The Facts of Life and The Dancer, Patrick Sean Lee [best management books of all time .txt] 📗

back later, ok?”
He seemed lost in his thoughts and didn’t answer until I’d gotten to his bedroom door. “Yeah, sure. See ya later.”
I left, very worried that something terrible lay on the horizon for my best friend. Mom met me at the front steps with her hand outstretched.
“Here’s a dollar-fifty. Go on down to the drugstore on First Avenue an’ get a bottle of aspirin. Get some Bactine or somethin’, too. Your father has a headache and some scratches I gotta’ clean up. Hurry up, now.”
“Is he ok?” I asked, taking the bill and change from her hand.
“Yeah, he’ll be fine. I don’t want you draggin’ him out there to play basketball anymore, though. He’s too old for that stuff. Now, get goin’ with you.”
“Ok, Mom. I‘ll for sure hurry.”
I wanted to tell her that it was Pop’s idea to teach me the finer points of lawn basketball, not mine, but decided to skip it. He was probably lying in bed moaning, and needed the medicine worse than I needed to try to correct Mom. She wouldn’t hear my side of the story anyway.
I thought about going in the opposite direction, up to the corner to Mrs. Rashure’s tiny store where I could probably find some aspirin and antiseptic just as easily, but that was in the direction of the Patterson’s house, which wasn’t a good idea at all. After checking to see that the coast was clear, I ran the distance to the end of the block, away from Inky and Mrs. Rashure and Butch…and away from the mortal danger to my stomach because of that switchblade. When I passed the Childs’ house, I casually looked the other way, hoping Clifford’s parents weren’t sitting on their front porch just waiting for me to come by. There was another meeting I had no desire to face.
First Avenue, the street under which the gulch flowed a couple of blocks to the west, was a main artery of sorts, taking traffic from Federal Boulevard, a mile to the east, all the way to the foothills, dozens of miles to the west. The stretch from Meade street to Knox Court, the corner on which the Comet Theater sat, provided a place for Larry’s Barber Shop, the drugstore, a small hardware store, a gas station, and several other commercial buildings.
I arrived at the drugstore, the best maintained shop of the ragged lot, and did my business, thanking Mr. Samuelson for his speedy service before I left. Across the street at the Comet I noticed a brand new movie advertised on their marquee, “The Cyclops”. Lon Chaney, Jr.’s name sat just below the title, and on the color poster pasted in the large window on the left next to the ticket booth, the image of a horrible, one-eyed creature glared out of a jungle setting. In the foreground, two figures, a man, and a terrified woman with her hands covering her screaming mouth, looked out at me, warning me that the thing behind them intended, I guessed, to catch and eat us all. I checked my pocket for the change Mr. Samuelson had given me. Twenty-five cents. Enough for the ten-cent admission, a coke, and a small bag of popcorn. Maybe Jimmy would want to come back later with me for the afternoon matinee, if I could talk Mom into letting me keep the change. With Lon Chaney Jr. starring in it, it had to be a terrific movie.
Five minutes later I turned the corner onto Meade Street and headed home. I’d been humming a song from Elvis’ latest movie, “Jailhouse Rock”, for the last couple of blocks, stepping lively, at ease once again, looking forward to grabbing Jimmy and heading back to the Comet later on.
Halfway up the street I glanced to my right, and every thought in my head vanished all at once, as if a lightbulb had suddenly burned out up there. Standing near the garden below the wooden porch of the small house with a hose in her hand, and looking out at me, was the dancer. I don’t know if she’d disapproved of my loud humming, was put off by my two black eyes, or simply didn’t like me for some other reason. Yet, there she was, staring at me. I was embarrassed and felt the blood in my ankles rush up to my face, but I stopped dead and looked back at her anyway, frozen by her beauty, forgetting all about Miss Marilou Jenkins.
Her hair, the light red-auburn masterpiece, was fixed up in ringlets, and her rouge cheeks were perfectly set above the loveliest, tiniest mouth—even more stunning—and she also wore glasses, now. Not the ugly Allen-glasses that made a person look stupid, but nice looking ones. Ones that didn’t want to make me yank them off and step on them. I imagined removing them, though, and touching her dark brown eyelashes with my fingertips. Finally, after several moments, or days, maybe, of staring like a moron at her, I gathered up my courage and spoke.
“Could you take your glasses off?”
“WHAT?”
Those weren’t the best first words to say, but I was stuck with them now. “Well, I just want to see your face without glasses. Could you take ‘em off?”
“You’re an idiot. Go away, whoever you are.”
“My name’s Skip. What’s yours?”
“None of your business. Skip.
“What happened to your face?”
My face. I’d forgotten about my two black eyes. I must look like something out of a horror movie to her. I had to think quickly, lost in love as I was at that moment.
“I got in a fight. The other guy's in the hospital.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. He was bigger than me, too.”
“One of the guys who was chasing you a month or two ago?”
“No. Someone else. Bigger, too.”
“My goodness! So you’re a tough guy, huh?”
“Only when I have to be, I guess. Would you take off your glasses?” She did, and then dropped the hose and walked out toward me. It was true. The closer she got, the more beautiful she became, like Elizabeth Taylor, only a thousand times better.
“Can you see me ok?” I asked.
“Of course I can! I’m not blind, you know, just a little nearsighted. My eye doctor says he wants me to wear these glasses until I’m fourteen, then my eyes will be better.”
Fourteen! That was promising. “How old are you?”
“Twelve and a half. I was born on September 5th. I’ll be thirteen pretty soon. How old are you?”
Oh Lord, and Mary, and St. Joseph, and…and….”I’m thirteen already. My birthday’s in February, though. I’m older than you—but not much!”
She smiled. I nearly fainted, and wanted to ask her then and there if she’d mind if I kissed her, but I thought that might be pushing it too far, too soon. I’d dreamt about it, fantasized and wondered how far I could go before it all became a mortal sin, but I’d never kissed a real live girl. Except my mom, and that was only on the cheek, thank God. My head was reeling. I felt a dizziness far different than the one that hit me when I’d smoked that first cigarette. An altogether pleasant lightheadedness.
“My name is Carol,” she said reaching her hand out to me. I took hold of it, and that’s when I completely lost control. I felt a dribble in my jeans. I was beginning to pee my pants. Her hand was silk, and satin, and soft, and should I stand there with my jeans soaked, I could have cared less. I didn’t want to let loose of her. Ever. So this is what love did to you, I thought. Made you fall head over heels and pee your pants.
I was brought crashing back down to earth when Carol abruptly pulled her hand out of mine.
“Well, Skip, I have to go. I have to finish watering. It was nice meeting you. Maybe I’ll see you again one of these days?”
I blinked. You can bet on that!

