There's a three foot section of concrete pipe resting in the back corner of the old elementary school's playground. Looking back on it, I'm not sure if it was an actual piece of sandbox equipment, or just leftover construction material that childhood imaginations co-opted into the playscape. It's rough hewn and hard as a rock. It hardly seems likely that it would pass muster with parental groups these days, but it's there, and whatever its original intended purpose was, when I was a kid, that relatively huge hunk of concrete existed solely to scare the living shit out of me.
To the boys of my school, it was known simply and ominously as "The Tunnel of Love." I had seen, one by one, my friends cornered and taken inside by the opposite sex. The girls lurked nearby in packs waiting for one of us to leave the safety of our own group. You could never let your guard down...ever. Chasing an errant kickball or stumbling around dizzy drunk from a hard spin on the merry-go-round might have spelled your doom. We knew this: If given the power of numbers, the girls would pounce. Then they would drag their prey, kicking and screaming inside the tunnel. Once they had you, resistance was futile.
-"Why don't the teachers stop this?" we would wonder aloud.
In our heads, we were at the center of some massively diabolical plot. We weren't sure of the ultimate goal, but we knew it involved the tunnel. Each time someone would emerge from the pipe, woozy and disoriented, they would be inundated with questions.
-"What happened?"
-"I got kissed... they held me down and they kissed me."
-"What was it like?"
-"Gross."
-"And?"
-"Terrible."
-"AND?!?!"
-"I don't want to talk about it anymore."
That they were all lying, I only realized in hindsight. Every boy came out of that tunnel spouting the same line, "It was gross. It was terrible." I had no idea what kissing was like so at the time, I believed every word. I can see now, every boy had the same thought, "How can I get a head start on doing that again." And so the competition was on.
That was the very moment they got us. That was they very second they turned us against one another. Those little bitches! They forced us into a trap from which we had no defense! Before the tunnel, no one gave two shits what the hell Kimberly Mitchell was up to . The intense game of foursquare was WAY more important. Rules had to be made, someone was going to be king square! Me! Me! Me! Please...let it be me. Afterward though, Kimberly (and every other girl for that matter) was never too far from our minds, and the games only reached that fever pitch when there was an audience...
An audience of girls...
Girls to be kissed.
I watched in muted horror as my friends were taken. I mourned the loss of their independence (or rather the beginning of their codependence). Yet before long, I just wanted to join their club. As the weeks ticked by and the warm September breezes gave way to November's wintery chill, my crowd of "innocents" dwindled. The more adventurous of us had long since been through their metamorphoses and a clear line of the "haves" and the "have nots" began to develop between us. The badge of honor that the craftier, more careful or more cunning among us had worn signifying "Tunnel of Love virginity", tarnished into a leprous stigma.
My fear of being drawn into the tunnel was gradually supplanted by a fear of not being chosen to be attacked at all. My head swam with my first inklings of self doubt. Why haven't they come after me yet? Is there something wrong with me? They got Scottie, he's fatter than me. They got Brad, he's got wicked buck teeth! What the hell girls? What does a fella have to do to be subjected to your ire? My curiosity eventually began to pull me closer to the "danger zone." With each week I became more brazen.
Finally, in early spring my day came.
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Our minds are, at best, imperfect cameras. Some moments from our past blur or merge and some simply fade away altogether. Almost all the recesses up to and after this one form a long, muddled impression rather than a vivid photograph. This play period however, is seared singularly into my mind. I remember it now like it happened yesterday, and I probably always will.
Recess began at 10 am. In southern Alabama, an early April 10 am hangs moistly on the precipice of the day. That day, my day, the last dew drops still clung to the freshly mown field adjacent to the sandy lot that served as the playground. The sun, still shaking off its orange morning gown, hinted at its full summer power, but for now, the northerly wind was holding its heat at bay. I lumbered across the field pondering the water accumulating on my new tennis shoes. Each droplet remained for a moment on top of my foot, fighting to push through the brand new synthetic leather. I watched as the tactile strength of each tiny drop finally gave way and either buried itself into a small damp puddle or streamed off the side, returning to the grass from which it came. I also thought of the tanning I would receive if I ruined my new shoes so I skirted the edges of the field to avoid the tallest of the grass. Thus lost in thought, I didn't feel a bit of trepidation as I swayed a little too close to the pipe on my way to the basketball courts.
