Steve

When I was in college, I met a guy through some bullshit, threadbare, cheesecloth-like network of acquaintances. He was a gymnast and would perform tricks on the lawn as we’d hang out there, talking up a storm about his love for Skinny Puppy and mine for poetry. My big dreams of inviting people over for tea. Because that was “grown up”.

He introduced me to his friends, this group of eight guys who were a year ahead of me and therefore far more experienced in college. They seemed so old and so cool and so worldly like they knew what was going on. I grabbed my friend Laurie from across the dorm hall to come along with me and admire their long hair, flannel shirts, combat boots, and sensitive, intellectual nature. We drew comparisons between them and the characters of Winnie the Pooh.

Everyone called him Cutie Steve.

Cutie Steve was first in love with me and when it became clear that wasn’t going to work (because I’m a bitch, because I wasn’t ready yet to date anyone, because I was too much of a nerd and insecure with myself), he moved on to Laurie who thought he was cute at first. After all, his name was deceptive that way. But soon she grew tired of what a clingy and pathetic dork he was, so my roommate picked up the slack. Laurie, Robbin, and I would hang out in our room and Cutie Steve would stop by. Him among all his ladies he adored. All of us liking his company, but even better, being amused by his being a goofball and liking his attention.

Somewhere along the line, we learned he could do an impression of Fozzy Bear. Not sure how that came about. But the important part of the story here, is that we soon made it a requirement for his admission to our room that he say, “Wokka wokka” before entering. Then when he wasn’t there, we would laugh until our stomachs hurt, saying, “Wokka wokka.” Laurie and I would prank call each other from across the hall, too, saying that we were Piedro, this foxy Italian student we were crushing on that year. Very grown up. Amazing that Piedro wasn’t just dying to really call us.

Sometimes, we would look out the cafeteria window during lunchtime and see a lone girl walking. She wore Kelly green shoes with an army green jacket and olive green jeans. We laughed about how much she wore green. She always wore green. All those unmatching greens. “Green must be her favorite color,” we would say. Brilliant observation, Watson.

One day we looked out the window, and there was Cutie Steve, walking along right beside the green girl. They stayed that way for the next three years and I’m not sure what happened after that.

But we were really happy for them. And a little ashamed of ourselves. If only we’d been cool enough to wear mismatched greens and not care. We could have let down our defenses enough to actually accept a man who loved Skinny Puppy and did gymnastics and said Wokka wokka to impress us. We could have looked past color combinations and aesthetic choices and courting tactics to actually see who he was. But then, if he looked past our stupid exteriors, he might have seen who we really were as well. Thankfully, he found a green girl who was worthy of him.