I've Just Seen a Face

Before I go any further, I'd just like to say if you watched my recent Instagram story, you should stop reading now and save yourself some time because this post is going to be pretty much a transcript of my story from Sunday night (maybe even with the video thrown in--okay, definitely with the video thrown in), and that's literally all: no deep insights, no reflection, no aha moment to be found. Simple facts and nothing more--

but--

with facts like the ones I'm about to present, who needs more?

***

It may come as a surprise to some people since I'm so apathetic about sports, but I used to be quite the hockey fan, and when I say quite the fan, that's not an exaggeration at all. Not only did I know players' stats from every team in the league, but I also played--and either won or got second place, I don't remember for sure--fantasy hockey with some guys from work. The year of conception of my hockey obsession was 1996, and while oldish people who've been in Florida for a long time or sports fanatics are probably thinking to themselves right now that I'm one of those types of people, becoming a fan because the Panthers had a standout season, going all the way to the Stanley Cup Finals, those people couldn't be more wrong. 

I've never cared about any sport enough to be a fair-weather fan. A team is doing well? Awesome for them, but I still don't give a fuck.

But, dear people who read my blog, you who know me so well, what do I give a fuck about above all else? What could take a girl like me and make it so to this day she could tell you Teemu Selanne scored 76 points his rookie season and in 1996 scored 108 points and played on a line with Paul Kariya on the Mighty Ducks? Or that Tie Domi was one of the best goons? Or that Brian Skrudland, former captain of the Panthers, used to be a Calgary Flame?

Why, a boy, of course.

In 1996, Glenn (spoiler alert: Glenn is not the boy), a longtime hockey fan, dragged me, and I do mean dragged me, to a game. I won't lie: I couldn't stand it at all. I don't remember what it was exactly that I couldn't stand, only that I couldn't wait to get out of the Miami Arena and go home; however, the game's end would bring me no such luck. Back in the old days, if fans waited long enough on the side of the arena, they could see the Panthers as they walked to their cars, say hi and maybe even get something signed. Naturally, this was something Glenn wanted to do, and so I had to do it, too.

Thank the fucking hockey gods.

Why am I thanking the hockey gods? Because it was there, at that Miami Arena side door, that I saw him for the first time: Radek Dvorak, number 9, born March 9, 18-year old rookie, Czech Republic transplant, most perfect man I ever had the privilege of seeing in my entire life. 

Radek Dvorak, whom I became so obsessed with I typed the above info without even thinking hard.

Radek Dvorak, whose (Supra? Celica?) super fast sporty black car I used to follow all the way to the Yamato Road exit in Boca in what I hope were covert high-speed chases.

Radek Dvorak, about whom I wrote the column Devoted to Dvorak in my long-defunct zine.

Radek Dvorak, whose housing development I hung out in for an entire night hoping he'd come home; who I used to watch at practices at Gold Coast Ice Arena; who I actually left work early one night to go and see at Gatsby's so I could hand deliver him three issues of that zine. 

Radek Dvorak, who was on my mother fucking airplane on Sunday night. 

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

OH!

MY!

GOD!

I kid you mother fucking not. 

There I was, standing in the aisle waiting to get to seat 14A, stopped just a foot or so before 12C for a long enough amount of time to have the following thought process beginning the second I noticed the guy in 12C, who was looking downward, talking on the phone:

Hmm, that guy on the phone looks like he's Russian. I fucking love Eastern European guys. He sort of looks familiar. That's not Rustem [guy from the axe bar who asked me out], right? I wonder if it's some Russian guy from the axe bar. No, but wow. He looks awfully cute for an older guy. Wait a minute...wa--I think...is...is that Radek Dvorak? I think that's Radek Dvorak. Look up, look up, look up.

He looks up. Super blue eyes look directly into mine. We stare at each other for about five seconds--do you have any idea how long five seconds is when staring into a stranger's eyes?--I almost die.

I turn to Griffin. I whisper, Oh my God, Griffin. I think that's Radek Dvorak! Griffin tells me whoever it is, he knows I was looking at him because he was staring at me. We were staring at each other, I say.

