Apologizing
to Mandy
Joshua Siegel
in issue eight
Scintillations
Surf’s Up
A Right to the Left
Hooray Soleil
The Power of Letting Go
Fuzzy Alien Antennae
Storms and Silence
Incredible Shrinking Woman
Apologizing to Mandy
Sex in the Outback
Dream Interpretation
Moody Girl
Younger Self
Single (again)
photography
Meditation
Single Sunflower
Porch
Park Feet
Smith Doors
Subway Guy
poetry
Courage
Fear
Change
Revelations
My Illusion
artwork
Dancing Star Girl
Noire
Nude on the Side
workshops
Play With
Your Words
Writing Workshop
Magic Money
Write or
Photograph
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I am relatively certain that Mandy Carton has no idea who I am anymore. I, on the other hand, still have an entire section of my Amherst college summer program photo album dedicated to her -- an immortal shrine to preserve the memory of my first love. It serves to remind me forever of our amazing three-day monogamous relationship.
When
I was 14 years old I decided to quit playing basketball and
instead tried out for the yearly high school musical
production of Anything Goes. Little did I expect the
havoc this simple choice would wreak on my delicate social
life.
In
my high school there was an unfortunately common perception
among the athletes that theater was for losers (although I
believe the term they used was "art fags"). In
the interest of preserving their reputations, all of my
friends from the basketball team chose one by one to
excommunicate me from their peer groups.
I still remember vividly the day my last friend dumped
me. He'd held out
a lot longer than the others, he explained, because he had really
liked me, but now he was so close to being popular that
he couldn't risk me holding him back.
I told him I understood.
In
the warped world of American high school where one's entire
sense of self worth is often dictated by the table at which
they sit at lunch, losing all of your friends in a short
period of time is a veritable death sentence. Devastated
and depressed, I rode out the year sustaining myself on Led
Zepplin and healthy doses of chocolate ice cream.
When my parents offered to send me to Amherst college
for a high school summer program the following June, I readily
accepted, eager to make my mark on an untouched social slate.
By the time the summer began, I was well into those horribly
awkward early-teenage years known as puberty.
Approximately every three seconds I thought about sex,
or girls, or girlfriends, or the fact that I had never had any
of them.
A fertile imagination, however, compensated generously for my lack of an active dating life. In it, I was one half of a handsome pair (although my partner remained largely without a face), and we were as happy a couple as could be found. We would go to dinner together, take long walks on the beach, and talk for hours -- everything I saw couples do regularly on TV. She was the person who would bring me happiness and liberate me from the tortured life of a high school untouchable. And I convinced myself beyond any reasonable doubt that I would meet her this summer.
Amherst
is a beautiful college tucked away in western Massachusetts.
Its small, green campus is a wonderful place to spend a
summer. I readily adjusted to my new environment.
All of the students lived on campus in dorms, thrown together
into quarters so cramped they could only result in creating
lifelong friendships or mortal enemies. The female dorm
was just across the green. From a key vantage point on
the front porch, I watched as these beautiful specimens came
and went. It was from here that I first laid eyes on
Mandy, awkwardly carrying a handful of books, her curly hair
bouncing with the momentum of her stride.
I knew full well it was against the rules to attend off-campus
gatherings, a fact which made the idea of going to a frat
party at UMass all the more exciting. I was nursing my
fourth beer when I saw Mandy sitting alone on the floor and,
regarding my inhibitions as nothing more than a fond memory, I
approached and sat down beside her. I honestly don't
recall what I said, but it must have worked because come 2AM
we were kissing passionately, completely unaware of the party
rapidly dwindling around us.
I couldn't sleep that night in part because I was sick from
the beer but mostly because I couldn't stop thinking about
Mandy. She was perfect -- five feet two inches tall with
curly brown hair, a robust nose, and unusually defined
eyebrows. I finally had a face that I could superimpose
on the previously featureless co-star of my daydreams.
Joyful scenes repeated in my mind on an infinite loop all that
night and well into the next day.
The following three days I was delirious with happiness and
sleep deprivation. I would meet Mandy after class and
fulfill one fantasy after the next: dinners together, long
conversations, and walks by the river (it was the closest
thing we had to a beach). My dreams had come true.
I was the luckiest guy in the world, or at least at the
Amherst high school summer program.
With visions of lifelong commitment dancing in my head, I was severely ill prepared for the conversation we were to have on our fourth day together. In no euphemistic terms, Mandy explained to me that she had a crush on one of my new friends and he had recently informed her that her feelings were requited. This, of course, did not bode well for our relationship.
I went through all the emotions people commonly experience when diagnosed with a terminal illness. At first, a sharp denial accompanied by an insistence that our relationship was sturdy and sound. Second, a fit of anger in which I disparaged her to the entire summer camp community. Third, a bargaining instinct, compelling me futilely to convince her we should still be together in a series of dreadfully flawed proposals: "If you get back with me I'll give you my entire stamp collection!" Fourth, an acute depression fueled by my failed bargaining efforts. And finally, years later, an acceptance of the entire event.
Throughout
the experience, I stayed obsessively focused on Mandy.
As the center of my existence, she was solely responsible for
everything that happened to me. When I didn't complete
an assignment, it was her fault. I scored low on my
tests, unable to rid the image of her face from my mind.
I was certain I couldn't find a new girlfriend because
she had placed a curse on me.
Looking back on my relationship (or lack thereof) with Mandy
Carton, I realize now that all I managed to accomplish was to
ruin the summer for both of us. Perhaps I owe her an
apology.
That summer at Amherst I didn't fall in love with a person, but with the idea of a person -- a vision I had conceived during the long, lonely hours of the school year. My imagined encounters with her were one of the few escapes that brought me happiness and I was determined to make them real. All I lacked was a surface on which to paint my vision. Unfortunately for her, Mandy was my canvas.
The irony is I never really knew who Mandy Carton was, only who I wanted her to be. I refused to listen with my heart because I had already decided what I wanted to hear.
Sorry, Mandy.
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