The first sign of danger was Jessie Joyner. She came from out of nowhere to block my path. If I had made a run for it then, I would have been safe. If I had bolted as soon as she said hello, I would have had time to get out of there. But Jessie was my friend and she wanted to talk about the upcoming t-ball season (Jessie always wanted to talk about t-ball).
-"Looking forward to it?"
-"I guess...I haven't really thought about it.
-"Cool. Which team are you on?"
-"The Rockets, the yellow team."
-"Sucks, I'm on the Jets, the orange team. My dad's the coach. Who was coaching you?"
-"Billy's dad I think...I'm not sure."
-"Cool, should be fun..."
The last pause was pregnant. She shuffled her feet and looked quickly to my right and left then back down to her feet. To her credit, up till then she played her part like a pro. I didn't even notice she was just stalling till they had me. Suddenly, the notorious blonde trio, Kellie, Kali, and Katherine, had flanked me and cut off my retreat. Kellie and Katherine had my arms, Kali was pushing from behind. As I struggle against my captors I caught Jessie's eye. She looked on helplessly...almost apologetically, as the other girls guided me toward my demise. Fight or flight reflexes took over, but the harder I fought, the tighter their grips became and my pre-pubescent arms were simply no match for the three of them. By the time we reached the mouth of "the tunnel," it was clear that no help was coming and my fate was sealed. I went in quietly. Once inside, the same girls held my wrists and ankles and we waited.
Then SHE came in.
SHE was Summer Sanderson.
Summer was boisterous and bossy, not a tom boy, but certainly not a priss. She was the undisputed ruler of the girls' clan. She was dressed to the T's that day, wearing red overalls and keds. Her socks that had hearts on them. The blue OshKosh B' Gosh logo loomed gigantic as she hovered inches from my face. I had heard the stories...she was always the initiator of the kisses. I saw my short life flash before my eyes. This was it, my time had come. I was terrified! I had turned her into a monster in my head. She was the creature from the black lagoon, Freddy Kruger and Jason Voorhees all rolled into one. In her lips was the physical manifestation of all of my burgeoning fear of the unknown.
I fought...I fought hard. I had wanted this? Had I been crazy? Who would want this? The tight space and superior leverage of my captors made my attempts at escape laughable. Quickly and without the least bit of hesitation Summer Sanderson swooped down upon me. I was kissed...sloppily, lavishly. Her lips were wet. Mine were pursed tightly. She assaulted my face. It was everything the guys had said it would be...
-It was GROSS...
-It was TERRIBLE...
But they all left one part out...They left the absolute most important part out!
-It.
-Was.
-AMAZING!
I blacked out. From shock? suffocation? relief? bliss? Who knows, but when I came to, I was alone in the cool shade of the tunnel. The sounds of my classmates seemed very far away. I stumbled out into the light. Was the sun higher in the sky or just brighter? How much time had passed? Come to think of it, the grass did seem a little greener too...wait, was it lavender I smelled? Had I ever even noticed the smell of lavender before? What's lavender? The haze stayed with me as I returned to the fold. I exchanged furtive glances with my assailants but other than a few giggles, they didn't say a word. I didn't dare. That day the foursquare ball seemed to move a little slower, less urgent. That day and every day after it, really.
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Sitting on that same piece of pipe today, in the middle of the crumbling relics of my childhood, I marvel at how much bigger it had seemed back then. Had I really been that much smaller? Or did the pipe shrink? In elementary, it had seemed massive, cavernous even. Have I really grown that much? I don't feel that much different? In fact, in a way, I never really left the playground. Even now, nearly 20 years later, all my romantic interactions have had the makings of schoolyard crushes.
Sure, wit and softer touches may have replaced the name calling and charlie horses (most of the time), but the complex and subtle "adult" rules of engagement I have come to expect these days from books and movies have never seemed to fit. Relationships based on mutual trust and understanding still elude me...they are merely fantasy. In my reality, I am forever on the playground...eight years old...scared to death...staring down the barrel of the tunnel of love.
