Roxanne was my first girlfriend. I’d been on a couple
of dates prior to meeting her, but nothing that prepared me for this. There
were problems with the relationship from the start, the most notable being age
difference. I was in my first year of college, she was in high school. Not just
high school, grade nine. Four years difference. At my age now, four years would
be no difference at all, but back then? She was a child, and I should never
have gone down that road. What was I thinking? The answer: I wasn’t, not at
all. In my defense, there were extenuating circumstances that, had they not
been in place, there would have been no introduction, and no possibility of
what followed. Nothing would have happened. The first was, for whatever reason,
she was hanging out with my friends, who were in grade 13. She was mature for
her age, and all things considered, my mind did not actually trigger on the
fact that she was in grade 9. She was hanging out with my friends, after all.
Should my mind have? You bet your ass it should have. But, sadly, it did not.
My
first year of college was spent travelling back and forth, to and from home.
Every Friday, I’d pack up, and hop on the bus at 7:30, arriving home at 11:30
in Timmins. Every weekend. In retrospect, that was not the best atmosphere for
making lasting friends, but I was 18, a young 18, and most my classmates were
19 or 20, although there were a number of mature students, as well. That may
not seem a big difference, but it was to me, then. I suppose my mind was still
in high school; there was a divide between grades, a divide between ages. If
only that sense of divide had reared its head in Roxanne’s case.
Then
the introduction happened. At first, she was just some hangers-on, and then, after
a couple weeks, we were together more, always finding ourselves seated side by
each, apparently, inexplicably, attracted to one another. I felt it, and was
beginning to recognize those signs I had never before seen (or recognized)
directed towards me. I was flattered, elated. And I was responding in kind.
She
teasingly called me “The Plaid Lad.” Everyone laughed at that. Me, too. Because
it was true. But I wasn’t the only one in plaid then. I was grunge before my
time. I’d thrown off the cords, was into 501s, plaid shirt and t-shirt, parkas,
then leather jackets, (sky blue, HSM school jacket, yes, but leather jacket
just the same). Longish hair. Edgy, and not. I was called Smilin’ Dave by some.
A bit of a fuck you attitude was still to come…shortly after Christmas, in
fact.
I’d
never considered myself particularly attractive. Skinny, some moles, gap
between my front teeth; a co-worker at the pool had once pointed out to me at
17 that my hair had begun to thin on my scalp (not the thing ANY teen wants to
hear from an attractive girl). I was shy with girls, unsure how to act around
them, certainly inexperienced when it came to relations beyond study groups,
and the occasional chatting up over pop at Top Hats or the show. In short,
girls were friends, and goddesses on pedestals. What interest I had in them
wasn’t particularly reciprocated throughout high school that I was aware of. I
had one real instance of being perused. Carla Colarossi had when I was in Grade
12, she in grade 11. She asked me to go to the Valentines Dance, and had made a
rather heavy broach (badge? whatever) that I was to wear, and did, even though
it pulled my shirt out of shape. I liked Carla, but she did not make my heart
race, so nothing came of it. Aside from that, and a couple other isolated
instances, I had very little experience as to how to cope with this new
attention.
My
relationship with Roxanne began in earnest shortly before Christmas. I did not
last long. She and I would meet Saturday afternoons, and evenings, sometimes
Sundays. She once came to the bus stop to see me off back to school. But I was
older, I suppose faster, most definitely needier. I was ready for an actual serious
relationship, despite my lack of experience. She was probably even more
unprepared for me than I was for her. So she backed off, and there was a
distance during the Christmas Holidays. I asked her about it. She stammered out
that she had family obligations, not enough time, other concerns that I thought
a bit thin. We were going out, weren’t we? I asked my friends for guidance. I
asked this other guy who was hanging out with my friends, with Roxanne; where
he came from, I had no clue. He was older than me, I remember that. Aside from
that, I didn’t know a thing about him. I’d never seen him before that year; I’d
never see him again after that year. I thought he was a wedge, between me and
my friends, between me and Roxanne. But I was desperate and asked him for
advice too, just the same. I remember they gave me the usual advice, give her
space. I said that I was gone for a week at a time; how much space did she
need?
And
then, shortly after Christmas Day, she broke it off. I was devastated. I was
depressed for a month, drank even more heavily than I was accustomed to do. I
wanted to quit school, run away. I didn’t know what I wanted to do.
There
was a moment that passed quickly. I was in a car with John Lavric. We were
headed out to South End, to go to his girlfriend’s party. I discovered that I
had my hand on the door handle. Gripping it hard. I stared at it for a moment,
and then consciously, delicately, released it.
How
did I do scholastically that year in the wake of my leaving home for the first
time, drinking to excess every week and then every weekend, in the wake of such
a disastrous reconnoiter into love and relationships? I passed with a 2.15, not
low enough to have to take a year off, just enough to continue. Had I failed,
things might have turned out differently. I think I hated what I was doing. My
future ex-brother-in-law had quit school and returned home. I had few friends.
The guys I lived with were assholes, as far as I could see. Every morning, I’d
see the Northlander bus pass my house on its way to Timmins. I wanted to be on
it. I wanted to be on the train heading south to Toronto. The one saving grace,
was my monthly shared train trip back to Haileybury with Keith. Keith was going
to college in North Bay, and he and I saw each other every month for 4 hours on
that train. I never failed to exit those meetings so hammered that I didn’t
feel that I was going to die; but I don’t think I could have survived Roxanne
without Keith. He was my littermate. I’ve never once felt that I wasn’t where I
belonged when by his side. I still don’t.
That
summer John and I were hanging out in his basement. It was about a week before
my near fatal car accident (see automatic escapades). My sister’s wedding was a
couple weeks behind us. John was experiencing a bumpy patch with his
girlfriend, Tracy, and I was just beginning to actually get a grip on myself. I
said just beginning. As I said, he and I were in his basement, mixing rye and
cokes. John sipped his, commenting on how his foot hurt (he had actually broken
it, as I recall, having leapt a guardrail that evening, and landing poorly,
spilled to the ground); I was pulling harder on my drinks. The evening
progressed, we complained about women, and then I went home as dawn was
beginning to give hint of its arrival, having polished off way too many inches
of that bottle (it was decades before I could abide the smell of whiskey). I
staggered and stumbled home, taking easily three times as long to arrive home
as needed. John listened to me all night. He nodded sagely. He listened
patiently, something only he and Keith had done in those six months as I clawed
my way back to sanity. Others didn’t, but those two did. I will love them both
till my dying day for that.
Did
I love Roxanne? Probably not. Maybe I did. I thought I did. Did my brief
relationship with her cast a shadow on how I approached women for years to
come? Most definitely. I wish it hadn’t. Because the following school year, I
met Debbie Wursluk. And I most certainly loved her.