I turn back around and wait. The man I think is Radek Dvorak hangs up the phone.

Are you Radek Dvorak? I ask.

He says yes.

The man, in fact, is Radek Dvorak.

Radek Dvorak is, in fact, on my airplane. Radek fucking Dvorak is on my plane, two rows in front of the row where I'm going to sit. I feel like I'm going to die.

I open my mouth and say the only thing at this point in time I know how to say, the only words I can think:

I love you.

Silence. We stare. I mean, I just told a complete stranger I love him, what do I expect?

I mean, from the Panthers, like 20 years ago, I say.

You're from Fort Lauderdale? he asks.

Yes, I answer.

We stare.

I'm in awe, I say.

No, don't be, he responds.

Radek Dvorak and I are now having a conversation. In case you didn't get that, I'm now standing in the aisle of a plane having a conversation with the man I was obsessed with and stalked.

We say other things. He tells me he has a hockey school, and I immediately want to have children just so they can go to his hockey school.

We chat a bit more and the line starts to move. I tell Radek goodbye and go to my seat where I stare at the back of his beautiful Slovakian head.

I've thought about almost nothing else since getting off the plane, have had many different iterations of thought.

On the one hand, every time I go through the story in my head or out loud, I'm so happy I want to die. Radek Dvorak was on my plane!

On the other hand, I've wondered, did he know? Did I look familiar? The girl who used to show up everywhere he went? Does he still have the zines I hand delivered? Did he sit on the plane with a gnawing feeling--I know that girl--and go home and look through them for a photo, confirmation that I'm a nut? I could be crazy--well, obviously I'm crazy--but I'm pretty sure I saw recognition in his eyes.

On the last hand, how fucking crazy is life? Never would I imagine a world where the events of Sunday night occurred (the events which I'll be conveying to you in speech below this post in an attempt to convey the actual excitement I felt in case my writing left you with any doubts), not in a million billion trillion years, something that, if we look logically at, tells us indubitably one thing:

You never fucking know. 

Truman Will Always Be Remembered for Dropping the Bomb; I'll Always Be Remembered for My Fuck Ups

"Jesus Christ, I'm 26, all the people I graduated with, all have kids, all have wives, all have people who care if they come home at night, well, Jesus Christ, did I fuck up?"
                                                     
                                                                             --The Wonder Years

I don't think it's in the textbook we use now, but the William Faulkner story "A Rose for Emily" was in every eleventh grade textbook for years. Set in a small Southern town in the years straddling the turn of the 20th century, it's the story of Emily, an aging woman who lived with only her father, an elitist who never let her go on even one single date because he thought no one was good enough. I believe, and this is from memory so don't quote me on it, there's a line that says something akin to, The Griersons always held themselves a little higher than what they really were. When Emily's father dies, she's so lost and alone that she refuses to let his body go or even to acknowledge that he's dead, and years later, after she finally finds a lover, she poisons him and keeps his body in her bed so that she won't be alone.

***

Last week I was looking at a Yankee Candle fundraising catalog for one of my students, initially thinking about how expensive the candles were and that I didn't know how anybody could ever justify spending that much money on candles and then thinking how good the candles smelled and that maybe, just maybe, I would buy one. Help a student out. I was reading the candles' names, first looking specifically for something that had patchouli and then, after not finding one, at the seasonal scents. Apple pumpkin, spiced pumpkin, autumn leaves. It'd be really nice to have the house smell like fall, I thought. I love the smell of fall. Then I turned the page and looked at the winter scents. Christmas Cookie, Christmas Wreath, Christmas Eve. 

***

My parents weren't holiday people. We celebrated holidays when I was growing up, but not much was really done. Maybe we carved a pumpkin once or twice but I could be wrong; if I'm not wrong and we did, I'm definitely right when I say that was the only Halloween thing that would have been done. Definitely no decorations or anything along those lines. Same sentiment for Christmas. Sometimes we had a tree but to be honest, I don't know how it got decorated because I don't remember decorating it at all. I never believed in Santa Claus. Stupid kid things like that (tooth fairies and Easter bunnies and cartoons and not knowing exactly where babies come from or not watching your downstairs neighbors shotgun weed into your seven-year-old sister's mouth) weren't endorsed in my house. 

