The Romantic Label (Part 3)

All the (arduous) (tender) (pornographic) affections the couple exhibited on the trolley got me thinking about our culture’s clichéd notions of romance. While this list isn’t exhaustive, I think it hits on a few key actions of those people who are dubbed “romantics.”

1.      Gift-giving, including flowers, chocolates, and teddy bears.

2.      Personal displays of affection, not to exclude hand-holding, hugging, kissing, potential grinding, and ass-grabbing;

3.      Cuddling. Lots and lots of cuddling;

4.      Overblown, creative proposals with fireworks, messages in the sky, etc.;

5.      Cooking a romantic meal, complete with hearty wine and thick lasagna;

6.      Flirting. Lots and lots and lots of flirting, with sexual innuendos and coy hints

If I were to rank how romantic I am based on the above banal clichés, I’d be on the bottom rung. My personality and mindset just aren’t compatible with romantic gestures.  Flowers, for example, belong in the ground, not in a vase on a table where they suffocate from lack of nutrients. Chocolate, like much of my Halloween candy over the years, either sits in a bag forever, or gets offered to my mom; eating it just doesn’t interest me, so why should I buy it? I want to skewer Valentine’s Day balloons with a harpoon, not because I’m “anti-love” but because I’m “anti-greeting card holidays.” Gift-giving, though nice, sends the wrong message. I don’t want to buy your love; I want you to love my personality (and body), not my wallet. If you have to buy gifts to get your significant other to pay attention to you, they’re not worth it.

      Though I’m not someone who sneers at couples kissing in public, personal displays of affection that resemble heavy petting will never be tolerated by me. That should be done behind closed doors, not in view of anyone. A man with political aspirations has to be mindful of what others’ think (to an extent).

For another of my romantic problems, we go to my bedroom. My sleep form resembles that of a dead man. I lie on my back, arms folded over one another. It is the furthest thing from romantic, and it definitely doesn’t solicit a cuddle. I get a good night’s sleep from it, and if I were to sleep on my side, I’d wake up cranky and sore. Let’s just say I’m getting practice for when I’m in a coffin.

Because I am such a literal person, I also don’t get hints. At all. “Do you want to watch a movie?” means “Do you want to watch a movie?” to me, not “I don’t want to watch a movie,” or “I want to watch a movie while I stick my tongue down your throat.”

For a literary fanatic, I take words at face value quite frequently, like “Can you drive with one hand?” “Of course I can,” I’ll say, “Man, what a stupid question.” Yup, instead of being cute, you’ll just have to ask to hold my hand.

            Really, the only criterion from above which could give me an edge in my ranking of romantics is the cooking. I’m not a gourmet chef, but I try, which I guess is adorable. Of course, dropping out of culinary school takes that down a notch.

            Taking into account my inability (or outright refusal) to conform to romantic labels in my personal life, it comes as no surprise that romance in my writing is lackluster and dull. Most love stories end up half-written, banished to the “Unfinished” folder on my desktop. Though, there was one romance I did finish…as a homicide.

            My first, and most “successful” love story was written in 2009 for a freshman-level creative writing course. New Year’s Eve was everything a hardcore romantic cliché reader would want, except for sex and a cover with a hunky, shirtless man on it. Filled with a plethora of pretty words, it told the story of a young man and the nerves he felt minutes before he was to propose to his girlfriend. Our love-struck main character sent a message to his girlfriend to meet him in the dining room of the cruise ship they were staying on, but panic set in when he couldn’t find her there! Oh, no! What will he do? He hurried out on deck and, just as the clock struck midnight, he slid down onto one knee in front of her. Fireworks erupted in a display of sheer magic. She said yes, and they both embraced as nearby passengers clapped and cheered.

            How romantic! How beautiful! How utterly awful and boring!

            At the time, I was incredibly proud of my story, and why shouldn’t I be? It was my first time delving into the subject, and my classmates enjoyed it. One girl absolutely gushed over everything about it. I remember her commandeering the workshop discussion, pointing out how poetic and beautiful and lovely and amazing it was. Her face became flushed as she continued to elaborate on how ingenious it was for me to compare the main character’s love for the girl to a puzzle that was missing one key piece to completion.

            My head swelled. I am so romantic! I’m a stud-muffin, for sure, I thought.

That story was the last time I really explored love, aside from the tale that ended up being a love-turned-horror story. I diverted my attention to satire and realism instead. What I lacked in romance, I made up for in writing about bleak, depressing real-life.

Of course, my lack of writing in the subject of love and romance doesn’t mean I want to be a bachelor my entire life, or that I’m disinterested.

