#girlmonster

In the nineteenth century, I’d have found a medium, a knocking table, a crystal ball,

but to conjure him in 2016 I go online and Google, scroll page after page until

his name disappears in a list of random links, but still there’s his handle on Skype,

still the picture of him crossing the finish line of the Portland marathon, still the smiling-in-the-wind-on-the-beach photo, still

that e-mail that arrived at 3 A.M. back in February, those words of such love and affirmation out of the blue

that I knew were strange but didn’t query, thought maybe he’d been up drinking, was feeling sentimental, and

that must have been the night of the first attempt we found written in his journal,

how he’d thrown himself off a bridge into the cold dirty Willamette but survived,

and how disappointed he must have felt then, the body involuntarily countering

“On Being the Right Size,” Haldane’s short essay is titled.

An ants’ nest can be found at the top of a redwood.

No bird that weighs less than - No insect more than - The minimum mass for a whale, for a language, an ice cap.

It was tough to grow up in the suburbs. For every pot-smoking hasher or combustible jock, there was a normal kid who didn’t want to hand out at the mall or go to the pep rally. We had to think of other options. Like forming the Church of Chuck Woolery. My friend’s sister painted a beautiful portrait of Chick surrounded by an angelic golden glow. We’d exchange little tidbits about Chuck’s life, or wonder aloud, “What would Chuck do in a situation like this?”

At the commercial break on Love Connection when Chuck said he’d be back in “two minutes and two seconds” – he often just flashed a grin and a peace sign and said, “Two and two” – we’d get out our watches and time it, cheering him on. Chuck was always right as rain. This entertained us for about a month. Why worship Satan when there are so many game show hosts worthy of their very own cult?

Another fun diversion was to make up fake stories and call the local newspaper. My friend Nicole held the title for this one. Without letting anyone else in on the prank, she convinced a local reporter that she rose each morning at 3 a.m. to sweep the streets of the town. She said she wanted to give something back to the community that had done so much for her.

They came to her house while her parents were at work, photographed her out in the street with a push broom and ran a full page story with a ‘local teens aren’t all bad’ type of angle. The congratulatory letters came in from her former teachers and various senior citizens. And of course, the kids at school decided she was even weirder than they thought.

The local 7-11 was the place to find out where the parties were. Sometimes you didn’t even have to pull into the parking lot. You could just hear some thick-necked jock bellowing “Off Sobey Road, dude!” out of his Bronco over to the big-hair girls in the Mazda RX-7. We’d follow behind, in our humble wood-paneled station wagon, park far away from the house, and then commando around the yard until we found an open door or window. We’d sneak inside, find a room that no one was in, hide out, and eavesdrop. There is nothing like the scintillating conversation of girls with mohair sweaters and sticky lip gloss drinking wine coolers. Or guys in too-tight jeans, big L.L. Bean sweaters, desert boots, and denim jackets with sheepskin collars pounding Bud after Bud bragging about who they are having sex with while their parents are out of town.

We played board games on the roof of the bank downtown. This was also a good spot to watch our favourite student couples get in fights as they left local restaurants. We wore wigs and frumpy sweat suits, and drank four or five pots of coffee at Denny’s. This once led us to flesh out a crude musical about Denny’s. All the songs were composed on napkins and sugar packets. We had vignettes about greasy ladyfingers, Grand Slam breakfasts, and our favourite employees like Joseph, the ex-military computer student, and Bib, the grandmother of nine.

We scaled the foothills and snuck in to see the shows during the Paul Masson Winery Summer Concert Series. We never got caught. Who would ever suspect teenagers of breaking the law to scope out Sergio Mendez or Smokey Robinson? By purchasing one $30 ticket and hiding people in the trunk, drive-in movie style, we also got to see James Brown, Ray Charles and Ella Fitzgerald.

We didn’t boycott the prom because it was stupid. You had to check it out at least once. We brought a large watermelon and danced only with it during the slow songs. For the fast songs, we dragged one of the parent chaperones out on the floor and went crazy. We didn’t just play air guitar. We played air keyboards and air saxophone. Attached toilet paper to our shoes and pretended not to understand why everyone was making fun of us. Asked Mr. Suave if he wanted a cigar then put a Tampax in his breast pocket. Stepped back and enjoyed his reaction as he was disgusted at the thought of retrieving a paper-wrapped piece of cotton. (For the older set, this also works well in retro clubs!)

We would go to Safeway and rearrange the displays.

The best one was the Healthy Heart display. Item by item, we replaced the oat bran muffins, apples, and black beans until underneath the huge sign that read ‘Make Your Heart Healthy and Happy’ was an exhibit of cigarettes, bourbon, bologna, and Ding Dongs.

This is just a small sampling of ways we dealt with teenage suburban existence. And if I can help even one kid survive until graduation, I’ll feel that I have made a difference. Go Falcons!