Chapter 2.5 Dress Me Like a Clown

Every night, I had the same dream.  I was in Hidden Gardens and I was with...her.

I was suave, smooth and funny.  All of the things I couldn't be in real life.  I made her laugh, made her eyes light up like a million diamonds.  She was practically butter in my hands.  The girl of my dreams and I, falling in love in the place where my parents were married...I knew that if we were ever to meet, our souls would recognize each other because we both belonged to the race of Joseph.

Every night I would have this dream.  Then I would lean in to kiss her...

...and wake up.

Welcome to my life.  At night, I was a devilishly handsome prince but the rest of my life, the awake part, I was nothing but a pauper.  And my princess was still without a name.

Sometimes I felt like Clark Kent, like Par Excellence students only looked at me with disgust because they were unaware that I was really Superman.  If they only knew.  Girls would swoon and guys would know not to mess with me.  I could be a hero, finally, and not just the weird kid who doodled and painted pictures of a mystery girl with auburn tresses.

There were two girls who paid me any mind, but sadly, neither were my dream girl.  One, who was beautiful in her own right, only associated with me because her mother had coerced her into doing so.

And the other?  It was a well known fact that Savannah Chandler was a tad unhinged.  She wanted to save me from my isolated existence.  Little did she know, Superman never required mere women to rescue him.  Luckily, she wasn't speaking to me since I "ditched" her the other day to meet with Isabelle.

Me being friends with Isabelle got more than just Savannah riled up.  Apparently, Carrie's brother Siddhartha was none too happy that his-girlfriend-in-his-own-mind was hanging out with a bottom feeder such as myself.

But, being the stereo-typically dumb jock that he was, he failed to come up with the words to express his feelings.  Instead, he tried to intimidate me with his physique.

I wasn't threatened in the least.  Pretty boys like Siddhartha were future male models who only had muscles for show, not strength.  All I had to say about that fool was worst.Zoolander.impression.EVER.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

"What are we doing here?" I asked Isabelle.

"Go, the name of your dream girl is Penelope Pomeroy.  Does that name sound familiar to you?  It should.  Vince, Penelope's brother is having a party tonight at P.U.R.E. and you are going as my date.  But first, we need to get you a new look."

I was stunned.  The Pomeroys were one of the richest families in town.  My parents had never had anything good to say about them but even so, I knew I was way out of my league.  And Isabelle obviously knew it.  Hence, the makeover.

I sat in the waiting room.  Tammy, the head stylist was busy with a customer and I was in no hurry for this "makeover".  I knew that girls weren't exactly beating down my door, but I didn't mind the way I looked.  Unfortunately, I made the mistake of falling for a girl who would never give me a second glance unless I changed everything about myself.

*     *     *      *      *     *      * 

"How do I look?" I nervously asked Isabelle.  We were standing in front of P.U.R.E. post-makeover.  The clothes were new, crisp and uncomfortable.  I felt like a complete douche.

"You look terrific," she reassured me. 

"Really?  Because I feel ridiculous," I laughed.

"Look, Go, I hope she likes you.  And if she doesn't, then she's not worth it.  I know that I made you get a haircut and buy new clothes.  But honestly?" she hesitated.

"What?"

She frowned and then said softly, "I think you were great the way you were before."

Inside, the party was in full swing.  They were all there.  Carrie Jones.  Vince and Jared Pomeroy.  Asher and Tinsley Horowitz.  Lukas Satterfield.  And somewhere in that bar, was my dream girl.

Isabelle grabbed my hand and led me to the bar.  "You're probably going to need a drink first."

"Please", I said gratefully.

I had never drank before.  When the bartender asked for my order, I had no idea.

"Something green?"  Real smooth, Go, real smooth.

"Yes, I'll have a Spline Reticulator," said Isabelle breezily.  Cool as a cucumber, that one.  Then, turning to me, she said, "she's over there.  Why don't you go talk to her?"

