 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
|
Coppertone 2
Coppertone 3
Coppertone 4
Coppertone 5
Coppertone 6
Coppertone 7
Coppertone 8
|
|
| Coppertone 2 |
| ||||||
| His airless room had acquired a rather intriguing (skunky, funky) ambiance during the last few months. He had a modest shrine of Christie Brinkley cutouts pinned to his bulletin board. I was obliquely flattered. It indicated that I was more or less my brother's "type". At least when my hair was in the mood to cooperate. I was tempted to search under his bed for the coarser stimuli that he had no doubt secreted from Daddy's porno pile (heavy into BJ's- poor Mummy!), but I changed my mind. I preferred to believe he was waggin' his bag to Christie's sunny countenance, so I chose to preserve that pleasant delusion (one path to well-being). I noticed that the room was unusually dim, and I saw that the venetian blinds were nearly closed. When I went over to open them, I noticed Daddy's big old binoculars standing up on the floor beneath the low sill. I looked through them. They focused through the slats easily. A large yellow object filled the field of view. It was my air mattress. When I set the glasses down I noticed a handkerchief was tucked carelessly under the baseboard radiator. I had a feeling I should lift it gingerly by its corner. My caution was vindicated: the cloth was sodden with Chad's juices. I never thought of elation and disgust as being neighbors, but apparently they are... Chad and I tried to stay away from each other after that- mutual avoidance. This was not an estrangement, but rather an intuitive understanding. We could at least place some obstacles in the path of fate. My self-gratification regimen escalated and, try as I might to envision more appropriate lovers than my twin brother (Bryant Gumbel, Harrison Ford, the mail guy), these images would dissolve and coalesce into a vision of green-eyed Chad at the moment of shuddering climax. We were merrily pumping a handcart to hell- there was no question about that; as I also have no question that our orgasms were simultaneous as he held the binoculars in his left hand and his.. well, you know... Our psychic connection is that close- so much shared wiring, you see. And, frankly, my only regret was that I had slept through my remote seduction. Something had to change. On July 4, 1982 something did. Every year the neighborhood held a block party to celebrate the Fourth. I looked forward to it. For the past few years, I'd been the unofficial wrangler to the half-dozen more-or-less housebroken toddlers I frequently babysat for. I love children and I seem to fascinate them. I think it's my cartoonish helium voice common in pixyish girls of my type. Anyway, I was applying a Band-Aid to the barely visible knee abrasion of an extravagantly bawling four-year-old boy when I first saw him. Pink Izod shirt. Khaki shots. Deck shoes, no socks. Preppy as hell. He had Chad's cowlick and light brown hair. He was wandering around with a six-pack of Heiniken, nodding amiably as he made tentative eye contact with people. It was sort of cute and goofy at the same time. He was obviously uncomfortable and I knew he was alone- no one would subject himself to such awkwardness if there were an option of sitting in the shade with someone you knew. The long-established ties between the neighbors made it very difficult for a newcomer. As a shy person, I was sensitive to this sort of thing. I prayed that he would wander my way. I can't say that I fell in love with him instantly; I waited till he spoke to me. "So, do we have a casualty here?" I looked up. "Not really- Toddy just wanted a Band-Aid like Mikey has. Plus he likes to hear himself cry. Isn't that right, Todd?" The boy laughed as I poked his stomach. Todd pointed at the interloper. "You're gay," he stated matter-of-factly. Males and their jealousy issues. Honestly... "And you're a brat... Now scram." I said, and sent him on his way with a fanny pat. He introduced himself. His name was Ted Novak. He was renting the neglected split-level whose property adjoined ours (I thought it was vacant). He'd been there for four months. It was more house than he needed, he said, but he liked the heated garage. He told me he was just out of school. Med school. He was twenty-nine. He was a doctor of osteopathy, and had been for, let's see, ten months now, and was currently serving out his internship at Vaughan Memorial. He offered me a beer. He sensed my surprise. "Jeez, you are over eighteen, aren't you?" I was flattered, of course. "I will be in two years." I smiled and inadvertently flashed my chromed brightwork. Goddam braces. "Sure sign I'm getting old," he said, shaking his head. I laughed, but I didn't really get it. Apparently, I served as a vessel for his pent-up sociability. He talked about his lengthy education, his pushy, ambitious