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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, pretty cutie.
This Much Is True 13-May-2005 10:35 p.m.
Wow, you should have seen what I just typed and deleted. Anyway, I feel like writing about this friend I had back in junior high who I will call Hannah, with whom I had some serious fun. I remember the day we sat on that hill by her apartment and smoked some fine oregano, which had, of course, been purchased as pot. We probably smelled like a nice Italian meal afterward.
"Are you getting a buzz?"
"I think so."
It usually seemed as if we were doing something we shouldn't be doing, and I found that pretty exciting after having lived a bit of a sheltered life. Hannah was the door into new worlds.
I loved sleeping at her place, for the parental guidance there was often lacking. Her mom was involved in a cult, and much of the time was out until the wee hours of the morning doing whatever it was they did at those gatherings. Had I provided my own mom with this information, never would I have been permitted to go, so I kept it to myself.
"Is her mother going to be there?"
"Of course." Eventually.
The night we planned to go the late showing of National Lampoon's Class Reunion was one of the most exciting nights of my life. I looked forward to this probably more than any Christmas ever. We were going to be sneaking out of the house! And yeah, her mom wasn't home and wouldn't know anyway, but still, no one on the planet knew we were going, and no way in a gazillion years would my mom ever let me walk from Hannah's apartment late at night to go sneak into an R-rated movie at the theatre. The very thought of such delight was simply glorious, and wickedly sweet like the handful of Almond Rocha you've pilfered from the canister atop the Grundig hi-fi stereo, all of which you eat with your face hidden in your bed pillows so your mom won't see, without giving a single thought to the crumbs, which she inevitably finds later because she's a frigging detective with hawk eyes. It's that good.
Walking there was quite an adventure. Some men don't really care how old you aren't when you're two girls walking fairly late on a Friday night. Probably any night, I imagine. And during the day, even. We made it to the theatre without being abducted, which was good. We bought two tickets for some boring old PG movie and snuck into the radiantly dazzling R-rated feature. Of course, no R-rated movie would be complete when you're 14 without a cigarette shared between you and your friend, so we lit one and passed it back and forth, bending forward on each turn so our heads were even with the seats in order to take a puff without anyone seeing (never mind the smell), which, as you can imagine, is a relaxing way to smoke or do just about anything. But it had to be done. The theatre was nearly empty and we sat way up front so no one would be near us. No one except that one creepy guy across the aisle who eventually decided he needed to get up, walk across the way and sit right beside Hannah, who was closest to the aisle. You know—good news.
We stared at the screen for a moment or two pretending not to notice our new neighbour. Then Hannah looked at me without moving her head, her eyeballs reaching out for help. I just kept my eye on the weirdo because I didn't sense anything positive emerging from this kettle of fish. That dude was a jacketful of freak, let me tell you. I told her quietly it was OK and said we should move. That's about the time I noticed the commotion in his pants. His hand was nowhere to be seen, but something was moving up and down inside the crotch of his pants while he stared at my friend next to him, and it wasn't a rodent who had innocently crawled up his pant leg and was now looking for a way out. We immediately got up, Hannah leaving the row first while I stood and spoke angrily to the little coward with the pecker in his paw. I don't remember what the hell I said, but whatever it was proved effective because he got up and ran out of the theatre, the little bastard.
The excitement of that evening was darkened a bit by this nasty episode. It was strange, this occurrence, because rarely do men ever ruin anything for girls or women. They're so good about not encroaching upon our personal space, so respectful of our bodies, willing to innocently find us attractive from afar without needing to tarnish anything with lewd behaviour. I'm just thankful it wasn't a woman that night seated next to us, because we all know what perverted pigs most broads can be. OK, I'll stop now.
I have had only a small number of friends like Hannah in my life, people who actually listen when you talk and offer rockin' advice, and who even come to your rescue when you're in a fix. Like the day I tooted and everyone in our ninth grade English class heard. Before I continue with this little story, I would like to state for the record that I have tooted only twice in my life, this being the second. The first occurred one day when I was two and I simply don't wish to discuss it.
Our class was doing something (I don't remember exactly what) which allowed us to chat quietly with each other from our desks. I was turned in my seat talking to Hannah, who was not regularly seated behind me but who had sneaked over for a chat. At some point I moved in my chair to get something from my desk, and as I did this, a brief yet perfectly audible toot escaped. Forsaken by my own hiney! Mortification washed over me. I think I froze for a second, hoping time had been frozen as well at the time of the "incident" so that no one had heard. My heart fell through my shoes and I wanted to be invisible more than anything. I wanted to be in a room with a bunch of hearing impaired kids. I wanted to have been born without a butt. I wanted to bolt out of my seat and run home. And then some boy exclaimed too loudly for my own personal delight,
"Linda farted!"
