It had been only a few weeks. Still, a couple of key clues indicated that our relationship had reached either its pinnacle, in which case it had nowhere else to go but down, or else its nadir, in which case it was time to pronounce Last Rites. You can be the judge.
One clue, for example, was the impromptu picture-show to which my parents and I were subjected right there in our cozy living room. I suppose it was innocent enough. I mean, in just the right circumstances, I’m not sure even my stoic self could decline the opportunity to show virtual strangers my own prized photographs which I keep in my wallet. But I should hope that nothing short of a sub-machine gun pointed at my head would motivate me to display pictures of myself, no matter how cute I thought my feet were. That seems just slightly conceited. Perhaps even a tad bizarre.
Or there was that time we sat in her parked car talking about what teenagers talk about: everything that’s holding them back from the good life, and what they’re going to do to change all that. Informed people usually call that indulging in delusions of grandeur. Anyway, in the course of that front-seat psychoanalysis, I remember asking her what she thought she’d like to do with her life.
After interrupting herself to turn up Garth Brooks warble-out new vowel sounds in “What She’s Doing Now,” she said philosophically—her gum posing no impediment—“I’ve always wanted to work with people’s hair. That’s what I’m good at.” A couple of seconds ticked by and, after an apparent epiphany, she squeaked, “I just love it!” She must have felt like we were really connecting because she looked at me furtively, smiled a little coquettishly, twirled a lock of hair, and, chomping on her bubblegum, asked me, “What about you, tiger?”
And there she crossed a near-tangible line. As far as I was concerned, she had trod on holy ground, defiled it. Only my grandma Mimi ever called me “Tiger,” and even that was rare, a tribute to her Princeton Tigers, of smalltown Indiana fame, and where I was born. I might have been willing to forget the Garth Brooks and the aspiration to cosmetology, even that smacking Juicy Fruit, if only she hadn’t uttered that word. All that remained to do was deftly find a way out, and I don’t mean out of the house.
While I worked on that, pondering next morning over my Rice Krispies, my dad would strike various fashion-model poses as elaborately as he could and act as if he were chewing bubblegum. Funny, dad. Real funny.