You see, one day I’d love (pun intended) to craft a love story, not one with the conventional guy-loses-girl, gets-girl-back cliché, or any of that nonsense. This love story won’t have a New Year’s Eve kiss, a firework proposal, or what could be construed as sexual acts on public transportation. Nope, I have my eye on writing a love story that emulates the relationship of the two men I saw on that trolley one summer in Laguna Beach, one in which love is developed from years of strong friendship, complimented by soulful glances and gentle hand-holding. That’s the story I want to write.

Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll get to experience it, too.

Romantic Label (Part Two)

                                                                            II.

Wait we did. Another ten minutes passed before we saw the large, rounded lights of the trolley. A bell chimed its arrival. Those who had decided to wait for the trolley—a group greatly diminished at this point—stood and gathered their belongings, quickly forming a line. The glowing trolley rolled to a stop. My sister and I filed in and took a bench right up front. My brother sat behind us, and my parents behind him.

There weren’t many occupants inside the trolley, so seating was plentiful. Yet, two people who hopped onto the trolley last—having run from the festival in order to catch it before it left—opted for the pole adjacent to my sister and me. They were a young couple—not the one with the baby, though.

The young man gently pushed the woman up against the pole, adjusting her hips so that the pole was center to her buttocks. He pressed his body up close to hers, spreading his legs in a warrior stance, to keep his date from being jostled by the trolley ride, of course.

“Look at them,” my sister muttered. “What are they doing?”

I shrugged. “Who knows?”

A ringing bell indicated the trolley was ready for departure. It made a wide U-turn and began heading southbound towards the city. The man across from us wrapped his arms around his girlfriend and planted them on her butt. She squealed when he grabbed it in his hands. She moved her hands up and down the inside of her man’s shirt, appearing to be clawing the man’s back with her long nails. He caressed her neck with kisses and whispers of sweet, meaningless words. She giggled and gave him a kiss on the lips.

I turned back to face my brother and parents. My brother’s face was red. He kept his focus on the tiger photograph, tracing over it with his finger. Our mother rolled her eyes at me and diverted her attention to the passing streets. As for my father, with hands folded, he continued watching the young couple, snickering when the woman moved her hands from the small of his back deep inside the back of his pants.

“What the heck are they doing?” my sister sneered. “Disgusting!”

Facing forward again, I didn’t respond, mostly because I didn’t know how to respond. The trolley lulled to a stop, bell dinging. I looked out the window and saw the two young men standing together, hand-in-hand. They were first to get on the trolley. When brushing past the couple up front, they both gave confused looks. The woman yanked her hands out from their resting place between skin and jeans, giving her lover a quick tap on the butt. She tried to turn away from him, but her boyfriend took his hand off her, using it to direct her face back to his.

The two men sat behind my father. A few more people joined the ride, and within a few moments, the trolley was rolling again, as was the young couple beside me. Their kissing intensified. The man started moving his mouth all over her neckline. Not to exclude other parts of her body, he cupped her breasts for a moment before dropping his hands back to her butt. The kissing continued alongside a gentle swaying of hips.

Abhorred by their display of affection, my sister tightened the hood on her coat and folded it over her eyes. “Sickos,” she whispered. “I want to be home now.”

I was a different story. Yes, I know it’s rude to stare, but much like a car wreck or man riding a unicycle up a downtown street in the nude, it’s hard not to. Their love had escalated from simple public displays of affection that can be easily ignored or missed to something I’d search for on the internet during free time alone—if I was into that sort of thing, of course. If there was line, it had been crossed several miles ago.

I looked around the rest of the bus. Many people were simply ignoring the couple, doing what my mother was doing—watching the city pass under the gorgeous night sky. Then I eyed the two men.

They were deep conversation again. With the help of the passing streetlights, I saw them, face-to-face, each looking intently in the eyes of the other. Their smiles radiated happiness.

The trolley arrived at another stop. The two men gave each other a quick peck on the lips and stood. They meandered to the front, passing the pole dancers, once again giving them disapproving looks. Then they were off the trolley and walking towards the houses uphill. We continued on our trek for several more minutes until it was our stop.

By this point, the woman and man had swapped places; it was now his ass cheeks pushed up against the pole. I gave him a slight smile when I passed, but he was more interested in licking his girlfriend’s earlobe than acknowledging my greeting.

“Thanks for the ride,” I said to the trolley driver, taking a step down.

“Mmmhmm,” she said. Her eyes were focused menacingly on the large mirror in front of her—the one that showed the interior of the trolley.

Once the trolley was rolling along again, I burst into laughter.

“Something tells me they aren’t brother and sister,” my brother said.

I quipped, “You never know.”

            “That’s nasty!” my sister blurted out.

            “Regardless, I don’t think they’re going home just to sleep,” I said.