We all know how it goes. Grown ups either emulate what their own parents did or go as far from it as they possibly can. I chose the latter. Other than pulling out the pumpkin decorations every Halloween and making Thanksgiving dinner, I didn't do very much for those holidays, but Christmas? Christmas was my thing.

From orchestrating designated family Christmas-tree decorating time every year to making the same exact Christmas morning breakfast every year since Griffin was three to Glenn and the kids and I doing Christmas Eve-y things until the kids went to bed and then he and I staying up and wrapping presents and leaving evidence of Santa Claus around, I had Christmas down. And Christmas dinner? Please. The year I got married I declared I wanted Christmas dinner to be at my house and invited everybody I possibly could. I had special Christmas placemats and special Christmas napkins and special Christmas tree napkin holders that I put on special Christmas tablecloths (yes, tablecloths plural because when you invite everybody you possibly can, one table isn't enough). Erin lived with Glenn and me then, and she and I woke up early and cooked a million things: mashed potatoes and scalloped potatoes and broccoli Jennifer and sweet potato casserole and gravy and two kinds of stuffing and rolls and maybe Erin made macaroni and cheese but I'm not entirely positive (unlike how I am entirely positive that we had brisket instead of roast because I totally forgot to defrost the roast the night before and on Christmas Day I had to run to a kosher grocer in Emerald Hills and take what I could get).

I did Christmas dinners for years, and at the peak I probably had 20 people in my house, but just like we know how the following of parental patterns goes, we know how the evolution of life does, too. My aunt and uncle, who moved to Chicago, were the first ones to stop coming. Not long after, my parents moved to Charlotte. My sister soon got divorced, which not only meant her husband no longer came, but my nephew rarely did, either, because he was with his father. Erin broke up with her long-time boyfriend, Ben, and started dating her now-husband, and as she crossed over to his side, not only did she and Ben disappear, but so did her sister and her then-boyfriend, Brian. Curt moved far, far away. I got divorced. Griffin split his time between me and his dad (I got breakfast).

My overflowing house? A thing of the past.

Last year I went to my sister's and her boyfriend's for Christmas: They just sold their house and left the state; Griffin lives in Orlando; Keifer lives in Jacksonville.

I literally am the only one left.

***

I had a pseudo son. About six months after Keifer moved out, while I was in Tampa scoring AP exams, he moved in. The night I got back, we hung out in my room and took pictures and facetimed one of my old students and all talked. The next day he came down in the morning and I made us both eggs. We sat at the table and talked about boys. One night not long after, his boyfriend came over and spent the night, but not long after that, he started sleeping at his boyfriend's or mom's house much more often than not.

About a month ago when I was at Target I saw a Dia de los Muertos cookie decorating kit and, having been a Mexican revolutionary in a past life, was extremely excited. When I messaged my pseudo son to see if he wanted to decorate cookies sugar skull style, he told me to buy the kit.

He's since moved out.

***

I sat there with that Yankee Candle catalog looking at the smells of Christmas and fall, one second thinking about how nice the house could potentially smell, the next second thinking about the way the house used to smell and the second after that about the way the house used to be. The second that came next? I was standing there crying in front of my class as one of my students got up and gave me a hug.

I was just trying to raise money, the girl who gave me the catalog said to the class. I'm sorry, Ms. McIntyre.

***

I just said goodbye to Keifer who I saw this weekend for only the third time in ten months. When he was here, the two of us were talking.

I told him I thought maybe I made a mistake. It's the first time I've ever said those words out loud.

He assured me I didn't. He reminded me of how things were.

I know that he's right, that I'm just feeling sorry for myself.

It's just so hard to remember when I'm enveloped in how things are.