“Yeah, sure thing. I gotta’ go, too,” I said lifting the little bag in my hand upward. “My dad’s sick. Needs this medicine and…when do you think I’ll see you again, Carol?”
She'd turned and was walking back to the hose, across the saturated lawn. She answered without looking back. “Oh, I don’t know. Whenever. I have to go to dance class at two-thirty. If you wanted, maybe you could walk with me. Bye.”
Walk with her? That sounded a lot like an invitation to me. I turned and headed up the street toward my house, looking back at her every other step. Two-thirty couldn’t come soon enough. To hell with “The Cyclops”.
Well, anyway, Pop was probably in a state of near total collapse by then, and Mom was probably cussing a blue streak. As much as I didn’t want to lose sight of magnificent Carol, I took off running—jumping, singing, laughing out loud, and confident that my world had just been thrown through the gates of Heaven into the lap of God. I was absolutely certain love had descended on me for the very first time in my life, and it was more than I could ever have dreamed of.

***

The rest of the day dragged by, towed by snails. Endless, endless seconds, and micro-seconds. I counted every one of them sitting in my room, the radio blaring, the lights ablaze, my stomach doing flip-flops every time I mouthed her name. “C-A-R-O-L”. It fit perfectly, rolled off my tongue so easily, so naturally. Maybe she spelled it Karel, or Carrol, I began to think…or maybe I’d heard it wrong standing there in that swoon? It