father, his deceased sister (auto accident, twenty-five years old). I hung on every word. He apologized for his chattiness, and asked me what my story was. I blushed and told him I didn't have one. "Not yet, anyway." He liked that. "Well, I am a ballet student," I offered. I didn't want him to think I was a complete zero. He said he adored ballet. "Good", I said, "you can explain it to me sometime." I was stunned by my own sassiness. He loved it, though. It's weird having talent at something you don't like. It just seems to highlight a presumed attitude defect which people feel entitled to comment on, making ridiculous generalities. "Cheryl's lazy. If only she'd apply herself..." they say. Well, this just in: everyone sucks (but don't take that personally). I realized the ball was in my court, conversationally speaking. The prospect of my gentleman caller abandoning me was suddenly unthinkable. I rummaged through my meager stack of current event topics. I slapped together a doozie, considering what I had to work with. "So who did you want to win in that Falkland Islands thing that they had on the news?" My visitor handled this with commendable aplomb and responded thoughtfully. "Isn't that a shame. Hundreds of young men died in something that will be a tough game show question ten years from now. Terrible. It's so sad." The ball bounced back to me. I had nothing left. Fortunately a thought occurred to him. "Come with me, Cheryl. I want to show you something at my house. You're gonna love it." Sounded promising. The kids were all occupied and accounted for. I hoped everyone saw me leave mysteriously with the handsome stranger. I so wanted to be the subject of murmured speculation, if only for a day. I really didn't have much to say, so I attempted to project what I believed was an aura of inscrutability. I did a lot of that, empty-headed as I was. We walked across the weedy overgrown lawn to his house. A lonely rusting hibachi sat on the wide porch railing. All flaking paint, graying wood and rusting nail heads. Corrugated fiberglass panels liberally employed in the design, their green color drained by the sun of twenty-five summers. Fifties modernism in the Eighties. I couldn't imagine what, well, Ted, had to show me. I did know for certain that my virginity would remain intact. He had innocence about him that I could detect even through my blinding self-absorption. I'll admit to a certain ambivalence regarding this; I was aching to be touched. In spite of my self-gratification compulsion, I can't say I really craved carnal relations- but I did so want to be held and touched and was willing to pay for that with sex. Not that I wasn't curious... He dug a key out of his shorts and opened the garage door. In the middle of the two-car garage was a mountain of silver cloth. It took a moment to discern that it was covering an automobile. Ted wasted no time in pulling the shroud off the car. "Cheryl," Ted announced, "meet Coppertone." He swept his hand with a "Price is Right" style flourish over the most beautiful object I had ever seen. "Let me hit the lights" Ted flicked a switch in the corner and a row of track lights on each side of the car came to life. "Wowie! Um, what is it?" "It's a Corvette." "I didn't think they looked like that." "They did twenty-five years ago. It's a '57. My father bought her for me when I graduated." I walked slowly around the car. It had a two-tone paint scheme- a beautiful copper and beige combination that reminded me of a butterscotch sundae. Fat whitewalls, bright like February snow. Gumdrop taillights set in sliced cylindrical scoops. I examined my distorted reflection in the mirror-like chrome. Neat. On the side of the car, bold parabola-shaped accents extended rearward from the front wheel openings. These were painted a contrasting beige, complementing the car's smooth coppery skin. He grasped the back of my hand and ran it along the rear fender of the car. A crouching cat. "Feels nice, huh?" "Beautiful," I gushed, blushing at being touched. Frictionless and oddly warm (I later learned this was indicative of its fiberglass construction). I walked to the front of the car. Old-fashioned round headlights. Sort of a chubby-cheeked car. A friendly chromed grin. I touched my braces. "I LOVE THIS CAR!" "Her name is Coppertone," Ted kindly reminded me. "I love Coppertone, then," I giggled and stopped myself from hopping up and down. I felt ditzy, and the feeling was good. Ted continued: "Lots of people think that red is the only color that a Corvette of this era should be- but I think this color is so- well- sexy." I felt my cheeks blush. He said sexy. We established and instantly broke eye contact. "I don't drive it much- I use my crappy old Rabbit to get around in- but I'm planning to take a long trip on her twenty-fifth birthday, August the twenty-second. Would you like