Conception

“There is a correlation between the creative and the screwball.  So we must suffer the screwball gladly.” –Kingman Brewster

            The TV flickered as I got comfortable on the couch and felt the cold medicine taking effect. Begrudgingly, I closed my eyes and let my thoughts drift. I saw various shades of gray as I wandered through the depths of my psyche. Then I noticed it: a bright, white light that cut through the darkness like a steel knife.

            That’s where I found her. Long brown hair hung down to her small waist, and her almond-shaped eyes sparkled knowingly as if she had been waiting for me. She was dressed in black spandex shorts with a shiny black skirt and more than 10 yards of hot pink crinoline draped over the shorts to hide any flaws. Her shocking pink half-shirt revealed soft tanned skin below large breasts. She was wearing pink high top sneakers with black socks, and had a pink scarf tied around her thick, curly hair. Cherry-colored lipstick covered full lips, and her outlandish eye make-up gave her multi-tiered cat’s eyes. She had a simple silver charm around her neck, which struck me as odd considering the rest of her outfit… and the rest of her jewelry.

            Covering both her forearms were bangle bracelets: big, chunky, plastic jewelry in a rainbow of colors that rattled and clicked every time she moved. Some had charms on them that jingled like bells, making her sound like a gypsy dancer when she waved at me.

            She stood quietly for a few moments while I looked her over. “A picture would last longer,” she announced.

            I blushed and cleared my throat in embarrassment. “I’m sorry I… what are you doing here?”

            She shrugged, her large pink and silver earrings shining through her hair. “I’m not really sure. I must’ve taken a wrong turn in the E-wing.”

            I blinked in confusion, positive that I had missed something during the short conversation. “E-wing? What’s an E-wing?”

            “You know, where the automotive hangers are.”

            I suppose she believed that she had cleared up everything for me, but I was even more baffled now than I was before. It must have shown on my face, because the girl’s features softened and she held out her hand with a loud clatter of bangles.

            “C’mon,” she urged, “I’ll show you.”

            I really didn’t have much of a choice as she grabbed my hand and pulled me down what I could only describe as a long, dark hallway. I began to have a feeling that we had left my mind some time ago. My fears were confirmed as we stepped out onto a football field, a warm breeze caressing my face as we walked towards the bleachers. I glanced behind me and was slightly nervous to see only a brick wall where we had entered.

            “Um… the hall…”

            She shot me a sparkling smile, but didn’t respond. She continued to pull me towards the bleachers, and that’s when I noticed that I was wearing blue parachute pants and a matching jacket, with a purple sports bra underneath. My high tops were purple and white, with purple ankle socks. I tentatively touched my hair, relieved to find that at least it was still short and hairspray free.

            I noticed that the football field was occupied by teens dressed in various forms of casual clothing, from denim shorts and T-shirts to pretty spring dresses of various lengths. I nudged my companion, who had paused at the first row of bleachers. “I assume that this isn’t the football team?”

            She shook her head as she pulled a banged-up instrument from its case and started to put it together. “Nope,” she responded, closing the case, “Marching band.”

            My confusion grew as I realized what instrument she held. “Why do you have a bassoon?”

            She grinned. “Stupid, huh? It is my preferred instrument, but I do play others. The conductor won’t hear of it. He apparently has it in for me. Of course, the fact that I’m really late won’t help. I hope Scott covered for me…”

            “Uh huh,” I was trying to understand… really, I was, “and so this is the E-wing you were talking about?”

            She looked back at me in confusion as she stepped onto the field. “Huh? Oh, no. The E-wing’s in there.”

            I glanced to where she was pointing and saw a huge gray building that I could have sworn was a prison. I turned back and watched my companion, who was trying to slide into her position on the field without being spotted by the conductor. She paused for a moment to thank a dark haired kid wearing mirrored glasses and holding a trombone. I assumed that he was Scott, and returned his cocky, three-fingered salute.

Urged on by the attention, he wandered over to where I stood. He leaned brazenly against the fence that surrounded the field and grinned. I realized that this child was used to getting what he wanted from women. I’m not sure if the disgust I had for people like him registered on my face, but I don’t think he would have noticed it anyway.

He looked me over like a dog does a bone (I think he was actually salivating), “I know band practice isn’t as titillating to the mere mortal as it is to us band geeks, so you have to be from the newspaper.”

I really didn’t understand that logic, so I responded as intelligently as possible, “Um, OK.”

“Well, I’m Scott Hankowitz, with two t’s and a z. I’m head of the trombone section. We’re practicing for the upcoming competition in New Jersey… Um, shouldn’t you be writing this down?”

