Gimlé

I remember this guy I once knew. Boy, rather. Or teenagers as we were at the time. What you called the ages varied according to your maturity at the time.

Our elders called us boys. Those frightened called us ‘teenagers.’

I can’t recall what we thought about ourselves. I guess we hadn’t gone that far in thinking about the issue.

Kids. Guys. Geezers.

That sort of thing. Adults was something we pretended at being. Some better than others—but we were all pretending.

And we were quite aware of the facade, the societal illusion—the faux maturity—that societal teenagedom had instilled upon us.

…

I remember this guy I once knew. Cute as hell, attractive enough to those of us partial to that sort of thing. Cute, but guyish enough to qualify in all the right circles. The socially important circles.

Guyish enough for all the right circles but with just enough of that thing—that other thing—to qualify for all the wrong circles and groups as well.

“The wrong crowd” you could say.

His sister was an athlete, and he had just enough of her qualities to make him qualify as a jock, the kind of athletic and energetic person that ends up as a part of the ruling class in every single school you’ve ever come close to.

Slender. Athletic. Tall.

Beautiful.

He also had just enough of her qualities to make him interesting in other ways.

To other people.

He could have stolen every single one of his sister’s boyfriends had he been inclined to try.

Had any one of them ever dared.

Tried.

Touched…

What would have happened, I do not know.

Whether he is married today, I do not know.

Whether anybody eventually tried…

Or whether he tried himself…

I do not know.

…

I wish I did.

Now and then.