to come? Love to have ya! I could use a navigator." "I'd love to..." I stalled perceptibly, "Ted." I may have registered a flicker of disappointment as I calculated the length of time this entailed, which diluted my enthusiasm somewhat. This would be my first date- ever- and the seven-week wait would effectively kill off the summer. But on the plus side I would have enough time to get ready. The rest of that day was a merry fog to me. I hung around with Ted all day. I knew this would bug Daddy, so I made sure we sat near him. After all these years I can still say Ted could not have been any nicer to me. If I fawned on him he was kind enough not to display discomfort. He must have been very lonely. He excused himself after the illegal fireworks display (ironically contributed by Wilkinson, the law-and-order zealot), but not before treating with an ice cube a nine-year-old boy who suffered a painful burn when a flaming meteor of burning steel wool (the ersatz pyrotechnic of the sub-teen set) found its way down the back of the boy's collar. I could have been no more proud of Ted had he performed brain surgery with a jackknife. I was rather taken with the talkative and personable young woman I had suddenly become. If my stories were rambling and diffuse (I was into the "he goes, and then she goes, then I go" style of narration typical of adolescent girls) it didn't seem to matter to Ted. He was a good listener and his questions subtly steered me back on topic when I would indulge on my chronic digressions- often causing me make a point when none was intended. Put simply, he made me feel smart and nice- I really liked who I was around him. Such a contrast to the guys I went to school with. All display behaviors and no substance, they inspired little but cryptic sarcasm from me, which even I found tiresome. Of course, they were boys. Not like Dr. Theodore Novak, man of the world, the square-jawed god with the bronze chariot, my first, my last, my only love (not true, but I'm feeling mawkish and drunk on the past- bear with me). That Independence Day marked a point of no return in my life; though I was not aware of it at the time, I was changed forever. The following day, noting my uncharacteristic chirpiness, Daddy (taking the day off to nurse his gin hangover) grumpily asked me if I was "on something". Provocatively, I responded, "It's according what you call something," and flashed a saccharine smile. Woman of mystery. This apparently had the desired affect, because over the financial page he informed me that "that Novak character" wasn't a "real doctor". That he was just a "bone doctor" who had some things to learn about the "real world". Typical Daddy crap. Mummy understood that this would hurt my feelings and mar my rare spell of joy. "I think he's awfully handsome. Reminds me of Troy Donahue, sort of. So what did you two find to talk about, honey?" "Lots of things," I sniffed haughtily, "Current events, the arts... and stuff. Different... topics." I looked to Mummy and she gave me a barely perceptible smirk of approval. She looked to Daddy. "He seems like such a nice young man." Daddy pretended to ignore this. He was steamed, though. I could tell. There was no reason for him to rustle his newspaper at that moment. It meant "can't you see I'm pretending to read?". My life went on much as it did before, but the universe between my ears was brand new. Everything in the world suddenly bore some relation to this man I didn't even know only a short while before. I developed a preening compulsion that seemed to supplant, at least somewhat, my previously discussed compulsion. I wanted to be perfect for Ted, what with our date now less than a month away (I was marking off the days). One night when Chad was off on a canoe outing with the other Dipshits, I gave in to my former compulsion. I stripped naked and scrutinized myself in front of the mirror. A tad short of five and a half feet tall. One hundred six pounds. Little mouth. My pretty eyes- I had discovered an exotic way of applying mascara to the outer half of my lower lid. Cheryl Alvirdsen, Queen of the Nile. My tits and loins had recovered from the sun scorching and had mellowed to an appealing Band-Aid beige, complementing nicely my coppery skin. Caramel and custard. A butterscotch sundae. This color scheme is so...sexy, he said. I smiled. My friendly chromed grill. Pink gumdrops. Curves, concavities and convexities. Chubby cheeks. He said her name was Coppertone. On this night my fantasized lover did not morph into my beloved twin. I'm sure I woke my parents with my rapturous panting and explosive release. I killed the lights and threw myself under the covers and fell asleep to the sound of my joyously thudding heart and the imagined warmth of Ted's embrace. Oh, you make the nighttime race... As is so often the case with repressed and socially