I came across this story I wrote sometime in 2002. It’s about a girl; a very specific girl, in fact. I wrote this in part to get her out of my system. It didn’t work completely – nothing short of a full frontal lobotomy would, I suspect – but it did its part.
It doesn’t have an ending. Many things don’t, so I’m not terribly worried right now. Consider it a snapshot of an odd, impressionable and thoroughly angst-ridden time. (I don’t like the name I gave her; in hindsight, it’s an unfortunate attachment I’m surprised I didn’t think of at the time.)
Also, go and watch The Philadelphia Story, if you haven’t already.
George Kittridge never had a chance.
It’s the sort of thing you realize very quickly when watching The Philadelphia Story. Katharine Hepburn is too beautiful, intelligent and strong-willed to ever condemn herself to a life with a man possessing all the charisma and charm of a household plant. Maybe there’s a question of whether she belongs with Jimmy Stewart or Carey Grant, but you know it’s not going to be Kittridge.
I don’t even know the name of the actor who played George Kittridge. How significant could he possibly be?
The general principle in movies featuring a love triangle is that you need at least three characters: The beautiful heroin, beautiful and as perfect as a human being can possibly be, but still capable of making a tremendous mistake; the hero, a charming, intelligent, probably good-looking fellow who’s probably from a lower class, a classic underdog; and a character of Kittridge-osity, a stuffed shirt from upper society, frequently with a bad moustache.
There are exceptions, of course. Casablanca pits cunning and subtle Humphrey Bogart against virtuous and patriotic Victor Lazlo. Of course Ilsa has to go with Victor; she’s a part of his work, the thing that keeps him going. If she stayed in Casablanca with Rick…
Well, you know. The fact that I know Humphrey Bogart played Rick while I draw a blank as to the true identity of Victor Lazlo may tell you who I’m siding with, but that’s not important right now. We respect and admire Victor Lazlo, but we’re still meant to identify with Rick. Illsa doesn’t go with Victor because she loves him more; she goes with him because Rick knows it’s the right thing to do.
It reassures the audience. George Kittridge provides the possibility of something other than a happy ending, but as possibilities go it’s right up there with Ringo Starr being referred to as “the brains behind the Beatles.”
I may not have a Katharine Hepburn or Ingrid Bergman, but I had my Lisa Rowe. Lisa was not from the upper crust of society, nor was she a cold intellectual or embittered spinster.
Lisa may not have been Katharine Hepburn, but I couldn’t have asked for more. When I met her, I thought she was one of the most beautiful woman I’d ever met. A week later “thought” changed to “knew” and “one of” became obsolete. She had smouldering red hair that didn’t quite touch her shoulders. It occasionally drifted in front of her eyes, hypnotic green orbs that had a gleam typically reserved for stones embedded in bands of gold and silver.
One of the true tests of beauty, I think, is whether you notice things that you normally wouldn’t. I don’t know much about lips in general, and can quite honestly say that they are rarely of any significance to me. But Lisa’s lips, whether on their own or by extension of her, were perhaps the most phenomenal lips I had ever seen.
They were pronounced enough to be noticeable, but not nearly so much as to make you wonder if she had some sort of problem with her gums. They curled when she smiled, connecting ethereally to the minute dimples in her cheeks.
To see Lisa smile was like watching the sun rise. To see her smile at you was like watching the sun rise, but knowing that there wasn’t a single other person on the face of the Earth watching it with you.
Lisa was the kind of person around whom entire social circles orbited. To watch her in the middle of a social function was to behold a true artist in top form. Shortly after a get-together metamorphoses into a party, groups of people begin to splinter off from the main as they realize they have little in common with each other beyond a casual connection with the host.
Around the TV with muted volume sat three guys discussing James Cameron’s transition from Action God to Titanic Twit; in the corner, on the couch, five girls wearing enough makeup for ten told tales from Cosmo. Yet another group, this one of mixed gender, talked generally of music and waxed nostalgically about Degrassi High.
Other groups faded in and out, changing form as people arrived, left and changed crowds. The constant, though, was Lisa, flitting to and fro amongst all the collectives, never spending too much time with one before moving on to grace the next with her presence. It was a masterfully choreographed act, like watching a grandmaster play five games of chess at once, never losing so much as a pawn unless she wanted to.
I don’t suppose I was alone in my admiration of her. The vivacity of any given group was almost guaranteed to increase as Lisa passed through, as though the throngs of conversation were only a facade masking the only true desire anyone could possibly hold: To speak with, to play with, to be with Lisa Rowe.
Even amongst groups of people who had nothing in common with each other, I realized I had nothing in common with any of them. There were a few classmates who fell just short of friend status, and a few new and interesting people whom I was unlikely to ever see or consider again, but I held no real social obligations in this gathering.
Coincidence and conversational drift lead me to the stairway, where myself and four others — three male, one female — were discussing and reciting our favorite episodes of The Simpsons.
Kate Higginsole, who I had met several times but never spoken to at any great length, espoused Lisa Simpson as the greatest feminist character in late-twentieth-century fiction.
Todd Allenson, who I knew from being generally around though would be hard pressed to reveal any specifics about his life, was quite fond of my impression of Mr. Burns and Smithers watching Homer’s BBQ pig fly by the office window. We both agreed that the series had peaked with the pig.
The other two guys I had never seen before in my life, and likely never would again. I think one of them was named Steve; I hoped I would never see him again, as it would just entail awkwardness when he called out my name and I couldn’t reply with anything more substantive than “hey, it’s… you.”
The remaining member of our party had not been introduced at any time, and seemed quite happy that way. He didn’t contribute much to our conversation, offering little more than the occasional laugh or innocuous comment to the effect of “yeah, I know.”
They were, in short, nice, friendly and occasionally witty people. I was having a good time.
And if I was having a perfectly nice time discussing pop culture trivia with a bunch of strangers, I don’t think I have quite the words to describe how I felt discussing pop culture trivia with a bunch of strangers when Lisa sat down between Todd and myself and joined in.
Hours passed, the crowd dwindled, and the music turned down. Only a handful of people remained, though still factionalized out of habit. Todd and myself were the last members of The Simpsons party, our original subject long since exhausted.
“Okay guys, I’m kicking you out now,” Lisa told us. “Beauty sleep and all.”
I looked at the clock, now saying 2am, and agreed with her sentiment.
You know exactly what’s coming next, don’t you.
She kissed him.
This perfectly nice guy with whom I was comfortably
bonding on harmless but important subjects, with whom I had shared numerous beers and several memories which ranked in importance somewhere in between “meaningful” and “anecdotal,” was kissing Lisa Rowe.