And two martinis later, I finally found the liquid courage to make my way over to my dream girl.

I sat down next to Penelope in my expensive, stiff sports coat and chinos and tried to concentrate on not spilling my drink.

This was the moment I had been waiting for since I was seven years old and I had absolutely nothing to say to her.  She was exquisite, for sure, but somehow the scene had played out a lot differently in my head.

After I had finished my drink, I felt a little less nervous.  I had come here for one purpose only and that was to win the heart of this girl.  But I had always thought that she would have recognized me, she would have felt our connection as soon as I walked into the room.  She was apparently not of the race of Joseph after all.

We made small talk but there was no chemistry, no spark, nothing like my dreams.  Sometimes you make a connection with someone, sometimes you don't.  And she wouldn't even try.  Upon the sight of me, she had already dismissed me as a potential suitor.  She kept glancing over to the dance floor, perhaps looking for a gorilla juicehead more her type.  Her interests seemed to lie solely in shopping, her nails, parties and other people.  It must have been the alcohol talking because I only vaguely remember saying, "I can't believe I obsessed over you for eight years."

I had her attention now.  "What did you say?"  Penelope glared at me.

"Eight years ago, I saw you on the playground."  I swallowed.  "And I've liked you ever since."

"Oh...that's nice."

Here's the moment I'm not proud of.  I had waited for half of my life to meet this girl.  She was everything to me.  And here I was, pouring out my drunk heart to her and it still wasn't enough to budge her?  I was a hotheaded loser who let the alcohol speak for him.

"What, am I not buff enough for you?  Does my family not have enough money for you?  What is your malfunction?" I demanded, standing up.  Penelope got up lightning fast.  Apparently she was not used to being screamed at.

"Shut up," she ordered, putting her hand in my face.

Penelope glowered at me.  She was furious.  I had struck a nerve.  "Yes, I'll admit it.  You're not my type.  I might be shallow but I will not apologize for not being attracted to you."

"Just as I suspected," I muttered.

She shot me a withering look.  "And why were you so obsessed with me for eight years again?  You can't like a person's personality when you've never spoken a single word to them.  You're just as superficial as I am but at least I admit it.  You should really think about losing that chip on your shoulder.  It doesn't do anything for your looks."

 And with one last glare, the girl of my dreams walked out of my life.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

When I was younger, I wanted a bicycle.  I begged and pleaded my parents for one.  My parents said they would give me five dollars a week for washing dishes, making my bed and setting the table.  Every Sunday, I would finish my chores and watch my mom stick a crisp bill in my jar and I would feel a sense of pride for all of my hard work.  I would be excited for what I was about to earn.

When I got the bike, I rode it a couple of the hours the first day, a little bit the next and eventually left it to collect dust.  I went on to pursue other interests, such as painting.  I know that after all that work, it might seem strange to have abandoned my bicycle so easily.  But after the Penelope incident, it all made just a little more sense.

The wanting, the longing, the fantasy was better than the actual thing.  Lying awake in bed, imagining the adventures I would go on with my bike, the places I would visit, were better than the learning how to ride and the pedaling uphill on a hot day.  Such was the case with Penelope.  Thinking about the kind of person she was and how perfect our relationship would be, imagining the moment where our eyes met in a crowded room and our souls conjoined, was better than Penelope herself.  Discovering that she was a vapid bitch and that I was a bitter loser wasn't worth it.  

I think a lot of people are like that.  They love the possibilities.  And when their fantasies become realities, they decide that maybe their dreams were better after all.  Because in your fantasies, Clark Kent always swoops Lois Lane off of her feet and saves the day.  But reality?  The reality is, you might just be some scrawny dork like me who paints pictures of a girl he is terrified to meet.

*I saw P.U.R.E. in the Jemston Legacy and the Real World: Sunset Valley and really liked it.  This is where I got it: P.U.R.E. Bridgeport.