inhibited personalities, my infatuation with Ted grew to a paralyzing intensity from our one interaction. Most girls I knew in this situation would go over and bug him at every opportunity and chat his ear off. I, however, chose to hide from my intended. My armpits would dampen and my scalp would itch and my jittery heart would pound when I would catch a glimpse of him folding his lanky form into the pumpkin Rabbit. I knew that my shyness, usurped by the suddenness of our Fourth of July encounter, would be an impediment in subsequent encounters. I didn't think I could compete with the likeable young woman I had been that day. I dealt with this issue by simply not allowing it to happen. And it pains me to say that I adopted an unwholesome and unnerving policy of covert surveillance, which included trying to divine the details of his existence through the contents of his trash. I was able to determine that he seemed to subsist primarily on a diet of delivered pizza, barbecue ripple chips, clam dip and Heineken. One night, during a reconnaissance mission, I spotted a torn, square foil pack lying on the road after the raccoons had rifled through his garbage. I shrugged it off and quickened my pace, but the seeds of insomnia had been sewn. The same little packages proliferate beneath my parent's bed. At two in the morning I sneaked out of the house to confirm Ted's infidelity with this irrefutable evidence. Through tear-blurred eyes I picked up what turned out to be an empty Alka-Seltzer packet. One of many. Fatuously, in my euphoric relief, I accepted this as a "sign" that Ted was meant to be mine. But I wasn't going to talk to him. That would be inviting trouble. Each day that passed seemed to increase my apprehension. My endless sun-baked fantasizing had transmogrified this affable and unassertive man into an omnipotent and judgmental deity of whose presence I was not worthy. I would obsessively scrutinize myself in the mirror tirelessly until I found a new (and, if not imagined, then preposterously exaggerated) flaw, somehow deriving a perverse satisfaction from this exercise. So intense and irrational was this period that I would actually calm myself down with the thought that perhaps he had forgotten about our date. I knew I could not live up to any expectations he had of me. As it was I did have my rich and rewarding fantasy life as Mrs. Cheryl Novak, jet-setter and patron of the arts, and I wanted to preserve that. A date could only mess things up. I wasn't stupid. A week before the twenty-second I was (as always) sunbathing and enjoying a waking dream in which I died in Ted's arms, dispensing hanky-wringing sentiments with each tortured breath- a favored scenario of mine. "Cheryl, Cheryl..." he cried, his soul forever shattered as his young wife's spirit ascended from this wretched realm. "...Cheryl, jeez, did I wake you up?" I opened my eyes to the blinding sun of reality. It was Ted. "Hey, I hope our date is still on for next Sunday..." " Yeah? I mean yup...Yes it is," I said, squinting like a sea-hag. "Would you have any Q-tips in the house? I just noticed what a mess Coppertones' door hinges are. I'd like to swab 'em with kerosene." I stumbled, drunken with sleepy confusion, into the house for the Q-tips. I'm sure he noticed as I dopily (tip-toe stutter-step) dislodged a serious wedgie. I found some swabs in the medicine cabinet. As I shut the door I saw myself in the mirror. I decided to pull on some shorts and a shirt before I went back out. We chatted for a while. I'd forgotten how easy Ted was to talk to. He had me laughing helplessly with a story about how he thought he had lost his car keys somewhere on his acre of overgrown lawn, only to discover after a hour-long search that they were clipped to his belt loop with a keeper he had bought the previous day because he was sick of losing his car keys. Well, he'd gotten an eyeful of me, all right. I hoped he liked what he saw... I became suddenly pre-occupied with the weather and became quietly inconsolable when an Australia-sized cloud formation swept over the Rockies during the early part of the week. "...which should give us that much-needed precipitation through the weekend..." said the weather asshole. I primped and preened and scrubbed and sprayed and cried myself to sleep as a steady rain pelted the roof on the eve of my first-ever date. I prayed to Jesus. For once He listened. "...and this mass of high-pressure, dry Canadian air has pushed this tropical low pressure system and its badly needed soaking rains out over the Atlantic. More bad news for farmers, I'm afraid." "YES!" I shrieked and ran to the window to witness God's considerate intervention. An infinite blue dome over my perfect universe. Thank you! http://maxpages.com/coppertone/coppertone_3 |
 Sign Guestbook |
 View Guestbook |
 den5722@go.com |
|
. |
| Visitors: 23985 |