21 Baker Street
Adolescence:
The years passed and we still lived in the big brick house on 21 Baker Street. My older brother Tommy went to college, my little sister Suzy went to boarding school in the country, and I stayed home, just math and English my mother and The Rolling Stones and David Bowie records on my new Craig stereo system. Every once in a while my mother would look at me, sadness filling her big blue eyes, and she’d sigh, ruffling my hair.
“You’re such a handsome boy, Owen. Don’t you want to go to school? You could take your board with you.”
I’d shake my head no. I was only 15, but deep down inside, I knew that I’d be mocked at school for my board and my awkwardness, no matter how good looking I was. All adolescent activities, it seemed, centered around being able to talk. Conversation ruled supreme, and I knew that if I was somehow let loose in the fish tank of high school, I’d be eaten alive. So I stayed at home with my mother. My only consolation was that the girl next door stayed home with her mother too. I didn’t know why, but while her little brother left for school in the mornings, she stayed home. I saw her sometimes, through my window. She still prayed at night. Once I saw her changing. It was the first time I’d ever seen a girl with that many of her clothes off. It didn't matter to me that she still had on her bra and panties. It was the most of any woman I'd ever seen and I fell immediately in love. I’d never seen a prettier girl in my entire life. She was petite, tiny, like a little shell or a feather or a candy in a delicate wrapper. Tiny and pretty and perfect. She had long, dark hair, like the rest of her family, and skin that was pale and translucent.
I was absolutely smitten.
Most of my days, after I did my work, I sat on my bed with a book or sketch pad, reading or drawing while I waited for her to appear at my window. When she did, it was like seeing some goddess from my mythology book.
I worshipped her, venerated her, tried to speak again just so I could go knock on her door and lean all cool against the frame and make her swoon with some line I’d picked up from a Marlon Brando or Lee Marvin movie. When trying to speak again didn’t work, I had this idea in my head that we’d fall in love and spend all our time together and somehow, through her prayers or mine or a mixture of fate and faith and true, pure love, I’d regain my ability to speak. But nothing ever happened. I never got my voice back. Every once in a while I could manage a squawk or a grunt or something that vaguely sounded like a cough, but I couldn’t form words. I was broken hearted. For the first time in years, I closed my curtains and didn’t look out the window at the girl across the street.
One night, lying in bed, I realized that I didn’t even know her name.
That night, for the first time in a long time, I laid in bed and cried.
After a while, though, everything got better. I opened my curtains and watched her again and waited eagerly for the spring, when I’d receive my diploma without walking the aisle or wearing a cap and gown, and after that, I was off to NYU, where come hell or high water, I was going to earn my English degree without my voice.
I did. The four years were hell, with occasional high water. I had next to no friends, and lived in a dirty apartment by myself, but somehow I made it through. I didn’t get my voice back, though.
And I was still in love with the girl across the street.
“You’re such a handsome boy, Owen. Don’t you want to go to school? You could take your board with you.”
I’d shake my head no. I was only 15, but deep down inside, I knew that I’d be mocked at school for my board and my awkwardness, no matter how good looking I was. All adolescent activities, it seemed, centered around being able to talk. Conversation ruled supreme, and I knew that if I was somehow let loose in the fish tank of high school, I’d be eaten alive. So I stayed at home with my mother. My only consolation was that the girl next door stayed home with her mother too. I didn’t know why, but while her little brother left for school in the mornings, she stayed home. I saw her sometimes, through my window. She still prayed at night. Once I saw her changing. It was the first time I’d ever seen a girl with that many of her clothes off. It didn't matter to me that she still had on her bra and panties. It was the most of any woman I'd ever seen and I fell immediately in love. I’d never seen a prettier girl in my entire life. She was petite, tiny, like a little shell or a feather or a candy in a delicate wrapper. Tiny and pretty and perfect. She had long, dark hair, like the rest of her family, and skin that was pale and translucent.
I was absolutely smitten.
Most of my days, after I did my work, I sat on my bed with a book or sketch pad, reading or drawing while I waited for her to appear at my window. When she did, it was like seeing some goddess from my mythology book.
I worshipped her, venerated her, tried to speak again just so I could go knock on her door and lean all cool against the frame and make her swoon with some line I’d picked up from a Marlon Brando or Lee Marvin movie. When trying to speak again didn’t work, I had this idea in my head that we’d fall in love and spend all our time together and somehow, through her prayers or mine or a mixture of fate and faith and true, pure love, I’d regain my ability to speak. But nothing ever happened. I never got my voice back. Every once in a while I could manage a squawk or a grunt or something that vaguely sounded like a cough, but I couldn’t form words. I was broken hearted. For the first time in years, I closed my curtains and didn’t look out the window at the girl across the street.
One night, lying in bed, I realized that I didn’t even know her name.
That night, for the first time in a long time, I laid in bed and cried.
After a while, though, everything got better. I opened my curtains and watched her again and waited eagerly for the spring, when I’d receive my diploma without walking the aisle or wearing a cap and gown, and after that, I was off to NYU, where come hell or high water, I was going to earn my English degree without my voice.
I did. The four years were hell, with occasional high water. I had next to no friends, and lived in a dirty apartment by myself, but somehow I made it through. I didn’t get my voice back, though.
And I was still in love with the girl across the street.