I tapped my head, not wanting to admit I had tuned him out. “Photographic memory,” I responded.

“Uh huh.” It seemed like Scott had tuned me out this time.  “So, as I was saying…” I guess we had spoken about me for too long.

“Hankowitz,” the director yelled, “Get back in formation!”

Scott gave me what I guess he thought was an endearing smile and walked back out onto the field, leaving me once again alone. It was then that I started to wonder what the heck I was supposed to do next.

            “You look confused,” said a deep voice behind me.

            I turned and looked up into the deepest, bluest eyes I had ever seen. It took a bit of effort to pull my attention back to the entire face, but it was worth it. Soft white skin, high cheekbones, a chiseled chin, and a perfect ski-slope nose. Straight blonde hair flopped boyishly across a modest forehead and into those gorgeous eyes. And then the adjective hit me… “boyishly”. This boy was almost half my age. I took a step back and was amazed by this child’s broad shoulders, large chest and small waist. It took me a moment before I was able to respond something that could have possibly been English.

            He gave me a smile that made me wish there weren’t laws against the things that I was thinking. “My name’s Denny. Are you a freshman?”

            Now, I know I look younger than my age, but this boy deserved a kiss. “I’m here with a friend. I’m just trying to find the E-wing.”

            Denny’s smile faltered slightly. “You’re standing in it.”

            I glanced around, noticing for the first time that, number one, I was indoors and, number two, that there were little E’s painted along the walls opposite the lockers. “Oh,” I answered intelligently.

            “Was there any place you were looking for in particular?”

            I turned around slowly, trying to figure out what had just happened. “Actually my friend had mentioned the…”

            I stopped speaking when I realized I wasn’t in the E-wing anymore. I was in a garage… and the gorgeous Denny was no where in sight. In the middle of the garage was a yellow Dodge Aspen from, and this was just a guess, the 1970s. It was big, it was ugly, and it seemed to have an extra back seat. I walked slowly around the car, glancing through the windows to figure out how this unusual seat was possible.

            I had just figured out that the owner had used most of the large trunk to make room for the seat and had had a custom made hood created to cover it, when I tripped over the legs of the man working under the car. I fell heavily on my hands and knees as the mechanic rolled himself out from under the Aspen. I felt strong hands slip under my arms and help me slowly to my feet. I turned to thank and apologize to him, when I found myself looking at yet another handsome teenager.

            He was a redhead, with blue-green eyes that never seemed to stop changing color. He had a sprinkling of freckles across his button nose, and a curl of auburn hair that brushed his forehead. He, like Denny, had a large chest and chiseled arms, but looked much more innocent than the blonde ever could.

            “Are you all right?” he asked.

            Again, I had seemed to lose my knack for the English language. You would think I had never spoken to a handsome high school senior… “Good… I’m good.” OK, so maybe I was a little out of practice…

            “Can I help you with anything?”

            I looked at him quietly for a moment, trying to guess how insane he would actually think I was. “Did you ever have a feeling that you were in a dream but then, you pinch yourself, and you’re still exactly where you were?”

            So, maybe he did think I was crazy, but he was kind enough not to say so out loud. “Let me guess, it’s your first day of school, right?”

            I touched my cheek in silent amazement. I have got to thank my Avon lady for that age defying cream! “I am still in the school? Oh good!”

            He smiled slightly, my sanity much more in question. “I guess the automotive hanger kinda threw you, huh?”

            So this was the hanger! Now if I could just figure out how to find the pathway back to my own mind. I assumed asking him that question would have him calling the men in the white coats. “Um, can you tell me where the marching band meets?”

            “Sure,” he responded, obviously relieved that he wasn’t the one I had been looking for, “Go right out these doors, make a left, and go out the second set of doors on your right.” He looked at me with a bit of his concern on his face. “Are you sure you can handle that?”

            I didn’t know if he was kidding or not, until I looked at his face. I never saw eyes twinkle like that before. “You’re a riot,” I responded, pleased with myself that I remembered some comebacks from that time period.

            He put his hand on my shoulder, such a nice, clean hand for a mechanic. Then I realized that he had tucked his work gloves into his coveralls. “C’mon, I’ll show you where they are. My name’s Rob, by the way.”

            “I was hoping it was, since that’s the name on your coveralls.” I thought that that was smooth, very smooth.

            He grinned and opened the door for me. “Ladies first.”