            “Well, we are,” my mom sighed. “Let’s go.”  

To be continued...

Romantic Label

Brandon Figliolino

The “Romantic” Label

February 1, 2015

                                                                              I. 

            In the lovely coastal city of Laguna Beach, California, the major mode of transportation—aside from walking and surfing—is the local trolley fleet. The old-timey trolleys feature wooden benches with high backs, brass hand poles, and an open-aired cabin. Painted vibrant shades of blue and red, they are functional pieces of art.

            During my family’s vacation to seaside California, we frequented the trolley service. We’d jump on, night or day, and watch the beaches and eclectic buildings pass. The city of Laguna Beach is full of fascinating architecture. No two buildings are alike. That made the trolley rides all the more fun. I’d sit alongside my brother and sister, pointing out breathtaking views, like the one atop Thousand-Step Beach, and the historic lifeguard tower on Main Beach. With such an eclectic mix of shops and art studios, the trolley trips granted all of us the chance to spot something we hadn’t seen before. Little by little, the back-and-forth helped shape our view of Laguna Beach.

            On our trolley rides, people also gave us entertainment. At night, we’d pass bonfires. In the daylight, surfers could be seen doing tricks on the water. Volleyball tournaments formed on the beaches, and there were even some musicians that complemented the dinging of the trolley bell. But most entertaining of them all were the artists the trolley passed. Many were painters capturing the hillside. There were caricaturists and sculptors on the sidewalks, too. The city of Laguna Beach offered so much for my family’s eyes to see, no one ever paid any attention to what was happening inside the trolley during our rides.

            Except for one night, when the events unfolding inside the trolley piqued our curious glances more than the anything going on outside the metal shell.

            Prior to boarding, my family and I loitered at a trolley stop outside the Sawdust Arts Festival, a fairground for the creative minds. Glassblowers gave demonstrations, and artists of all ages and talents showcased their passions. There was even an outdoor food court with a live band. It was quite a sight; a perfect date-night for couples.

Located inland, nestled in between tall, gently sloped hills, the festival was a ways out of town, and a good twenty minute ride back to my aunt and uncle’s house. At the trolley stop, I stood near my parents, who claimed the bench as their resting spot. The moon was in full view; the sky was filled with vibrant stars instead of murky clouds.

Others who had enjoyed the festival made their way to the large waiting area. Most were parents with kids. It was nine forty-five, and many were weary eyed, ready for bed. They all conversed in their respective groups, patiently awaiting the greeting bell of the trolley.

Two young men walked up to the trolley schedule posted on a pole not far from where my family congregated. One pulled his hand out of his coat pocket and used the tip of his finger to trace the departure schedule. He found the trolley he was looking for, and did a double-take. He removed his other hand from its spot in his pocket and pulled out his phone, just to make sure he wasn’t wrong.

“Shouldn’t the trolley be here by now?” he asked a woman nearby who was holding her baby.

She nodded. “It’ll be here any minute, I’m sure.” She scooted over. “Take a seat for now, if you’d like.”

The two men complied and began conversing with the woman and her husband. I looked back at my family. My brother sat on the bench near my parents, admiring the tiger photograph he’d procured at the festival. My parents sat still, holding hands, looking up at the thickets of trees on the hillside. As for my sister, she stood with her arms crossed, shaking from the cold.

Cold it was. Even though it was July, the breeze that blew in from the sea left the air at night bitter. I stuffed my hands deeper into my coat pockets and watched my breath dissipate when I exhaled.

While my family sat silent, small outbursts of laughter came from the young men and the young couple down a ways. I turned to investigate. One of the men looked over at me. I smiled and went back to focusing my eyes on the ground, breathing in and out, trying to ignore the temperature drop.

Ten minutes passed, and there still wasn’t a trolley in sight. I eyed the group of people on the nearby bench. The man who had looked up at bus schedule earlier pulled out his phone.

“It’s getting really late.” He turned to his friend. “Think you’d be up for a walk? We can catch the trolley at the next stop.”

He nodded. “That works for me. I could use a good walk, anyways.”

Both rose. The first reached out and grabbed the second’s hand. He turned to the couple with the baby and smiled.

“Thanks for the company,” he said, giving a slight wave with his free hand.

“We’ll see you at the next stop,” the woman smiled. Then, the men were off.

My eyes followed them while they walked away. From their previous mannerisms, I hadn’t a clue they were in a relationship until they held hands. It startled me.      

            My sister broke my trance. “It’s so cold! We should just walk home.”

            Nodding, I agreed. “They’re going to the next stop.” I pointed to the couple off in the distance. “It might be a shot.”

            “We’ll wait a few more minutes,” my father said. 

To be continued...