For the sake of my children, I add this disclaimer so as not to gross them out too awful bad…

This work is a piece of fiction.

Any similarities to real people (or your parents) are purely coincidental….

 

 

I’ll be honest, right off the bat it wasn’t really a love-at-first-sight sorta thing for me.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, he definitely caught my eye and all, ya know, especially with the whole long hair, rocker thing going.

Ok yes, so maybe I DID think he was “hot….”

BUT…

On the same note,

I had a boyfriend, and I guess you could’ve called him a pretty serious one, we had been dating for a little over two years.

We, (the boyfriend and I) shared a few of the same friends, but he was five years older than I was, and so were most of the “boyfriend crowd” we hung around.

Being in the under twenty-one age category, sometimes I opted to hang with my own set of peeps, which at the time, mainly consisted of the “mall-ies.”

The “mall-ies,” would be the word I would now use to describe the community of people who, back then, just so happened to share my same career choice, which was, you guessed it, working at the mall.

I was currently working as second-in-command, aka an assistant manager, of a shoe store.

Before that big promotion, I worked in an upscale boutique that had moved into the mall space beside my job before that, which was where it all started, working as a sales associate in a junior’s clothing store.

As you can see, I, like most of my “mall-ie” friends, was what one might call a “mall floater.”

I had started working at the mall in high school when my best friend and I decided we were ready for the part-time work force, and retail discounts.

She had gotten a job at the record store which was conveniently located directly across the mall from the store I was at.

I remember we had formulated our own method of sign language, communicating and coordinating breaks together, after work activities and important stuff like that.

This was of course well over three decades ago, back before the glorious technology of iphones and texts.

The mall was definitely the coolest place to work, at least for a sixteen-to-twenty-one-year-old.

 

The “Hottie”

The “hottie” was a “mall-ie” too, but was fairly new to our tight-knit mall society.

He had just started working downstairs at the trendy guy’s store, you know the one that sold the infamous Z. Cavaricci pants? Ring a bell?

Anyway, I’m not gonna lie, I had noticed him a few times…

And yea, I’ll admit, instead of hitting the escalator to go back upstairs to my penny loafer empire that was located directly above where I would get my daily nutritious fixings of corn dog nuggets and hourly refills of Coke, I would, more often than not, walk the entire length of the lower level, just so I might sneak-a-peek, nonchalantly of course, to see if he was working.

I would glance in the store, and he would either be folding shirts, or hanging up the newly arrived shipment of Cavariccis.

There he would be, raking back his falling black locks out of his eyes as he would reach down to open yet another shipment box…

And, if by chance, he would catch me looking into the store during my leisurely stroll-bys, I would do a calm, cool and collected shout-out to his manager, Vicky her name was, as to camouflage my true sightseeing intentions…

After a while, I had started to notice that the “hottie” was now walking past MY store, nonchalantly of course, only he had no Vicky to stop and make shout-outs to.

 

And then one day, I remember it well…

I was in the back room dying those ever-so-lovely satin heels for a wedding party (I distinctly recall my purple-stained hands) when I glimpsed back out on the sales floor only to notice that the “hottie” was standing at my register!

Startled, my hand dropped the sopping wet shoe along with the entire jar of shoe dye.  I watched helplessly as both fell and ricocheted off the concrete floor splattering into a bloody purple (and permanent) mess.

It looked as if a massacre of the “Barney” caliber had just taken place. In fact, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if one would pull up the present-day floor tiles of the now Chick-Fil-A, that the remnants of that particular afternoon might still be visible.

It ended up that the “hottie” was a friend of a friend, and the friend too, was standing there with him.

Thankfully the purple catastrophe was hidden by the backroom walls.

I quickly wiped the excess purple-ness off my hands, and without thinking, I went into panic-mode. With my shoe peddling instincts subconsciously taking over, I asked if there was something they’d like to try on, realizing full-well after hearing it spew out of my mouth, that neither the friend, and most likely the “hottie,” were not the loafer type…

We were finally introduced.

