A romantic at heart, I believe in The One. The One is the one for whom you are The only One and vice versa. I had one once. Yep, she was The One. The One who got away: Dana Dixx, the first love of my life.
Dana Dixx. Even now the name gives me pause. It skates across my tongue like a youthful Brian Boitano then passes through my lips, which close after it like a parting kiss while its sweet sound lingers in my ear?which was more or less all she left me with when it was over, just a pretty name and the face to match. I will remember her forever as a face looking back at me over a bare shoulder, her painted, bee-stung lips puckered and blowing me a kiss as her two-inch heels carried her away from me. Forever.
I have searched for her ever since, in the vacant eyes of every tube-topped drunk, every flowing mane of bleached blonde hair and every bosom, buxom and flush.
I was young then, pie-eyed and without the cynical crust of my older years. In retrospect, it could never have worked out. Our lives were too different. She had her dancing career; I had kindergarten. But every now and then I catch myself wondering what might have been.
I remember the first time I laid eyes on her as if it were yesterday. I was passing the evening as I typically did, at the Catcall, a neighborhood dive a few blocks from my house. I put the Jam on the jukebox and sidled up to the bar.
“What’ll it be?” Al asked me.
“Bottle of Bass,” I said.
I turned to check out the action on the stage. That’s when I saw her. She was the finest specimen of female to have ever taken shape in my eyes, “Just like the women you see on Cinemax!” I thought to myself. True, she was awkward in those heels; and less fluid in her movements than most girls I had seen; to be frank, she was a pretty mediocre dancer. But no matter. I was in love.
She finished up and went backstage to get dressed. Moments later she came out to the bar.
“Vodka and tonic, Al, and please ? make it strong.” She shook a cigarette from a crumpled pack of Marlboro Lights. Then she turned to me.
“Got a light, sweetheart?” I fumbled in my pants pocket for my lighter. I knew this was my chance. But what would I say? In my confused adoration I rifled through topics in my mind. Literature. Did she read? I wondered. Had she read Dr. Seuss? Betsy and the Vacuum Cleaner?
“Thanks, sweetie,” she said, and turned to walk away.
What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts after that evening! I had to see her again. The idea of her had evicted any other thoughts and taken up permanent residence in my mind. At the dinner table I slumped with my elbow on the table, much to my father’s dismay. I had to be doubly prodded to eat my vegetables. Listlessly I sucked my milk through its straw. I chafed against the work of school. During coloring the day after my encounter with Dana, I couldn’t concentrate.
“Hey, Jenny,” I said. “What color should I color this leprechaun?”
“Green, you dummy.”
“Hey, no need to get personal, sweetcakes.”
I tugged at my clip-on tie. I could really use a cigarette, I thought to myself.
That night I went back. It was as it had been before. I sat at the bar and waited. Eventually she came out.
“Hey,” I said. “I saw you last night. What’s your name?”
“Dana. Dana Dixx. Say, aren’t you a little on the young side?” She smiled. Her smile bolstered my flagging courage.
“I’m five, going on six,” I replied. “Can I give you my number?”
She smiled again. “Sorry, honey, this is strictly professional. I don’t take numbers from our, uh, ‘clients.’”
I shrugged. “That’s all right, I haven’t learned how to count yet anyway. I think we start that next week.”
She climbed up onto the stage and began her act. I left a few bucks on the bar for Al and got up to leave. I turned round to look at her one more time. Our eyes met. She winked. I dropped my stare abruptly and walked out into the empty, black night. I stood motionless in the lot for a moment, as if transfixed. Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and derided by vanity, and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.
