Based on an "assignment" from Taihae. (belated)
Before my married days, I had a string of boyfriends--some good, some not so good, some just plain slimy, but none notable enough to describe. A boyfriend is a boyfriend is a boyfriend. But there was one who got away.
I went to a Christian college for about a year and a half. Part of the curriculum was what was called Practical Christian Ministry. If you claimed a particular belief, then you should be willing to act on it, which makes sense. So, each student was given an assignment--a different ministry each semester. My first assignment was to play the piano at a nursing home every Sunday morning. My second was to man the phone lines of a story program that kids called after school. After the story, if a kid wanted to hang on and chit chat, I was there. Every single one of them hung up. My third was to do something I detested--I was assigned a door-to-door job. Teams of eight would drive to some predetermined neighborhood outside Chicago and canvas the place, knocking on doors and asking if the residents would be willing to talk to us about Jesus.
You know, some people really do want to talk about Jesus, and they actually invite you in and sit you down with a cup of tea. But still, I find the practice extremely unappealing. Anyway, I went to the meeting to receive my assignment, and there in the room filled with dozens of other students was Randy.
I was in love with Randy. He was tall and handsome with beautiful eyes. He had a voice like a good batch of deep, rich, dark ganache drizzled over a warm and gooey chocolate cake. Randy was a radio major and worked the late-night radio program of our school station. He played schmaltzy church music meant to sooth the soul, and at midnight, he would sign off with That Voice. Sometimes I would stay up and listen to the last five minutes of that slop just so I could hear him speak.
So, I was in love with Randy. The problem was, I didn't know Randy. We had never spoken, and I'm not sure he even knew my name. But there he was waiting for his door-to-door assignment. I finagled. I connived. I even lied about having a busy schedule so that I would be grouped with him on the Saturday morning run. Success. At the end of the meeting Randy was my partner and none the wiser of my plan to lure him into my grip.
That Saturday, we went in a van with the rest of the Team to Humboldt Park. If you know anything about this part of town, you know that it has a history of gang violence in the dark hours. But at 8:00 AM on a Saturday, it was a quiet neighborhood with puppies and little league and scrambled eggs. We split up in pairs and chose streets for the morning. The other six would dutifully head off for doorbell ringing, while Randy and I, relative degenerates, would head off to a little shop in town for hot chocolate and donuts. On cold mornings, we would sit in the shop and talk about every subject in our heads. On warmer mornings, we would get coffee and sit in the park to watch a little baseball. We would stroll through antique stores and pretend to be married, asking the shop owners about prices on their dishes and flatware and tell them how nice those things would look in our new apartment kitchen. We had a time.
On our last morning out, we were sitting on the curb at the end of a quiet street--we actually knocked on a door that last day, and the woman in the house argued with us because she disagreed with our take on baptism--anyway, we were sitting on this curb discussing possible plot lines for my next short story, one of our regular topics. We batted around a few ideas when Randy said, "I know. Why don't you write about a girl who is madly in love with this guy. And they spend all this time together, and it just eats away at this girl that their relationship never develops into anything. And this guy barely notices the girl's intentions, and they walk away, and that's the end of that."
Love turned on a dime, and I hated Randy from that day on. A year later when I was in town visiting a friend, I ran into him on Rush Street, and he said, "hey, I'm moving to Minneapolis tomorrow," and I said "good for you." I hate your ass face, and I hope your chocolaty smooth voice turns to vinegar and ashes.
Before my married days, I had a string of boyfriends--some good, some not so good, some just plain slimy, but none notable enough to describe. A boyfriend is a boyfriend is a boyfriend. But there was one who got away.
I went to a Christian college for about a year and a half. Part of the curriculum was what was called Practical Christian Ministry. If you claimed a particular belief, then you should be willing to act on it, which makes sense. So, each student was given an assignment--a different ministry each semester. My first assignment was to play the piano at a nursing home every Sunday morning. My second was to man the phone lines of a story program that kids called after school. After the story, if a kid wanted to hang on and chit chat, I was there. Every single one of them hung up. My third was to do something I detested--I was assigned a door-to-door job. Teams of eight would drive to some predetermined neighborhood outside Chicago and canvas the place, knocking on doors and asking if the residents would be willing to talk to us about Jesus.