            I decided to hold back the response I normally used of how much of a lady I really was, fearing that that would make him lose a bit of respect for me. I thanked him and stepped through the door into…

            A gorgeous atrium decorated in marble and crystal, with a multi-tiered chandelier about six-foot long hanging from the cathedral ceiling. I turned to Rob, only to find a haughty butler standing behind me.

            “Might I take your coat?” he asked, holding out his hand.

            I was still wearing the blue jogging suit, and thought it would be unwise to walk around in my sports bra. “Oh, um… no thank you.”

            “Very well,” he answered, “The others are in the music room, through those doors.”

            I glanced at the large, ornate wooden doors, and heard an electric guitar warming up. “OK. Thank you.”

            I walked up to the doors and, spotting the large gold hinges, pulled the door open. My original companion was there, dressed in blood red jeans and an electric blue T-shirt. The boots matched the shirt and the scarf, the pants. The multi-colored bangles still decorated her forearms. Her crimson lips parted in a smile as she noticed me.

            “I was wondering where you had wandered to!”

            “So was I,” I admitted, looking at the other teens in the room.

            I hadn’t met any of them before, and none were familiar faces from the football field. Instruments were arranged in the center of the room as if on a stage. A dark haired teen with similar features to my companion was strumming the guitar I had heard before, his fingers moving dexterously across the strings. He had hardly glanced up when I had walked in, and didn’t seem any more interested in me now. His loss I thought, wondering when I had developed such an ego.

            Next to him was an Asian girl, her long black hair braided down her back. She was wearing a purple and white cheerleader uniform, sans the pompoms, and she spoke with an annoying Valley Girl accent that made me tune her out very quickly. I noticed that she didn’t acknowledge my presence either. Neither did the others in the room. The longhaired brunette with the sweet face continued her quiet conversation with the blonde working on the keyboards’ wiring. The arrogant girl with the short, brown hair was rolling her green eyes (obviously contacts) and arguing with a pretty Latino girl who was expertly painting on the bass drum skin. When she turned away to respond, I noticed the words she had painted: The Left-Overs. I turned to my companion, who I realized had been watching me with a slight grin.

            “Um… can they not see me, or are they just rude?”

            The brunette linked arms with me, and that’s when I noticed the electric blue earrings. “Well, they’re rude as a rule, but in this case they just don’t see you,” she suddenly became upset, “I guess this means that your time here is almost up.”

            “Up?” now I was worried, “What do you mean ‘up’?”

            She didn’t respond. That was starting to annoy me. “I had so wanted you to see… I wonder if we can squeeze that in…”

            I had wandered away from her and was standing by the keyboards, watching the blonde work. I knew nothing about electronics, but it was obvious that she did. She looked up at her sweet-faced friend.

            “Try it again,” she said.

            The brunette complied, running her fingers across the keys in a complicated melody. The guitarist responded to that with a scale of his own. The Latino girl grabbed a tambourine and shook it to start a beat. The cheerleader picked up that rhythm on her drum set. Then I heard instruments, that I had not seen anywhere in the room, continue the beat… and that’s when it started to sound familiar. I turned to my companion and, with more irritation than shock, realized the scene had changed once more.

            I was in a restaurant decorated in the style of the 50s, with a chrome and vinyl décor, accentuated by red and white florescent signs and decorations. Five big booths lined the back wall, while white and red tables surrounded the dance floor. The place was crowded with teens, many of who were dancing to The Stray Cats’ Rock This Town, the song I hadn’t been able to identify a few moments before.

            It didn’t take me long to spot my companion, who was dressed in a yellow poodle skirt and white button-down shirt, with saddle shoes to match. She was dancing with Denny, who didn’t seem to have the same odd fashion sense as his dance partner. He was dressed in black jeans and a blue shirt, (and I won’t go into how amazing he looked) and appeared very comfortable with the flamboyant brunette. Well, you didn’t have to hit me over the head with a sledgehammer… those two were definitely a couple.

            My companion smiled at me and gave a wave, her bracelets making their familiar music. Denny turned in my direction, obviously perplexed. “What are you waving at?” he asked, “The jukebox?”

            That’s when I noticed the music machine behind me, now silent.

            “I’m waving to a friend,” the brunette answered, walking towards the middle booth in the back of the room.

            “But there was no one there…” his amazing blue eyes widened, “Oh, you didn’t! Not again!”

            “What?” she answered innocently.

            “You brought another one to see us, didn’t you?”

            Another one? What did he mean another one? Why was I suddenly feeling jealous? What the heck was going on?

            The brunette grabbed Denny’s hands, her face earnest. “This one is different. She seems to accept us… to accept me!  No screaming, no fear… she just accepted it.”

