Mr. Smooth: Part One.

Someone recently asked why I haven't written anything about my childhood in a while, and I got to thinking about that. In two years, I think I've pretty much covered what there is to cover of my misspent, pre-pubescent youth.

There's nowhere to go but up, chronologically speaking. I've thought long and hard about exposing to you all just how much of a geek loser I was before high school, but then I thought, hey, they can already tell you didn't do too well with the ladies, so these stories will come as no big surprise. With that in mind, let's talk about my first real date with a real girl. Before that magical moment, I pretty much exclusively dated my best friend's older sister without her knowledge. I also dated this poster of Linda Ronstadt that I hung on the wall near my bed.

I was 14, and in the school band. I was something they called a "percussionist" which meant that if an instrument existed that required you to strike it with something in order to get it to make a noise, you were the one who played it. We all wanted to play drums, but not everyone was so lucky. They would always arrange us in order of ability, and you would either get the coveted snare drum position, or you'd be relegated to the bass drum or the crash cymbals. If you were really talentless, they'd hand you a triangle and tell you to smack the shit out of it when and only when the conductor pointed at you.

There was one other instrument that was even higher on the totem pole than the snare drum. It was only used in one song per concert. It was the full drumset. This particular drumset was a 5-piece Slingerlands with two crash cymbals, a 20" ride and an actual honest-to-god high-hat. The holy grail for all 7 of us, from the snare drummers down to the timmy triangle. This set was played by an angel with flowing brown hair and a perfect smile. She also wore eye makeup, which was pretty revolutionary (and slutty) for 8th grade -- at least back then.

I was in love. Or lust. I'm not sure which it is when you're 14. Maybe both. Maybe neither. All I knew was she was the best drummer out of all of us, and she looked like a rock star goddess in her silk blouse and Jordache jeans.

At any rate, I decided I would gather up every one of my quaking nerves and ask her out. On a real date. A movie. Something grown up. It had to be something impressive, because she was clearly out of my league.

We didn't have cellphones like the kids today, so privacy on the phone was pretty non-existent. My mother was into real-estate, and also into talking on the phone, so she was either constantly on it, or picking it up when you were on it, or waiting for a call so you couldn't use it. That's some serious pressure when you're trying to get up the nerve to dial a number you just looked up in the phone book. Not to mention the fact that you had 10 numbers with the same last name and you had no idea which one belonged to her, so it was trial and error. You had to gather up your nerve for each and every one, and be ready to turn on the charm at a moment's notice.

I remember sitting on the floor downstairs in the dark, next to the phone in my father's office, trying to get my hands to stop shaking. It was the only phone in the house where your conversations couldn't be heard by everyone in the house.

I had ten numbers to work my way through. Every time I touched the phone, my heart would start trying to pound its way out of my skinny chest. I rehearsed what I was going to say over and over. I literally had a script -- complete with possible responses. I was a little geek even then. I had no idea what a flowchart was, but it's essentially what I had. It looked something like this:

Hi, is Karen there?
(if wrong number, hang up, cross number off list)
(YN)
If no: leave name and number.
If yes: This is Johnny, is Karen there?
If she comes to phone:
Hi Karen. It's Johnny from Band. I was wondering if you might want to go see a movie on saturday.
If what movie?: (list of movies)
If busy: Oh, ok. Maybe we can do it on Sunday or next week.
If no: OK, thanks anyway. See you in school.
If yes: OK, what movie do you want to see?
Things to talk about if she doesn't hang up right away:
Band
Drums
TV shows
Paul the dork
who is that girl who smells

I had pages of this. As you can probably imagine, things didn't go quite as planned:

1st number:
"Hello?"
click.
crap! Why did I hang up?
1st number again:
"Hello?"
(hyperventilation)
"Hello? Is anyone there?"
"Hi. This is Karen. Is Johnny there? Wait, I mean.."
"I think you have the wrong number, sweetie."
click.

One down. So she thought I was a girl. So what. Shake it off.

2nd number:
"Yeah?"
click.
2nd number again:
"Who is this? Stop calling me and hanging up you little shit."
click.

Two down. Even if she does live there.

3rd number:
"Hello?"
"Hi this is K - Johnny. Is Karen there?"
"Yes, she is. Hold on, please."
"Hi, this is Karen."
"Hi Karen. It's Johnny from Band and I was wondering if you might want to go see a movie on saturday. "
"Johnny who? Did you say Fruhmband? I don't know any Johnny Fruhmband. How old are you? I think you might have the wrong Karen."
click.

Jeez! Come on! How is that even possible?

Finally, I got the right number and the right Karen. The conversation went something like this:

"Hello?"
"Hi, is Karen there?"
"This is her."

Those three words caused terror to leap into my chest. I used all my willpower to not slam the phone down on the receiver. This contingency was not planned for -- it was not on my cheat sheet and I was flying blind. How could I not have forseen that she might answer? Idiot!

"Hi, it's Johnny from Band do you want to go to a movie saturday or if not saturday then maybe sunday or maybe next week if you're busy.....(long ragged breath) but if you don't want to ever, that's ok."

click.

Crap! Why did I do that?

(Ten minutes later, right around when I got my heart to start beating normally again, the phone started ringing.)

Just when I had steeled myself to pick it up, the ringing stopped. My mother yelled down the stairs, "Johnny! Are you down there? There's a Karen on the phone and she says you got disconnected."

"H-Hello?"
"Hi Johnny. It's Karen. We got cut off. Did you say something about a movie? Because I can go."
"Mom, I've got it. Hang up."
"Yeah, I was.....um, wondering if (hyperventilation)...if you might want to....(frantically digging through notes) see a movie."
"What's that noise?"
"Mommmmmm, HANG IT UP!"
"Sorry, I think something is wrong with the phone."
"Oh. It sounded like papers rustling or something."
"No. Phone. It's the phone. So. (rustle rustle) W-What movie?"
"I don't care. It has to be PG and have to be home by 8, though."
"OK. I'll look and call you back."
"Is your mom driv--"
click.

As you can see from those sample exchanges, I had nowhere to go but up. During the next few scheduling calls, I got progressively smoother. I worked out the bugs. I gained confidence. I threw away my pages of notes. I was a stud. By the time the weekend rolled around, I was feeling pretty good about things. So good, in fact, that I vowed I would get the fabled "good night kiss" that I had heard so much about. How hard could that be? After all, I had one other kiss under my belt. It was from 7th grade, but still it counted, even if it was in a closet on a dare with an ugly girl.

Getting that kiss was all I could think about. Plus, there would be ample opportunity to hold hands and stuff in the movie theatre right? I mean, isn't that what people did? They didn't watch the movie, they sat in the back and just kissed a lot and maybe felt each other up. Maybe I would even feel a boob. The possibilities were endless.

Stay tuned for Part II. It gets better. And by better I mean it gets even more like a total train wreck.

Continue to Part II.