Annabelle

 

I had my first (kind of) real, (sort of) girlfriend, at summer camp when I was thirteen. By that time, I had been well aware of women, as adults are aware of women, for perhaps a year or more (otherwise known as an eternity, at that age). Still, I had yet to even touch a woman, in the way that an adult touches a woman, so my skills of seduction, and general charisma, were somewhat lacking to say the least. The camp setting itself was something of a culture shock to me, as it was somewhat exclusive, and the newcomers were drastically outnumbered by the annuals….and this wasn’t just some two week adventure across town, to sleep in cabins and make crafts, this was a two month stint in a completely foreign country, surrounded by strangers beyond my nine year old brother, who I had the additional burden of looking after, and providing familiar and reliable stability to (a skill that has carried over into my adult life all too well). To make matters worse, every friday night there was to be a formal dance, something I dreaded more than anything at the time…for although my experiences with women were almost non-existent at that point, my experiences with dancing were even more inept.

During the first few days I did little more than float down the stream with wide eyes and finely tuned ears. I picked up a few names. Learned a few faces. And from within this new sea of people that I was confined to for the summer, one girl caught my eye. She was my age, or maybe a bit younger, with blond hair and a mousy sort of look to her. I’d notice her before breakfast, while we all stood saluting a flag by the basketball courts; her small face set amongst the ladies across the way; myself surrounded by strapping young lads. I’d notice her walking down the trail, from time to time. Sitting in a circle of friends up on the rocks eating hot dogs on sunday nights; the setting sun easing the lake into a slate blue tone behind her. Until by chance, after two weeks of silent longing for the girl, I found myself in her company…loitering around the steps behind the mess hall, with ample time to chat and get to know one another.

I discovered two unusual things during this discussion; first, that the girl was completely and utterly batshit crazy, and not in any way that I found charming. Her conversation and behavior was, indeed, somewhat repulsive…but I also discovered that despite my extreme dislike of her personality and mannerisms, I couldn’t stop the inertia of my attraction to her, and soon found myself wrapped up in a giggling grammar school love affair, whose romantic trysts consisted of little more than sitting next to one another from time to time, when the occasion seemed to demand it, and dancing together through all of the slow songs on dance night. On one occasion, while walking back from a bonfire late at night, we held hands. On another occasion, while aimlessly bending a coat hanger into shapes out of boredom, I accidentally bent something that vaguely resembled a heart…and later gave it to her, almost as an afterthought, which for reasons I wouldn’t understand until I was much older, completely sealed my fate as the prince charming of her diary.

We kissed, too. Once. At the last possible minute. It is impressive, the things we are capable of doing, once the time to do them has nearly expired completely. We were saying our goodbyes on the steps, me in a tie, her in a little black dress, my parents waiting in the car just a few yards away…and despite my terror, and the enormous expectation, I mumbled a hasty goodbye and shot forward, planting a quick kiss on her lips, and turned immediately to sprint towards my parents car without looking back. The last mental image I have of her is her expression, in the dim of the evening courtyard, just before the kiss…nervous anticipation on her pretty freckled little face; blond hair grazing the black shoulder straps of her dress.

Though we never wrote one another after that, and she didn’t return to camp the following summer like I did, I heard a bit of her from a mutual friend who I was able to track down sometime ago. She had grown up rough, and eloped with some tattooist biker cliche of the wrong kind of dude, and made a living by stripping at the local gentleman’s club. She disappeared shortly after that…but I wonder about her, from time to time. I imagine she’s probably dead by now, though..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Annabelle is dead, Savior, and we pray
that Thou wouldst give us the strength
to lift her and carry her to her grave.

Annabelle is dead, and, Jesus, we’ll
never again hear her gravel-on-the-window voice,
her tail-in-the-door voice.

Annabelle is dead and gone home to Thee, oh Precious Lord.
Welcome her with open arms and spread ’em wide. She’s dead, oh
Precious Lamb, we’re sure of it this time.

She went over in her kitchen with a thud,
scattering her Chicken Surprise for her ill-tempered, little,
pop-eyed, slobbering dog, who ate most of it.

Annabelle is dead and gone and
left us here to carry on and carry her big, fat, annoying ass out to the
grave and bury her deep so she won’t get up even in dreams to HOLLER HER
INSANE SHIT AT US! THANK YOU, JESUS! THANK YOU, LORD, FOR TAKING
ANNABELLE!. I bet she was hard to lift, even for Thee.

Big sale on Tuesday. Big sale.
Who will buy her angry purse, forty pounds of frozen pot pies?
Who will buy her stiff hairnets for failed perms, her fly-speckled glasses?

Who’llgivemeanickelwho’llgivemeadimewho’llgivemeanickelwho’llgivemeadime,
who’ll give me somethin’ for this SHIT?!

Who’ll buy the little plastic church that used to light up,
the busted pink hairdryer, and half a carton of menthol cigarettes?
Who will buy her cracked bowling ball and enough knickknacks to sink the Titanic?!

Oh, who will buy? Who will buy? Step right up! Who will
buy? Who will buy? Who will buy?

Big sale on tuesday…