Thirst for romance.

[Zara kimono jacket + A Wang t-shirt + Citrine by the Stones fringed tassel earrings + Erin Wasson Low Luv necklace; RIP Thunderbird tail, after falling off a third time, it was sacrificed to the bar floor gods + Sam Edelman boots + Prada bag from the days of yore/abundant paychecks!]

Maymont. I used to dig the hell out of this place as a kid. It’s like required viewing for me now as an adult—a purposeless, sweaty pilgrimage I take on days when I need to create itineraries for myself, apart from G2-scavenging trips to Martin’s to chat up the ancient gentlemen who—hold phone for archaic wonderment of the South—exist basically just to push your cart out to your car for you. I usually try and politely turn them down, since they move with the speed of an incense-swinging church processional.

So on this brutally hot day, I punished myself with another trip.

Punished Rob, too, if we’re keeping score.

I wear this kimono jacket thing far more than I’ve posted. But I just wanted to take a second to emphasize—in a momentary spasm of predictability—how radical it is. And to say that I fully condone kimono jackets. There’s about 50 on Spanish Moss Vintage I’m shaking a cashless fist at.

Like this one. And this one. And this one—ouch.

Being here also reminded me of [sorry for the consta-memory lane bit] a horror story from RVA times past. One that cropped back up in my memory recently [thanks, Facebook].

Now you’d think that—for a kid who was average-looking, only mildly rebellious, who had a mostly unflappable sense of humor, a parentally imparted life perspective (and child-sized glasses of nerve-settling sherry), and a solid judge of character—when it comes to matters of social injustices, I wouldn’t be so able to muster up stories, but alas, I’m a cornucopia of tweenish horrors.

Basically, I’m cursed by the need to give people the benefit of the doubt.

[Waterfall breeze.]

I ended up on the chopping block once—what I can only surmise was some social experiment—a mess I walked right into, as the hopeless romantic I am. Utterly hopeless. The boy from her neighborhood was cute, attentive, and earnest, and seemed unfazed by my coltish conversation about music and fishing. She introduced us on a basketball court one night. I was in 7th grade—I assumed he was, too. When he asked me out later, I spent days watching MTV waiting for the new U2/Reality Bites video for “All I Want is You” to come on, then I’d draw his name in a heart.

Until I looked him up in the yearbook and saw him smiling off of a page from the 4th grade section—WHAT—and I can’t remember what my mom’s kind advice was, but I somehow ended up agreeing to go out with him. I was torn between imminent humiliation and his beautiful nose. So we saw Beverly Hills Cop 3—purely forgettable, unlike the rest of the mess. His parents sat a row down from us; he yelled and beat his fists on his knees in delirium whenever there was a car crash or explosion. I stared forward and mourned Ethan and Winona’s sun-drenched kiss in a feeling of despair I’d grow to be very familiar with, as things in my love life repeatedly failed to turn out how they did in the short stories I’d write. Small talk is the death of all epic love stories.

I was easing between pews in chapel the following week when at least 3-4 girls turned around and hissed “cradle robber!” at me over the processional. That cat was outta the bag. Among other things, something I never lived down—until I moved away, straightened my hair, and was able to take my idle fury out on a string of unsuspecting boys.

I felt awful, and completely responsible for this kid’s feelings even though he’d deceived me. I steeled my nerves and called the kid to tell him we shouldn’t go out, to which he responded by calling me a prude at the pool that Saturday.

What’s that they say about good deeds going unpunished? Once a sucker, always a sucker?

As the line from the Cherry Ghost song “4 AM” goes: “Well, now, there ain’t no hiding place on earth where loneliness ain’t been first,” my song would go, “There ain’t no place in Richmond where your stained childhood ain’t been first.”

Here’s to new memories in old places. [And karma.]

-Carey

Cherry Ghost, 4 AM.