And I wanted to die. But he didn't stop there, no. He was on a mission to make sure everyone knew where the little sound had originated.
"You guys, Linda farted! Did you hear it? Ew, Linda, that's gross. You're just sittin' there lettin' 'em rip."
"Shut up! I did not fart—it was my shoe." And this is where you spend a few seconds, when you're me, trying to recreate with your shoe the sound your butt just made. Everyone was looking at me, as if demanding some sort of explanation, you know, like they never fucking fart when no one's around while they're loading up on Cheetos and Pringles at home watching The After School Special, dreaming that Melissa Sue Anderson or Lance Kerwin is their one and only. Please.
This is where my beautiful friend Hannah stepped in with pure, unadulterated altruism.
"Be quiet," she said with the calm demeanor of a yogi to the boy who was teasing me. Then she addressed everyone who was still staring. "Linda didn't fart—I did. I have a stomachache. Get over it." I can't even express how much I loved her in that moment. No one had ever done anything like that for me, and I felt enormously grateful, and loved.
Early in our ninth grade year, Hannah told me about wanting to go out with Nick, a boy I had liked since the end of the previous school year. I had only told my mom and sister about my crush, preferring to keep stuff like that to myself around friends. Hannah's self-esteem hadn't been doing too well, and she got it into her head that a boy would fix all that. She spent a little time looking around for the perfect guy, and decided one day on Nick, I think because he was there, he was nice, and after all, he was really cute. Not being privy to my feelings for him, she elected me in charge of getting her a date with him. You know, I just wasn't the sort of girl who called boys to say stuff like, "Hey, what's up? Hannah really likes you. Do you like her back?" while chewing a big wad of grape Bubble Yum. So very much not my style. But I wanted Hannah to be happy, so I called Nick to sell him on the appeal of my friend, like a good little matchmaker.
He was glad to hear from me, and told me he had thought about me a lot over the summer and wanted to call, but didn't. He stated several times what a great girl Hannah was, but that he wasn't interested in going out with her. Then he admitted to wanting to go out with me since the end of the previous school year, and said he would really like to take me out. Oh my God! It was pretty exciting. But I kept my attention on the heart of the matter, which was getting Hannah a date with this beautiful guy who totally liked me.
I told Hannah I couldn't get an answer out of him because I didn't want to hurt her feelings, and she instructed me to keep calling him, so I did, with the intent of getting him to agree to go out with her. But what happened was we would have these great conversations, and after a brief time, I told Hannah the truth, that I had liked him, he had liked me, and that we just hit it off even though I had tried to set them up.
As far as I can remember, she didn't stop talking to me right away. But eventually it happened after Nick and I started dating, and pretty soon after that the crank calls began. She and her friend Pammi would disguise their voices and call me every unfortunate name in the galaxy several times a day, hanging up if anyone else answered, with the exception of that one time she mistook my mom's voice for mine. This went on for months and was way before the days of star69 or caller ID. I knew from the beginning who it was, and usually said "Hi Hannah," or flung a few nasty words back into the receiver before they hung up. I had never tried to hurt her and had wanted the same for her that she wanted for herself, but it didn't work out. I felt saddened that she hated me for it. And I missed her.
Anyway, one day someone knocked on the door and my mom went to answer it. It was Hannah and Pammi. She let them in and obviously I was shocked to see her (Pammi wasn't my favourite, so I didn't care either way). Pammi just stood there with her eyes to the floor, pretending to sip continuously through the straw of the McDonald's cup she was holding. Hannah looked right in my eyes and told me how sorry she was for all the phone calls, the horrible things she'd said, the way she had acted all that time. And I couldn't believe I was hearing it, because never had I witnessed anyone admit to something like that; I had only observed people passionately denying that sort of behaviour. But here she was, filled with all the integrity I had known she possessed, standing in my living room, humble and honest and sorry. And I was filled with love and appreciation for having known someone so genuine, so willing to look like an ass in an effort to be true.
Hannah and I never regained our close friendship—we never even tried—but I will always keep her in my heart. And I would rather have a friend like Hannah any day than one who would never call me shitty names, but who would also never stick up for me or be half as true as she was. And I'm guessing, still is.
Hannah, wherever you are, I am happy to have known you.
Quote From My World
"Thank you for liking my shower curtain." -P
Well, I'm off to tell a series of poorly orchestrated jokes to a room full of perverts. Hey, it's better than showing your boobs. Thanks for reading.
Linda
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