[stylist] Writing Exercises from Patricia Foster

[Chris Kuell]

Here's my response to the 'first' exercise.
 First Love

By Chris Kuell

When I was 10, we lived in the suburbs outside of Cincinnati, in what my 
parents referred to as a subdivision. Streets ran periodically north and 
south, east and west, and were named after trees or presidents. Everybody 
had a uniform quarter acre lot, with only five or six basic designs among 
the hundreds of homes. Variations usually involved putting the garage on the 
left, then in the next identical house, putting it on the right. Shrubs or a 
Japanese maple made another clone unique. It was a great place to be a kid, 
mainly because it was totally blue-collar families, with lots of other kids 
to play with.

On one side our neighbors were the Steinhaus family, Dot and Ed, who often 
shared beers and played cards with my parents. They had two kids, and I once 
started a fire with their son Mark, but that's a story for a different day.

To the other side were the Mann's, an older retired couple with four kids, 
all of them grown; three already out on their own. Their youngest daughter's 
name was Vicky. She must have been 19 or 20 at the time, and we barely knew 
she existed until she came home one day in a gold Firebird, with a mythical 
fire-breathing creature adorning the hood. Every kid on the block noticed 
the car, including me. But, unlike the others, I also noticed Vicky.

Our backyard had a chain link fence, because we always had a dog or two, and 
my parents didn't believe in caging them or putting them on a run. So, they 
had freedom and we had to watch where we stepped. What I remember most about 
my tenth summer, was that our backyard had a clear view into the Mann's 
backyard, and Vicky liked to sunbathe on her days off work.

I would find any excuse to go out in the backyard, play catch with Fatima, 
our basset hound, or toss Frisbee to myself, all the while checking out 
Vicky in her lemon yellow bikini. Her long ash blonde hair, her bronzed 
skin, and boobs. Not at all the same kind of boobs my mom or Mrs. Steinhaus 
had; Vicky's boobs made me sweat, made blood flow through my body in new and 
interesting ways. I couldn't get over how Vicky could just sit out there, 
oil coating her tender flesh, so exposed, virtually naked.  It fascinated 
me, and left me wondering why I had the strange feelings I did.

When her parents weren't home, Vicky's friends would come over. Several 
young ladies would hang out, soaking up the sun with Vicky, listening to the 
radio and laughing about things I couldn't overhear.  Occasionally a long 
haired guy or two in short cut off jeans would come over as well, acting 
cool in their mirrored sunglasses. I noticed the guys usually smoked, and I 
would observe Vicky taking a puff or two. It didn't really surprise me, 
after all, she was an adult. However, I did notice she only smoked when the 
guys were around, and she would laugh in a silly way that was different than 
when only girls were there.

As far as I know, Vicky lived in her own world and had no idea I even 
existed. I would wave to her sometimes as she drove by, or speed after the 
golden Firebird on my bike, but she never acknowledged my attempts at 
friendship.

One day, I was tossing baseball in our side yard with my older brother 
David. He was pitching, and I was catching. David was a pretty big kid, and 
he could really hum a baseball. We didn't have a catcher's mitt, and my palm 
hurt from taking so many hits, protected only by a thin layer of leather.

I had just tossed the ball back to David, when Vicky came around the corner 
of the Mann’s house. She carried a soda, her hair loose around her 
shoulders, wearing the type of short shorts and a virtually translucent tube 
top that was fashionable in 1972 and undoubtedly labeled obscene today. She 
looked straight at me and smiled wide, with flawless teeth and eyes bluer 
than any color paint than I had in my paint by numbers kit.

"Hi," she said, and my heart stopped.

I wanted to be cool, grown up, say, "Hi Vicky. Gonna catch some rays today?"
Or, maybe, "Damn, Vicky, you're lookin' foxy today".

I wanted to tell her how I thought of her at night. That I daydream about 
rubbing oil on her lusciously tanned body. That if she ever needed anything, 
I mean anything, just call out. I wanted to sing to her, like David Cassidy, 
"I think I love you."

But I didn't. Instead, a sixty mile and hour fast ball bounced off my right 
temple and I had to be rushed to the emergency room.

I got quite the egg on the side of my head, and I suffered chronic headaches 
for about three months. But, it was worth it, just for that one second where 
Vicky and I were connected, when her attention was focused completely on me. 
The first time I felt special in a way that family can't make you feel. A 
different kind of love, one that blurs out everything else in the world. One 
worth taking a crack to the skull for.