Once, at Band Camp...

For most of my adult life, I have had a tendency to pointlessly dwell on the various opportunities that I allowed to slip through my fingers because of my own youthful foolishness and lack of insight. Such reflection would invariably lead to rueful recrimination and endless sojourns in the speculative world of what-ifs, if-onlys, and could-have-beens. Fortunately for me, I have finally reached a point in my life where time and experience have dulled the sting of such recollections and have allowed me to view the failures and foibles of my younger, less discerning self with detached amusement. Now that I am able to lay aside all tendencies toward maudlin, sappy regret, I feel comfortable recounting one particularly amusing occurrence from my youth as a cautionary tale of myopic cluelessness.

In the summer of 1987, before my freshman year at Camelback High School in Phoenix, AZ, I attended the school's marching band camp, which was held for one week at Camp Mingus—a cozy camp facility situated in the woods of Mingus Mountain in Northern Arizona. For the early part of each day, we practiced marching drills, and then it was on to band music in the afternoon, followed by a couple hours of free time before dinner. In the evenings, after dinner, we had a couple more hours of band practice before ending the day around the campfire, singing songs and performing skits. I hated getting up early in the morning and marching in the hot sun and rarefied mountain air, but I did enjoy the free time we had before dinner, and I appreciated the lively campfire sessions most of all. It was during one of those sessions that summer that I made a bit of a name for myself by performing a novelty song called “Ronnie's Rap,” a goofy Ronald-Reagan-themed rap song which I had heard on The Doctor Demento Show, a popular novelty song radio show. I had a spot-on Reagan impression that was an instant hit with the entire group. It was a heady rush to hear the laughter and cheers as I sang:

“I'm the Big Gipper, don't mess with me.

I'm the baddest rapper this side of D.C.,

With my best girl Nancy, as my spouse,

rappin' to you from that big White House.”

Suddenly, everybody knew exactly who I was. I had become a celebrity.

        At first, it was flattering as people I did not yet know approached me and asked me to “say something like Reagan.” It always caught me by surprise, but I was obliging nonetheless. Even though I could never seem to find anything particularly witty to say, they would laugh anyway, because, after all, I really did sound just like the President. Sometimes, I would feel annoyance at being constantly put upon, but I never turned down a request, no matter how I was feeling. I had a gift that made me a hot commodity, and I was going to respect the shtick that was my main claim to fame.

        On the last day of band camp, at the end of our daily practice sessions and just before we were released to our own devices for the day, some of the seniors handed out awards: Most Improved, Best Hair, Cutest Couple, Hottest Guy, Hottest Girl, etc... I was hoping there would be an award for Best Reagan Impression, but, alas, none of the seniors had seen fit to honor my unique talent with a cheap paper award certificate. They also announced that there would be a dance that night. It didn’t matter much to me. I had always hated dances, and never really saw any point to them. I was sure that I would spend this evening alone, outside the recreation hall, trying to hide from the obnoxiously loud festivities—just like I usually did when having to endure such events.

        After the announcements, we were dismissed for a couple of hours until dinner time. After milling about the camp for a while, I decided to break away from the crowd for a change and explore the area a bit. I walked out to the mountain road and headed up the hill toward a scenic point about a quarter mile from the camp. When I arrived, there were already two girls there, hanging out, enjoying the lush view of the valley below, and chatting about whatever it is that high school girls chat about. I recognized one of the young ladies, a saxophone player, but I could not remember her name. I decided to strike up a conversation. She told me that her name was Laura Ingalls, just like the beloved character of literature and television. I mentioned that I had heard one of the seniors constantly referring to her as “Half-Pint.” Laura laughed it off with a shrug. “Yeah. I've been getting that all my life,” she said.

        Slender in build, Laura had a natural, easygoing beauty. Standing close to her, I began to drink in the features of her face. Her long, straight, brown hair was simple and unadorned, and she had no need of makeup to accent her brown eyes or to obscure the sprinkling of light freckles across her nose. I found myself feeling very attracted to her. I hoped that there was some coincidence that would give us common ground—that would bind us together in some mystical way. Almost, as if in answer to a prayer, she told me that her father was a Wesleyan minister. “My stepfather's a Pentecostal minister!” I announced, completely bowled over by such a significant coincidence, but she seemed unfazed by it. She grunted in acknowledgement. “I guess we're both P.K.s,” I said, using an abbreviation for “pastor's kid” that was common in many evangelical Christian circles. Her reply was a bland “I guess so.” I decided to press the point even more. “You know what they say about pastors' kids,” I added, a slight hint of conspiracy in my voice. “Yeah, I'm such a wild child,” she confessed, somewhat sarcastically. I was so excited by our common ecclesiastical status, that I was utterly perplexed by her apparent lack of excitement. I decided to search for more commonalities between us in the hope of confirming our compatibility.