It turned out that along with the whole rock star persona thing, he was actually a real musician, and a drummer at that.

We talked “shop,” you know, ‘cuz I was a drummer (or thought I was); what kind of kit he had, what kind of sticks he used, that sorta thing, and then I noticed something else about the “hottie…”

His eyes.

They were pret-ty cool…

Looking closely into them as he continued to explain just why he insisted on using only the Tommy Lee signature line sticks, I noticed that they weren’t your typical human hazel green eyes, but more like that of a glowing ornamental jewel, a peridot perhaps.

I stared into them. Studied them. Their powers appearing to have the ability to lure me in, to consume me, and possibly take me into a place I was not quite ready to go…

Feeling as if I had come across some unforeseen territory, or witnessed some illicit act, I quickly looked away.

The mutual “mallie” friend then invited me over to he and his roommate’s house, as the “hottie’s” band had started utilizing their basement for practices. That night was the kick-off and they were making a party of it.

Being the faithful girlfriend that I was of course, (and beginning to feel somewhat guilty over whatever crazy thing that had just happened between me and the eyes,) I thought it best to be upfront.

I told them that before committing to their invite, I needed to check with the BOYFRIEND first.

There. I said it.

In the depths of my mind, by making this one statement, I clearly justified myself to be able to simply go over and listen to this band practice and hang out. Right?

Of course!

The way I saw it, I had gone over to this same friend’s house a bazillion times! Why on earth would this one time be any different?!

Did I really check in with the boyfriend?

Heck no, that was just for self-justification purposes.

Something inside me thought it unnecessary that he really needed to know where I was on that particular night…

Or the nights that subsequently followed…

The Visits

The “hottie” began to make routine visits to the shoe store and repeatedly started asking me out…

I would explain time and time again what he already knew, I had a boyfriend.

He would just smile, laugh, try and flash those bewitching green lasers at me, leave, and then show up the next day and do it all over again.

I did admire his persistence, and I didn’t mind the visits. He was pretty cool to talk to.

I felt bad, though, for attending those basement practice parties. That might have been looked at as leading him on, so I stopped going.

Plus, I was pretty sure that the “hottie” would be just fine.

He would soon find some other rocker chic to aim those entrancing green-eyed gazes on, the practice parties were full of ‘em.

Deep down though, I did fear that his daily shoe store visits might stop, and I would miss them.

Thankfully, they didn’t…

 

I had started to question the whole relationship with the boyfriend thing.

The margin in age was starting to become evident.
Five years, although not huge numerically, maturity-wise made a significant difference between a nineteen-year-old girl and a twenty-five-year-old guy.

Maybe now would be the time to call it quits…

It was a Friday evening and I was prepared to do it.

The boyfriend had suggested dinner. I would tell him then.

Closing up the shoe store, I started psyching myself up for the big breakup.

Right as I was starting to pull the chain link gate down to close, one of the groupie chics who had befriended me during the basement visits, slipped in. She had stopped by to ask why I hadn’t been over to the jam sessions lately. I told her the whole I’d been busy, yada, yada speech. She then asked if I wanted to head over with her after I closed up.

I told her that I had already made dinner plans and that I really couldn’t cancel.

And I couldn’t.

I had prepared myself to go through with this whole thing, and it would be tonight.

Of course, I’d do it gently, with the whole, “it’s not you, it’s me” script I kept reciting over and over in my mind. I was ready.

 

The Polynesian Wonderland

The boyfriend had informed me we were going to eat at one of my favorite places for dinner…

This would be the long-standing Polynesian restaurant that had existed probably longer than I had been alive.

The décor offered up an electric 1970’s Pacific Islander, disco kinda feel to it. It was really great.

