth, its not so bad that way.
He is shaking his head though, I added. I tried to get close to the pine tree freshener hanging from the rear view, but it brought me too close to physical contact with the deer leg. I tried to move to the left as far as I could, maybe if I pressed my face against the cold glass of the drivers side window, the cold would lessen the stink.
We should get out of here. I offered. I really wanted to get rid of the deer leg. It appeared to be soaking through the paper bag.
Wait Bryans voice trailed off.
The front door of the house opened, and out into the night spilled Heather, making a beeline for her car. Apparently, Heathers brother told her about the flowers on her car. And, it appeared he told the three friends trailing behind Heather as well.
Hmm. She must have been having a party, Byran mused.
I sunk lower in my seat below the dash. This was not what I had planned. In fact, this was what I as trying to avoid, a big scene involving Heathers friends.
I cannot watch. I tried to cram into the footwell of the car.
Well, she got your flowers now. Bryan was running a play by play. The situation and the deer leg stench was making my stomach queasy. And now they are looking at the flowersoh! Someone found the note.They are reading the note out loud. And they are giggling. No laughing. No giggling.
I stopped him. Are they laughing or giggling? There is an important distinction here, I said from the footwell. The footwell was not only uncomfortable due to its small size, but also due to my teenage angst. And the deer leg was apparently emitting an odor that was heavier then air, as the stench seemed to be settling down upon me.
Some are laughing, and some are giggling. It is a fair split. You know, there were a lot of variable we did not figure into this plan. Oh, they are going back inside. Bryan rolled down his window and stuck the deer leg out of it. I heard something plop with a wet smack on the pavement as I emerged from my position on the floor of the car, rolled down my window and gulped a lungful of clean air.
Bryan looked out the window at what ever had detached itself from the deer leg, That is nasty, then at me, You should write a book about this shit.
I started up the car and drove off. Bryan held the deer leg out the passenger window all the way down W80th Avenue, little pieces blowing off as we traveled. Eventually the deer leg wound up in a dumpster behind Dennys on Wadsworth, unceremoniously ditched as the capstone to the evening.
I never heard from Heather. Never did find out who left the deer leg or why. But I know without a doubt who I could rely on after that night. Anyone who will hold a decomposing deer leg for you while you ninja deliver flowers to a girl in the dead of night, that there, is rare.
Addendum
Bryan, I can say hands down was one of my best, if not my bestest, friend. I lost track of him and he me as the Navy took him around the world and I followed my academic path. We managed to reunite three years ago. And a year after that, Bryan passed away from liver cancer. I am glad we managed to reconnect before the end, and I am glad I managed to tell him, "I love you Moose."
Please take the time to follow the link: The American Liver Foundation
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