I had created a mental oasis in a very unforgiving desert, and cast Shelly Curtis as the embodiment of that respite from the unrelenting heat. Or, in a reversal of metaphor, the image of her was like a life buoy, keeping me afloat in a choppy, cold and dark sea of exclusion. I needed SOMETHING to cling to, to keep me hopeful. I invented a "love," and a beautiful fiction in my head to believe in, to get me through the day. It actually had very little to do with just who that little girl was… I mean, I didn't know her, I hardly said 8 words to her the whole school year. But, in my squirrelly little mind, I imagined that she was equally as struck with me, and saw all my silent suffering, and secretly loved, and respected me for it. But, y'know, was too scared to say anything, for fear that I might reject her. If only she knew, we could both end this tragic suffering…. Shut up! It was my fantasy, and my way of making up a "bubble" universe to exist in that allowed me to get on the bus in the morning without crying.

I'd read volumes of meaning into chance eye contact, wherein I'd confirm these mad thoughts. She looked at me! She MUST know. I'd close my eyes during film-strips, and try to mentally "beam" messages into her head.

"I love you." "You are the prettiest girl in the world."

Such is the way of the 3rd Grade crush. Each night, as I went to sleep, I'd silently hope that she would not be absent the next day, for is she was, the whole point of going to school was lost. I'd conjure up intricate fantasies of impressing her, saying something funny, doing something spectacular, saving the school from terrorists, all so that she'd end up running into my arms, and telling me that she thought about me as much as I did her. When I got home, and the bus dropped me off, I'd wait until it was a safe distance away, then write her name in the dirt with a stick, and draw a clumsy heart around it. I'd stare at it for as long as I dared, convinced that at any moment, teams of people would rush out and point fingers at me, laughing and delighting in discovering my "secret. " Each moment spent staring at the name, and the cartoony heart sped my heart like a jackhammer.When it was too much to bear, I'd quickly obscure the little sand-drawing with a nervous KED-clad foot. Our big, colonial house was on the edge of a beautiful pond, and I'd sit on a rock, and imagine so hard that she was there with me that I swear to you, I almost SAW her there, even with my eyes open. Shimmering, half-transparent. If I were sure that no one saw me, I'd extend my hand to this ghost image, and wordlessly sit there, in tortured bliss, imagining that she was there, holding my hand. That's as far as I could imagine, without imploding. The notion of an actual kiss, at that age, is so beyond the realm of the possible that even the hint of it, just as a thought, was enough to turn my face flushed with crimson.

See, at that age, the "crush" is doubly horrific, since it exists everywhere and nowhere, and has no possibility of release. It exists solely in the mind, where it is allowed to be that much purer, not having the chance to be sullied by physical reality. But it is a near physical ache, with phantom pains half in the head, half in the gut, simultaneously everywhere and nowhere at all, that leaves you part queasy, part dizzy, and part elated. And all screwy.

I was also quite aware that this "returned, but unrequited love" from Ms. Curtis that I imagined was indeed, a fiction…. But it was one that I could allow myself, in silent moments, to believe in enough, just a sort of cosmic "maybe" that allowed me to do like Jesse says- "Keep hope alive." I was perfectly content to keep everything at this level of homeostasis…So long as she did not profess some school girl crush on one of the "popular" boys, I could keep my psyche-saving life-raft afloat. I suffered no illusions of having this mental mind-play work itself out in the real world. The "lie" of the possibility of it was what sustained me, and kept me. But oh, how it ached.

The second "coping strategy" was worse. See, when you are that age, there is a certain life-affirming quality to candy bars that is just plain wrong. A full-sized Milky Way bar offers, to the 9 year old boy, 6 minutes of uncomplicated joy. He is not yet concerned with bills to pay, is not burdened by thoughts of the world, politics, and even the hell of school, if it is a hell for him, manages to wink out and disappear when the bus dropping him off home pulls away. It is a simple time, after a fashion, suited to simple pleasures. And whatever is in front of you can be your whole universe, if only for a short time. So candy takes on an importance that is never quite found again, in later years. Finding a box of candy bars that has fallen off a truck is the 3rd grader's equivalent to the adult fantasy of finding a suitcase full of money. If shown the film, and asked what was in the PULP FICTION briefcase, a 9 year old might reply "Twinkies."

Having no pleasure during school, I attempted to cram as much pleasure into my afterschool time as possiblel. I did this by cramming my face. In my daydreams, Shelly Curtis may have been my "girlfriend," but in a very real sense, the girl I was romancing was, in fact, Little Debbie; she of the chocolaty snack-cakes, and the fudge rounds, and the caramel cookie bars. I was quite the cupboard Casanova, however, and I was known to two-time Debbie like a regular playa with the alluring Ms. Sara Lee, and sometimes even engaged in a scandalous threesome with the older, more experienced temptress, Betty Crocker. I soon went from "average 3rd grade boy-sized" to a frequenter of the "HUSKY" section of Sears, when mom took me pants-shopping.

In the department store parlance, "HUSKY" is a code word for "fat kid." And hoo boy, was I getting to be a chub.

A little back story, though, that you'll need to know. I was always fascinated by the Martial Arts. When I was 6, I asked my dad if I could learn karate. He explained to me that if I did, it would not be in the "kiddie" classes, as it was a serious endeavor, and I'd have to show enough maturity to go to the adult classes, but that he'd take it with me. I attacked those classes with the intensity of a marine, and was always mindful to be "disciplined" in class, to make my dad proud. There was a fierce, mustached Albanian guy who was one of the black belts, who, in a thick accent, called me "The Little Warrior." I trained like a demon. I'd practice stretching for hours. I taught myself weapons forms with a foam three sectional staff. In 3 years, I had gotten astonishingly good, and was capable of delivering crisp side and round kicks far above my head, with perfect form. When we moved to Southbury, part of the reason I packed on the pounds was that we were no longer able to attend the 3 night a week classes. Mostly, though, it was that I was eating enough snack-cakes to stuff a horse. But, chub though I was, I was still a formidable fighter for my age. This will get important to the story at hand, soon.