I have two memories of Artie, my childhood friend—one involves the night he tried to push me from a third floor Rosedale window, long after our friendship was over.
The second memory is a blurry dream of Eva, his lovely sister.
Artie’s frizzy hair and oversized eyes scared me from the day he began following me, wanting to be my friend.
Later, I found out the skinny kid in leather shorts befriended me because I was good in English. He used me.
His father was a suave gangster from a film noir and his wraith of a mother seemed perpetually shuttling between buses on her way to market.
But I befriended Artie for one thing—to be close to Eva, his lovely sister.
She had blonde hair and a dark smile that froze and melted the river of dreams inside me.
I burned candles in the darkness of Saint James Church, begging Jesus on the altar to pity me and let me have her.
I was conflicted, adults would say—passionate, dark and brooding, yet, between sleep and waking, my heart cried out in longing, and could not be consoled.
I was shy—intimidated by adults I presumed gods and terrified of girls I knew were angels.
Being sensitive made me awkward and I envied boys with skin so thick they never blushed.
That summer between grades seven and eight I spent daily at Artie’s house.
Sometimes, I’d pedal my bike to the nearby store to buy soft drinks for the three of us. Eva drank Orange Crush, and I confess, I’d uncap her bottle and steal a sip hoping her lips would shiver at the cold dark kiss.
She’d give a knowing smile as if her heart knew—and I hoped she did, but was terrified as well. She wore navy shorts and a white blouse, her legs tanned and bronzed from being outdoors.
When I came into the cool house from the heat outside, she was a ray of moonlight and my heart ached, gazing at her beauty.
I can’t recall we ever said much—not that I could converse with her, if ever the occasion presented itself.
The other boys at school went out on dates. Even Ricky Rutledge, the dentist’s son, pulled me aside one day in the hall and with gleaming smile asked, “How are the bras in your class?”
I was definitely arrested, unable to reply, and he smirked the knowing smile of a confirmed roué, already worldly, and only twelve.
That was a horrible year. I had chosen Hilda Salech’s name for Secret Santa—Hilda, the well-endowed, and all the boys were jealous.
“I’d buy her a negligee,” said Billie Preston, and the rest agreed, nodding in unison.
Not knowing what to buy, I asked my mother, who suggested Black Magic Chocolates as an appropriate present.
When the gifts were opened, all the boys howled, Hilda blushed, and my fate was sealed. I was confined to the ranks of the incompetent.
I went home in the winter twilight, desolate and in despair.
Artie witnessed my humiliation, and while not exactly dating himself, he attended a club at St. Elizabeth of Hungary Church.
The club’s purpose was to inculcate culture, but Artie saw it as an opportunity to dance with girls.
“C’mon, Paul—you’ll love it. I meet girls all the time and sometimes go over to their houses.”
My eyes widened. This side of Artie I hadn’t seen.
I was afraid to send girls Valentines, but Artie went and visited them at their houses. I was definitely delayed in my development.
As I look back now at who I was then, I can’t believe I agreed to go, but I did.
It changd my life but at the time I didn’t see it that way. And I didn’t know how things would turn out, but it wasn’t all wine and roses.
I bought myself a whole world of pain and the life lesson was just beginning.
