Twenty years ago I held a secret torch for a dear high school friend. For me she laid bare intimate torments shielded by a gentle generosity with an artistry elaborating the minimalism of a slumping gray haired man unaware a crumpled paper napkin had fallen from his grease smudged windbreaker pocket as he sat down on a Rice Park bench.
Her unfortunate eccentricity a lilting Caly accent drew Minnesota city-teen mockery. Few in high school knew she lived with her openly gay mother and partner. Revelations of their sex life brought comfort--a first snow of safety in the cold pillow of queer identity.
On her Uptown summer porch we shared a pint of Häagen-Dazs rum raisin, the liquor floating through butterfat to the soundtrack of Soul Asylum. On a Chicago visit, in my twin bed, her blond hair dropping down a knuckly spine, thin arm squeezing mine, we slept as sisters.
Viewing My Life as a Dog at the Varsity slugged me in the gut like the 6' 5" basketball center suckerpunching me after I spilled chocolate milk on him in lunch, catching me off guard in a crowded Ramsey Junior High hall. For ninety minutes tears drenched cheeks to salt lips. After the film she looked at me quizzically. Her pale blue eyes were dry.
No comments:
Post a Comment