The Frizzy Red-Haired and Freckled Nightmare

Her name escapes me now, but she was a tall woman?well, girl?with frizzy red hair and freckles. Frizzy red hair and freckles have never really done that much for me. And while I wouldn't call her "fat," or even "chunky," she was most definitely a burly girl. But we were in a class together. An Eliot class, of all things. And for some reason, she usually found a way to sit next to me.

I was 18 or 19 at the time?short but still gawky, scrawny body trying to balance a too-large head?studious, yet full of rage and bluster, having only recently discovered the joys of vandalism and petty larceny. Yet at the same time, I was still painfully shy.

She was funny (though most of her jokes, I thought, seemed forced and fell flat), and loud. Loud people always make me wince. She also had this strange tendency to roller-skate everywhere. But I dunno?she seemed interested in me for some reason?and to be honest, I hadn't really been on a "date" in several years. I wasn't very good at that sort of thing.

When she finally asked me out, I agreed. She was loud, yes, and not as funny as she thought she was, and was saddled with all that frizzy red hair, but... I hadn't had a date in several years.

I forget where we went, exactly. We ate something, then wandered the streets. I broke into the Humanities building through a back door (another recently developed skill) because she said she wanted to vandalize something. That was fine by me.

Up the back stairwell we went to the sixth floor (English), then the seventh (Philosophy), covering the walls with ridiculous, absurd slogans and epithets. Again, hers weren't all that clever, to be honest, but I wasn't going to say anything, and she seemed to be having fun.

She wanted to go further and do more and more damage?but I knew the building well enough after hours to know that the janitorial crew was going to be spreading out before long, and I was in no mood to be caught. Despite her protestations at the time, I suggested it was about time to split.

Everything else aside, I had to admit that I could appreciate a woman who'd go a-vandalizing with me.

By the time we left the building and began walking down State St., it was about 10, and a light rain was beginning to fall. I was tired?and a little tired of her company?but when she suggested that she come back to my place to "talk," I agreed. I didn't want to appear rude.

My apartment was small, dark and filthy. I had no stereo or television. I slept on an old mattress that took up most of the floor. When we walked in, she kicked off her shoes and plopped herself down on the mattress, patting the empty spot next to her and looking at me expectantly.

"I need a drink," I said, and opened the aging, yellowed refrigerator to pull out a bottle of cherry wine some friends of my folks had made, and which my folks promptly passed on to me. I returned with two tin cups (old Del Monte peach cans, actually) and screwed the top off the bottle.

"I don't drink," she said.

"This stuff you don't really drink," I told her, "so much as you just try and choke down before you taste it."

"That's okay."

"No?" I asked, and shrugged. "More for me then."

I sat down in a corner, not on the mattress, filled one of the cans and took a swallow, grimacing.

She looked at me with a cartoonish frown. "Don't you want to sit over here by me?" she asked.

Oh Jesus. This is going to be bad.

"Okaaay," I said hesitantly, and moved over onto the mattress. First date in however many years or not, I was in no mood for this.

"I had fun tonight," she said, trying to make her voice low and husky, while dropping a hand on my knee.

By the time 3 a.m. rolled around, she had tried everything?loosening the top buttons of her blouse, trying to put her head in my lap?and she still hadn't gotten anywhere. The more adamant she became, the more certain I was that my pants were going to stay buckled. I suggested that maybe it was time I walk her home.

Part of me wondered why I didn't take her up on it?after all, I was as desperate and horny as any 19-year-old male. But at the same time, I realized that I just didn't like this woman all that much, and the very idea of rutting around with her made me a little queasy.

She got herself together, and I dumped the evening's second empty bottle of cherry wine in the trash. Then I walked her the empty half-mile back to the dorm where she lived, gave her a genteel quick smooch on the cheek at the building's front doors, and turned around. The minute she stepped inside, the skies opened up, and a rain like I'd never seen before or have since crashed down on me, with a wind whipping up so hard that I found myself nearly immobilized.

"Jesus," I muttered, and I trudged along, best as I could. "What a night."

The next afternoon, she called me.

"Hey," I said when I heard her voice. "How are you?"

She was in no mood for niceties, though.

"Are you gay or something?" she asked. "I just want you to know that it's okay if you are."

That caught me off-guard. "Excuse me?" Then I started laughing.

"I just wondered," she said. "After, you know?after last night."

"Oh, Christ. No. No, I'm not gay."

Why is it, I wondered, but didn't say aloud, that a woman who doesn't put out is either frigid or a bitch or a cocktease, and a man who doesn't is clearly gay? Why not consider a few other options?that I'm finicky, that I seem to have some sort of control over where my dick goes?or that I simply find you kind of repulsive?

Instead of saying that, though, I was polite. No need to hurt anybody's feelings. After all, she seemed even more desperate than I was.

Later that afternoon, I ran into Grinch.

"So what happened with what's-her-name?" he asked.

"Nothing at all," I said.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"I'm glad to hear that. You can do much, much better."

(Though again, to be honest, I didn't for the many, many, many years that followed.)

And because I chose to be polite to what's-her-name on the day after the horribleness, she kept calling, kept asking me out again, and I had to keep coming up with excuses.

Since we were living in a reasonably small town, however, excuses?no matter how clever?aren't always enough.

It was a Saturday afternoon a month later. The sun was shining, and I was out hitting all the record stores. Given that I had no stereo, I'm not sure exactly why I still hit the record stores?but hey, I'm blind now and still buy books. It doesn't make any sense.

Having found nothing at all after scouring the last store on the list, I decided to just head on home. Nothing else was going on.

A few minutes later, as I was strolling peacefully down the bright State St. sidewalk, nothing much on my mind, I heard a frenzied screech behind me?

"STOP ME!"

I turned just in time to see this woman, wearing those damned roller skates of hers, bearing down on me fast, arms outstretched, big grin on her face.

In that split second when the brain should decide to run, or duck or at least step to one side and put a foot out?find a weapon of some kind, for God's sake?mine stayed put, frozen, its only thought being, "I'm in a Thurber cartoon."

And then she was on me, bare arms clammy with sweat wrapping around my neck, her momentum nearly driving me to the cement with the rest of her on top of me. I held my ground, though, as she regained her balance and I took inventory for broken bones and contusions.

"Hi!" she said.

"Hello."

"You see? You can't get away from me!"

Oh, that's never a good thing to hear.

"Look, I'm sorry?I'm just on my way somewhere..."

"Yeah, aren't you always."

"It's really good to see you and all, but I really gotta?"

"Not without a kiss."

I could feel my guts slowly begin to shrivel and turn cold.

But just as she was wrapping those clammy arms around my shoulders and leaning in, still teetering on those roller skates of hers, I felt something cold and gooey in my left hand. I snapped away and backed out of the embrace, just as Grinch's raucous, unmistakable laughter burst out next to me. I looked down into my left hand to see the palm filled with translucent green slime.

"Fuck!" I belched, as I shook it off onto the sidewalk.

"C'mon, we gotta go," he said. "We're late."

"Yeah, I know." I turned back to the woman on rollerskates. "Well, goodbye!"

Her face fell, and she waved goodbye.

"Looks like I saved your ass. Again," he said when we were out of earshot.

"And I thank you for that. Let me buy you a beer."