Cool news, everyone! I’ve picked up a new reader!
Which makes five of you.
Anyway, this new reader is Ruth, who I can say without hesitation is the nicest person I have ever, ever met. I’m fairly certain that if I mentioned, offhandedly, that I would like a kidney to play pranks with, Ruth would show up within the hour to give me hers, freshly removed and packaged in an adorable homemade box decoupaged with vintage shoe advertisements.
That's just the kind of girl she is.
Anyway, in honor of New Reader Ruth, here’s another installment of Made Up Stories About Your Life. Today’s is …
Ruth Becomes A Woman, Not In The Getting-Her-Period-For-The-First-Time Sense, But In The Having-Sex-For-The-First-Time Sense
When Ruth was a fresh young thing of 16, she was perhaps the most popular girl at This American Life High School, located in Enormous Metropolis That Isn’t Dallas, Texas. You see, not only was Ruth pretty and smart and efficient, but she also had a very special talent. Each Friday, Ruth would head out to the underage karaoke clubs in Enormous Metropolis That Isn’t Dallas. A shiver would move through the crowd. It squirmed collectively, everyone wanting as one but none who dared to voice their desire, lest it not come true.
But each time it would. Ruth would nod at the KJ, and an impish grin would spread across his face. Soon enough, a classic 80s jam — maybe “Maneater” by Hall and Oates, or “Rio” by Duran Duran, would boom through the club. Ruth would open her mouths and angels would sigh with jealousy. She’d build anticipation, through the first verses! chorus! second verse! bridge! But … wait … what’s that? She’s busting out her saxophone and fucking accompanying herself on the sax solo?
That's exactly what she's fucking doing!
This continued for months, and Ruth became lonely. It’s hard at the top. People want so much, and all you really want is someone who understands. Someone who can fly on your eagle-esque level. What was the point anymore? Ruth wondered. How long would she keep this up, giving so much of herself and expecting nothing in return?
And then it was another night, one in a blurry stream of synthesized beats and smeared, vibrato flat notes. Ruth headed up to the front as she had so many times before, and the opening strains of Billy Ocean’s “Carribean Queen” issued from the speakers. She raised the mic to her lips, slowly, with none of the passion she’d once known.
But then there was a flurry towards the back, and a 16-year-old was calmly walking towards her, as a soldier walks to battle. His grey eyes met hers, and then Ruth looked downward and gasped. This not-yet-man, whose name was Hunt Downer, was already lifting his fingers to the aggressive keytar strapped around his neck.
It looked kind of like this, except Hunt's keytar shined like the sun, shined like the face of God
He was already playing the dulcet keyboard tones, and Ruth opened her mouth to sing. The words fell like rain.
Caribbean Queen.
Now we’re sharing the same dream!
And our hearts … they beat as one.
The audience rose to their feet, not quite believing what had transpired, not willing to acknowledge what had just happened. Meanwhile, Ruth and Hunt noticed nothing else. They were each the tiger the other wanted to tame, and after a breathless pause, they strode out of the underaged karaoke club to Hunt’s Mazda Miata, where they wasted no time in consummating things.
Unfortunately, despite their supernatural 80s karaoke/outmoded instrument synchronicity, the sex was mediocre, because they were both virgins, and also they were in a Mazda Miata. That’s how it goes when you’re 16 years old and having sex, at least at first.
It's just not a very big car, especially when the top's up.
But Ruth couldn’t do it, couldn’t bridge the gap between expectations and reality, and told Hunt as much.
To this day, Hunt can’t think about oceans, people named Billy, or especially Billy Ocean without a strangled gasp issuing from his mouth.
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