Sammy Baum, from my second-grade class, had a birthday party that
was the first boy-girl mixer I'd ever been to outside of mothers with toddlers get-togethers.
Sam was a pretty smooth operator for an eight-year-old; a short, stocky Jewish
kid with a preternaturally low, raspy voice -- he sounded and acted with a
maturity and self-assurance well beyond his tender years (imagine SCTV's Eugene Levy in grade school). So, when it was time for Sammy's birthday blow-out of
course there were going to be ladies in attendance.
I recall about a dozen classmates at the
party, evenly divided between guys and gals. It was a warm Saturday afternoon
in late May and Sammy's mother, quickly tiring of having us run rampant through
her house, suggested we go across the street to an undeveloped lot to gallivant
and release some of our cake-and-ice-cream-fueled energy while she stretched
out on the couch with a damp washcloth covering her eyes. Without parental
oversight we quickly divided along gender lines: the boys hung out together to throw
stuff and the girls formed a circle for some game involving chants and
random frolicking. The property had a stream running through it -- in reality a
culvert for storm runoff but in our minds it was a mighty river to
explore. In the midst of our playing I suddenly heard a scream; I looked up and
Andrea Goldberg was on the other side of the creek, shrieking and running for her life.
Andrea was tall (taller than me, anyway),
with blue eyes and pale skin and wore her fine blonde hair in what I imagined
were Scandinavian braids. She was very smart, especially good at math. I loved her
-- we were going to get married and have four children together and she would
invest our savings, a future of which she was not yet aware. As Andrea shrieked
and ran past I felt compelled to rescue my
damsel in distress. "I'LL SAVE YOU, ANDREA!" I cried out (those were
my exact words), leaping into the water to ford my way across and
offer my gallant assistance in the face of whatever had frightened her so. While the water was relatively shallow, I was not
much more than four feet tall at the time and quickly sunk down nearly to my
knees. Struggling through the muck at the bottom of the stream, one of my brand-new PF Flyers came off my right foot, forever surrendered to the murky depths. I emerged on the other side
of the culvert with muddy trousers, a soaking wet shirt and one foot clad only
with a damp, floppy sock. But I remained focused on my mission and
stumbled toward my beloved. "Andrea, are you OK?" She had stopped
running by then, and when I spoke to her she turned to look at me with a
broadening "Why are you talking to me?" look on her face. Another one
of the girls -- I don't recall who because she was not my intended -- explained
that Andrea had been running from a bee, but the bee had flown off and Andrea
didn't need some stupid boy's help anyway.
Now not only had I shed my shoe but also
my dignity. By this time, Sammy's mother heard all the commotion, springing off
the couch to come outside and see what the hell was going on across the street.
She ordered us all back to the house and promptly made me remove my pants so
she could rinse the mud off them. What's left to lose after being stripped of
your dignity (and pants) -- your will to live? I was now completely humiliated,
not only in front of Andrea but all my classmates at the party. Sammy's mother
called my mother to explain the situation and shortly thereafter my mother showed up to take me home (rather than just bring me some dry clothes; Death, take me
now...). My memory of events gets a bit hazy at this point; while I don't know
for certain I left with tears in my eyes I wouldn't be surprised if that were
the case.
School ended shortly thereafter and I
didn't see Andrea again until the fall, when we all returned to start third
grade. She was in a different class that year -- I only saw her on occasion in
the hallway, or the lunchroom, or the playground (this is when
"recess" used to be an essential part of the curriculum). She never
spoke to me, nor I to her. I recall one time when she was huddled with her
girlfriends on the playground and they all burst into laughter while stealing
glances in my direction, which I imagined was the result of Andrea telling them
about the time over the summer when that stupid boy over there was delusional
and thought he was being heroic when he was just being a stupid boy.
I thought I'd never get over the shame and
rejection, and would face a lonely school year without a prospective
life-partner. Then I met Ginger Gerton (you can read here how that and some
other subsequent relationships went awry).
Dear Andrea Goldberg: I may have been the
one with soggy pants but you were the one who was all wet. Hope you're happy
with whatever fop you settled for and I trust he's being a good father to our
children. And if by any chance you are now a financial planner -- could you please give me a call?