            “Maybe she’s just in shock,” Denny ran his hand through his hair, “Jeez, what are you trying to accomplish?”

            My companion’s expression changed once again. This time she was somber… determined. She grabbed her boyfriend by the arms and stared deeply into his eyes. “Denny, I want people to remember us. To remember the good times, the strong friendships…” she paused, and her voice cracked when she spoke next, “I want people to remember you, Dennis.”

            I don’t know why, but I suddenly felt a chill go down my spine. I glanced at Denny, who was staring at the ground, his large hands now in his pockets. “What about the others?” he finally asked, “Rob and Whitney? Jeanie and Scott? Sharon, Tanya and Alice? Your brother Andy and his friends? What about the rest of the DeCostanza clan?”

            I grinned at his wiliness. He didn’t believe I was going to help them, but he made sure to mention everyone that was important in their lives. Shrewd… very shrewd.

            My companion smiled. She knew that she was winning him over. “She already met you, Scott and Rob. The others she saw, although they didn’t actually meet her, while we were at rehearsal at Jeanie’s house. She was already fading by then.”

            Fading. I certainly didn’t like that term.

            “Are you telling me that girl in the purple sports bra is the one you contacted? She could be no more than fifteen!”

            And once again, that boy has won my heart.

            My companion looked disgusted. I thought it was because the only thing her boyfriend remembered about me was my chest… not that I could blame him…

            “You should know by now that that’s not the way she really looks. Her soul is that of a teen. That’s why she relates to us so well.”

            Well, that deflated my ego… but I couldn’t understand why my disappointment would make them get so blurry. I tried to get my companion’s attention.

            “Something’s happening!” I called to her, hoping that she could still hear me.

            She pushed Denny aside and ran over to me, pressing her hand against mine. I couldn’t feel her. “Promise me,” she said, “Promise me you won’t forget us! Promise me you’ll tell others about us!”

            I was confused. Who were they? Why was she so desperate to have her story told? I glanced behind her at the restaurant. The images were fading. The chrome, the jukebox, the booths, Denny… Then I saw the look in his eyes: somber, despondent, grave. It was that awful look that helped me make my decision.

            “I will, I promise,” I told her. My voice sounded breathy, hollow. I wondered if she could even hear me. Her smile told me that she had. I couldn’t hear her response, but I could read her lips: Thank you!

            As she started to fade out of existence, I realized that she had never told me her name. I asked her for it, but it was too late. She was too far away… I could barely make out her bright yellow skirt and the row of bangle bracelets on her arm as she waved her final farewell.

            My eyes opened to the darkness of my living room. The rest of the house was silent. A quick glance at the clock on the VCR told me that my husband had already left for his overnight shift. I turned on the light to see the little surprise he had left for me: a cup of warm tea and honey was waiting patiently on a hot plate, next to a dishful of matzo bread and jelly. It wasn’t filet mignon and a flagon of wine but when you’re sick, you don’t have many options…

            Next to the food were a ream of lined paper neatly clipped together and a handful of sharpened pencils. My husband knew me all too well. I grabbed the paper and pencils eagerly and began to write about everything I had just experienced: the marching band begrudgingly standing on the football field, the adolescent rock band practicing in haughty Jeanie’s house. Pretty, sweet faced Whitney and Sharon, the electronics guru. Alice the Valley Girl cheerleader and Tanya the outspoken artist. Brazen Scott of the mirrored glasses. Andy DeCostanza, my companion’s brother, strumming his electric guitar (I didn’t guess his last name, Denny had mentioned it… check back a couple of pages if you don’t believe me). Auburn haired Rob, with the innocent face and the smiling eyes, and Denny, blonde, gorgeous and solemn, with a demeanor that alluded to a dark fate (just the thought of it gave me yet another chill).

Then there was her. Dark haired, dark eyed, and brightly dressed, with a bubbly attitude and a friendly smile, but with no name. I sat there on the couch, a list of names running through my mind. None of them fit with the images of her that flashed through my memory. The hot pink outfit with the yards of crinoline, the blue and red get-up at rehearsal, the poodle skirt and saddle shoes… no names fit with those mental pictures.

I sighed and tapped the pencil against the paper in agitation. The visions of my companion continued to dance before my eyes. The long curly hair, the dimpled cheeks, the simple silver chain, the bright earrings and all of those noisy bracelets…

            I smiled as a name came into my head. And thus, with all of my notes laid out beside me on the couch, I started my first story about the trials and tribulations of these teens. This engaging group of high school students who called themselves The Left-Overs. I wrote about them and their unforgettable leader, Bangles DeCostanza.