This is not a Christmas story, per se, but rather a recollection of something that happened around this time 26 years ago. I had not thought about it in years, but something—don’t ask me what—got my wheels in motion this week. In fact, I know exactly where I was when the thought came to me, but cannot give credit to the inspiration. 

We were the same age, and knew some of the same people, mostly by name only. She could not speak more, but I told her I would call her back. And I did, every day for about two weeks.

I learned a lot about her. She loved U2. I did not share her love for the band, and still don’t, actually. If you had told me then that Bono would be a negotiator for world peace and have the Pope as a Facebook friend, I would have laughed my butt off. 

She was also a dancer, and took lessons two or three times per week in my town. She was studying different kinds of dance, and seemed to really love it. She also never had a parent picking up the phone to see if she was off like I did. She had some freedom. A lot, it turned out. At some point, the talk turned kind of racy. Very racy. Shockingly, disturbingly and, um, suggestively racy. At first I played along, but it took no time to find out that this girl was way beyond my realm of experience and understanding. 

At that time, I was in a males-only Catholic school, and physically I was a boy among men. I remember my first day in gym class, and having to shower afterward. Holy God, I thought. I felt like a hairless cat in a gorilla cage. I had very little experience with girls then, too. Suddenly, I had this girl telling me about things she had done with boys, and stories about her friends and their exploits. I was rendered speechless, and my questions were more clinical than curious or dirty. 

So when she told me she wanted to meet me, I was a nervous wreck. First, I was of course worried that she would find me dorky or ugly. That would suck. Second, if she wanted to mess around I was screwed because, well, I might have told her I had more experience that I really did during those titillating back and forths, and in between my silly questions. So she told me to meet her in front of the dance studio in my town the next day.

I was in terror. When I got off the bus and got home, I wandered around my house like a maniac, wondering what to do. I finally got my man up and walked the half-mile to glory. The Christmas decorations had been hung in town, and they swayed above the street. As I grew close to the Woolworth’s, I looked across and saw a girl standing in front of the dance studio. She was wearing a blue hat and coat, and was looking from side to side. She looked about 10 years older than me. I ducked into Woolworth’s and stood near the door, looking almost directly at her. My heart was racing and mouth dry, and despite the cold weather my palms were soaked. 

Finally, I had enough and decided to go for it. I opened the door in time to see her turn and go into the studio, which was on the second floor of the building. I said nothing to stop her, but just turned and headed home. 

I did not call her the next day.

E-mail Michael Martino at 

mmartino@longislandpress.com.