        Being a passionate music nerd, I asked her a question that was, to my music nerd brain, the most important question I could ever ask another human being: “What kind of music do you like?” “Classical, mainly,” she answered, nonchalantly. I felt my heart start to pound. I was positively elated by what I had just heard! She was a classical music lover, just like me! I had never yet encountered such a kindred soul among my contemporaries. “I also like oldies,” she added coolly. “Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper are my favorites.” “I love oldies!” I erupted, perhaps a little too ardently, as I really had never even heard of the Big Bopper—but I did like Elvis, and that was close enough, right? With just these two amazing and important things that we had in common, I was certain that this girl would be mine. It just had to be a work of Divine intervention that we met like this. That was the only logical explanation. 

        Later that afternoon, back at camp, I was filled with that unique combination of giddiness and stark terror that I had always understood to be love. My mind was buzzing with thoughts about the lovely creature I had met that day. As a religious young man, I believed completely in the providence of an Almighty God, who, despite having his hands full keeping every single atom in the universe from spontaneously disintegrating, somehow found time to take a keen interest in the angst-driven hopes and dreams of lowly teenagers like me. In His divine wisdom, He had seen fit to send me someone who was my perfect match. I knew that I absolutely had to talk to her again and get to know her better. I was sure that she would feel exactly the same way once she had the opportunity to see what sort of person I was. Maybe I could even make her laugh with my Reagan impression. That shtick was pure gold. Then, I remembered the dance that was scheduled for that night. That was perfect! I knew I would have to dance with her!

        That evening, after dinner, I showered and put on my best set of clothes. I felt invigorated by the adrenaline coursing through my veins. Tonight was going to be the greatest night of my life! I made my way to the recreation hall. I could feel the bass thumping and braced myself for the sonic assault as I climbed the steps leading up to the entrance. Inside, it was like every other dance I had ever attended—too dark to really see anything clearly, too loud to comfortably converse with friends, and too crowded to move freely about the room without bumping into people. My sweaty classmates had paired off and were shaking their bodies to the rhythm of popular music that was, except for a few occasional songs, completely foreign to me. I scanned the room, looking for Laura, but she was nowhere to be found. That was fine, though; I knew she would show up soon.

        I found a suitable wall to lean against while I gathered my courage. I continued to scan the room, watching the happy faces of my classmates, thinking about the momentous event that was to come. While standing there, attempting to unobtrusively search the crowd for that one familiar face, I heard a female voice ask me, “Would you like to dance?” I turned to see Kelly Roth, a gorgeous sophomore who, earlier that day, had won the designation of “Hottest Girl” at the band camp awards ceremony. She was holding out her hand, her full lips curled into a gentle smile, her head tilted slightly down with her sultry eyes looking up at me in a way that would make most men's glasses fog up. I, of course, was bitterly disappointed when I realized who it was who wanted to dance with me, but I decided to accept her invitation anyway. After all, there was no point in being standoffish to such a nice young woman. I wasn't much of a dancer, but I had attended a couple of dances in middle school, just to see what all the fuss was about. As I had been instructed at those dances, I placed my hands on Kelly's hips as she rested hers on my shoulders. We began to rhythmically sway to the music, just like in middle school, but I immediately noticed that something about this girl was different from all my previous middle school dance partners. Her hips felt...different. They were very round and shapely, and the sensation of their movement was both strange and pleasant to me. “So how did you like camp?” she asked, still smiling and staring into my eyes with what appeared to be sincere interest. I wondered—was she coming on to me? No, I was sure I was imagining things. I answered her with a noncommittal “It was fun, I guess.” She was still smiling. I scanned the room again, but out of the corner of my eye I could see Kelly gazing up at me still. “So, what kind of things are you interested in?” she pressed. I could still feel her hips swaying. I stopped scanning the room and returned my attention to her. “Mainly music,” I offered, nonchalantly. “That's cool. Me too,” she said. We continued to dance, and she continued to ask me questions about myself, which I dutifully, but distractedly, answered. The thought crossed my mind again: Was this girl into me? There was just no way that could be the case. Besides, it didn’t matter even if she was. Laura was the one for me. Still, there was no denying that Kelly was exquisitely beautiful, in a rather conventional way. The song came to a close. “That was nice, thank you,” she said. “Sure,” I vacantly replied as I turned to head back to my observation spot at the wall.

