***
Johnny, like William, had a mien that properly reflected his all-American name. He was about the same height as most of the girls in the class, perhaps shorter, and was also just as slender. His hair was dirty blond and rounded closely to the scalp, while still appearing soft, much like a traditional Roman cut. Having eyebrows that were notably darker than the hair on his head and teeth that were spaced far apart, he imparted a gremlin-like aesthetic that was somehow not off-putting. What made him most appealing was his polite charm, which stood the test of childhood tendencies to engage in cruel and unusual ridicule. I have no memory of him asking me my gender, nor commenting on my strange boy haircut, so that counted for something.
I can recall one juvenile summer that was comprised of sporadic and spontaneous visits to Johnny’s house. It was never my idea, and I never went alone—my timidity wouldn’t allow it. Instead, it just so happened that one of my best friends, Gabby, who also lived in the humble but quaint Casper neighborhood, was a close friend of his. A typical day started off with my older sister suggesting we take a walk down the block to our friends’ house (she was besties with Gabby’s older sister), where we would play out in the front yard for a while, perfecting cartwheels, round-offs, and other pseudo-gymnastics. After tiring of that, we’d eat a hearty lunch, which I recall always included blue corn chips—the origins of which mystified me for years—and fresh-squeezed lemonade. Finally, just before wearily nudging my sister to take us home, someone would suggest we stroll over to Johnny’s house, and I’d nearly bubble over with nervous excitement.
His abode had a comforting quality, despite being outdated and kitschy. Like most Wyoming homes of the 1990s, it was a ranch-style with dark, marbled brown shag carpeting and wood-paneled walls. It smelled of stale cigarette smoke, which may or may not have been from its then-inhabitants, mixed with Lipton soup or another quick, easy meal. Every inch of countertop was adorned with some trinket likely purchased at a holiday bazaar: creepy rubber dolls with crocheted dresses; stuffed animals dyed obnoxious colors; Virgin Mary and Jesus statuettes; sugar canisters and cookie jars with matching paisley patterns; and tacky but endearing plaques announcing that “home is where the heart is.” I can’t say what exactly about it was comforting; perhaps just the fact that it was his, and it contained character and unconditional love.
We’d usually end up playing “Go Fish” or another mundane card game, and all the while, I would try to keep a running tally on how often Johnny asked me if I had any sevens. I’m quite certain, in retrospect, that he had the hots for Gabby or even for my sister, but I maintained the deluded fantasy that I was his secret shy-girl crush. He was an only child, whose mother taught at our Catholic primary school, so he was good-natured, smart, and just lonely enough to spend his summer days with a bunch of girls. In fact, I don’t recall Johnny having many male friends. He got along with just about everyone at school, but I could tell he preferred the more conversational and creative company of females, which of course earned him the hearts of each of them. Despite our time together, nothing ever came of my unrequited feelings for Johnny, not even a staged recess wedding. I wonder what he is doing these days, and I especially wonder if he ever came out of the closet.
***
Have names been changed to protect the innocent?
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