You know, some people really do want to talk about Jesus, and they actually invite you in and sit you down with a cup of tea. But still, I find the practice extremely unappealing. Anyway, I went to the meeting to receive my assignment, and there in the room filled with dozens of other students was Randy.
I was in love with Randy. He was tall and handsome with beautiful eyes. He had a voice like a good batch of deep, rich, dark ganache drizzled over a warm and gooey chocolate cake. Randy was a radio major and worked the late-night radio program of our school station. He played schmaltzy church music meant to sooth the soul, and at midnight, he would sign off with That Voice. Sometimes I would stay up and listen to the last five minutes of that slop just so I could hear him speak.
So, I was in love with Randy. The problem was, I didn't know Randy. We had never spoken, and I'm not sure he even knew my name. But there he was waiting for his door-to-door assignment. I finagled. I connived. I even lied about having a busy schedule so that I would be grouped with him on the Saturday morning run. Success. At the end of the meeting Randy was my partner and none the wiser of my plan to lure him into my grip.
That Saturday, we went in a van with the rest of the Team to Humboldt Park. If you know anything about this part of town, you know that it has a history of gang violence in the dark hours. But at 8:00 AM on a Saturday, it was a quiet neighborhood with puppies and little league and scrambled eggs. We split up in pairs and chose streets for the morning. The other six would dutifully head off for doorbell ringing, while Randy and I, relative degenerates, would head off to a little shop in town for hot chocolate and donuts. On cold mornings, we would sit in the shop and talk about every subject in our heads. On warmer mornings, we would get coffee and sit in the park to watch a little baseball. We would stroll through antique stores and pretend to be married, asking the shop owners about prices on their dishes and flatware and tell them how nice those things would look in our new apartment kitchen. We had a time.
On our last morning out, we were sitting on the curb at the end of a quiet street--we actually knocked on a door that last day, and the woman in the house argued with us because she disagreed with our take on baptism--anyway, we were sitting on this curb discussing possible plot lines for my next short story, one of our regular topics. We batted around a few ideas when Randy said, "I know. Why don't you write about a girl who is madly in love with this guy. And they spend all this time together, and it just eats away at this girl that their relationship never develops into anything. And this guy barely notices the girl's intentions, and they walk away, and that's the end of that."
Love turned on a dime, and I hated Randy from that day on. A year later when I was in town visiting a friend, I ran into him on Rush Street, and he said, "hey, I'm moving to Minneapolis tomorrow," and I said "good for you." I hate your ass face, and I hope your chocolaty smooth voice turns to vinegar and ashes.
Comments
Hell hath no fury like a Robyn scorned!
I can only hope that he went on to fall hopelessly in love with someone who couldn't give a damn.
Peahen, it is amazing how thin that line can be, isn't it. I suppose if I had actually had a relationship with him I would made an effort, but there wasn't much of a point. But I also suppose that if I actually had a relationship with him then it would have hurt more.
I do remember later, when I was going through a phase of protesting the strict dress code, I wore a filthy jean skirt and old hooded sweatshirts every day to class. And as I walked into the dining room one evening, Randy yelled from across the huge room, "Robyn, you're a pig!" Everyone in line for dinner turned around to see, and I just smiled at them all because at least I got a little attention drawn toward my ineffective protest.
nothing like unrequited love my dear Robyn ;)
I found it difficult to get past this statement. I've done this assignment, it may not be as sexy as she wants but its more or less accurate, I just have to fit it in with my constant posting.
I know the type. And the Christian take on that type is honestly the worst. I hope his voice turned to dust. I hope he lost it all together.
Once again, your writing is fantastic. I second Rich's comments on the Voice (may it be artifically flavored syrup belched out onto a Cool-Whip confection at Denny's). Nicely done.