        For the rest of the night, I grew ever more nervous with anticipation. I still didn't see Laura anywhere, and I continued to scan the room, occasionally taking breaks to fetch a cup of refreshing, fruity punch. The night drew on—one loud, unfamiliar '80s pop song melding into another, until I finally realized that the dance was winding down. I had to get out there and find Laura—and fast—or else my hope of dancing with her would be gone forever. I began to make my way through the dark and crowded dance hall, scanning the boisterous crowd on the dance floor, searching the ranks of the wallflowers standing in shadows.

        I heard my name being called and turned to see my friend Andre. We had both attended the same middle school together, and were entering Camelback High School that year as freshmen. “Hey, you know that senior chick, Mary Colts?” he asked, “Well, she's lookin' for you, man. She says she wants to dance with you.”

Why on Earth was Mary looking for me? She didn’t know me. We had never even talked at all, as far as I could remember. She must have seen my awesome Ronald Reagan impression. How could she resist? All I knew for sure was that I absolutely did not want to dance with Mary. I wanted to dance with Laura. I felt a twinge of panic as I suddenly realized that I would have to find Laura before Mary could find me.

        “Have you seen Laura Ingalls?” I asked my friend, almost pleading. He replied that he hadn’t seen her. I thanked him and moved on. I asked another fellow first-year if she had seen Laura, but she couldn’t help me either.

        Suddenly, the deejay's voice boomed over the sound system, announcing that the time had come for the last dance of the night.

        I frantically scanned the entire room, my panic ascending to a horrible crescendo. I could feel all my hopes slipping away as the final slow dance of the night began playing through the speakers.

        Then, in one glorious instant, I saw her.

        In my recollection it was as if the writhing sea of slow-dancing teenagers gently parted, revealing the angelic figure of Laura, hovering ethereally on the other side of the dance floor, bathed in the shimmering light of a disco ball. I began to walk toward her, my heart pounding in anticipation of the moment when everything would forever change for the both of us.

I took about two steps forward when, suddenly, I felt my hand being seized in the surprisingly strong grip of some unseen female force who, with all the ferocious speed of a diving hawk snatching up an unsuspecting rabbit, forcefully whisked me away to an empty spot on the crowded dance floor. In a dizzying blur, I saw the big, frizzy mass of crimped blond hair and the black-mascara-lined blue eyes speeding toward me with desperate determination, and, before I even had time to process what had just happened, I found myself cheek-to-cheek in Mary Colts' overwhelming embrace. I could feel her over-processed coif rubbing against the side of my face like a plastic-meshed dish scrubber, the slightly burnt smell of Aqua Net® filling my nostrils. She held me close and tight, as if we were both tragic lovers soon to be parted, and this was our last moment together.

        I felt all hope evacuate my chest and sighed in resignation to my grim fate as Mary dragged me around the dance floor. Some syrupy '80s love ballad blared from the speakers, but the saccharine romantic sentiments it expressed, combined with the desperately powerful embrace of my captor, only heightened the sense of desolation I felt in that moment. For one last time, I scanned the crowd of happy faces swaying around me, hoping to catch a glimpse of the object of my affections. I did not see her. She had vanished as magically as she had appeared.

        It wasn't until many years later, with the benefit of hindsight, that I was able to understand more clearly what had really happened that summer. Of course, Laura wasn't sent to me by Divine Providence at all. In fact, over the next couple years I spent at Camelback High School, her passive-aggressive behavior toward me was evidence of a deep contempt. What I failed to realize then was that my fascination for Laura was based on a complete delusion—who I thought she was, how much like me I believed her to be, how perfect our lives together would have been—all of it existed only in my mind. On the other hand, there were some very obvious clues that the beautiful, intelligent, and remarkably talented Kelly Roth actually may have been attracted to me, but my myopic obsession with Laura kept me from seeing them. Whatever moment of opportunity I may have had with Kelly was short-lived. She either grew tired of my coolness toward her attempts to gain my attention, or, more likely, she realized just how gorgeous she was and how much better she could do. I don't know for sure, and everything happened so long ago that none of it matters anymore. Thinking about how my life may have been different had I not been so wrapped up in a world of delusions would be to engage in the same counterproductive fantasy thinking that I would be lamenting. I think it is much better to enjoy my own story for what it was, learn what I need to learn from it, and let the what-ifs dissolve into the ether with all the if-onlys and could-have-beens.