Every corner of the blackened dining room was lit only by brightly colored lights that shone through black backgrounds trimming out the glowing images of Polynesian gods and mythical South Pacific creatures…  unless you opted to order their ever-popular pu pu platter, which would then add an extra blue flame spark to your table.

The artistically painted exaggerated faces of the carved wooden totem poles greeted upon entering as they always did.

We made our way through the palms and bamboo partitions that sectioned off the restaurant’s hide-a-way tables.

I remember we were seated at the center table on an elevated platform, clearly the highest visible point of the restaurant.

It’s as if our hostess could sense a colossal display of fireworks that was about to happen, and she wanted to make darn sure it was center-stage.

When I sat down, the neon “Aloha” sign beamed right in front of me. It seemed to radiate even brighter than I’d ever seen it before, as if to say “Aloha! Welcome! Don’t get caught up in your Polynesian wonderland and forget what’s on your agenda for tonight!”

Yes, it was my little Polynesian wonderland, but it was about to get that much more memorable…

I think it must have been after I ordered, that I made a trip to the ladies’ room.

As I came out of the stall, there standing at the sink was the groupie chic from earlier that had tried to convince me to hang out.

“Hey!!!” She said with bubbly blonde excitement.

“Hey…?”

This was weird…. Had I told her where I was going? I didn’t think so.

“I thought you had plans to hit the basement jam session tonight??” I asked.

“Yea well, but I’ve got something to show ya! It’s out in the parking lot, come on!” She took me by my arm and started to lead me out the bathroom door.

“What?! Wait. I’m like here with my boyfri-”

She interrupted, “Yea, yea I know. I’ve already talked to him. Told him I was gonna show you my new car!”

“What?!”

This was getting weirder by the minute.

“That’s great that you got a new car and all, but-”

“Come on!”  She insisted, still dragging me out of the bathroom, the boyfriend’s eyes fixed on the door as soon as she swung it open.

I motioned to him and yelled across the restaurant,

“She’s showing me her new car!” shrugging my shoulders and continuing on.

He smiled and nodded, giving me a wave of approval. The hostess that seated us quickly popping up from behind the front counter as if she’d missed the first explosion.

When we got to the parking lot there sat her same decade old Toyota.

“This isn’t a new car?!” I said as she continued to pull me towards it.

“I know, I know! But look what’s inside…”  She said this smiling, looking at me the same way Willy Wonka looked at Charlie Bucket when he had just informed him of his inheritance of the chocolate factory…

Sitting in the front seat was, none-other-than, the “hottie.”

He opened the door.

“I missed you,” he said, “so I thought I’d stop by and just say hey… so,  hey…”  Those peridots sparkling more brilliantly than ever, all while the boyfriend, my pu pu platter, and the nosey hostess sat waiting inside.

Although a bit crazy and somewhat stalker-ish, this might would have freaked out any normal girl my age.

Obviously I’m not normal.

It was at that crazy, stalker-ish moment, that I fell in love with him…

 

Not long afterwards, we shared our first kiss sitting in a friend’s orange mg midget, on a rainy night, in the parking lot across from the house that held the basement band practices.

Ironically, this would be the same parking lot (that of Planned Parenthood) where another friend would drive me to confirm what I had already learned from six home pregnancy tests.

The rest is history.

Our story started out sounding like a scene out of “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” and ending more like the musical “Rock of Ages” (the on-stage version, that is.)

We had our fights back in those days. We fought good, but made up even better.

We did things backwards.

We didn’t have the established careers,

The fairy tale wedding never happened,

We did everything wrong, or so “they” say,

But it worked for us, and it still works for us.

In a relationship I hadn’t planned on, and one I didn’t even want at first.

In the midst of that retail metropolis, God intervened. And I’m so glad He did…

 

To reminisce and remember, I feel, is not only good for the soul but great for the relationship.

It’s good to travel back to the beginning every once in a while, don’t you agree?

And it’s on this thought that my stroll down memory lane must end, ‘cuz,

 I’ve got a date with a “hottie!”