In fourth grade I was in a pretty serious relationship. Ok two serious relationships, but Barbie(TM) doesn’t count.
The other relationship was with my first boyfriend, Chris. He had such a crush on the Zengler that he was almost a stalker. My best friend, Harve, sat next to him in the lunchroom and can attest that he’d tell people to move their heads so he could get a better view of me.
My first kiss came one day on the playground when Amy and Aaron were flaunting their relationship (they had been on and off again since kindergarten) and seemed surprised I hadn’t been kissed by my boyfriend yet after dating for several weeks. So Chris bent down on one knee, grabbed me with his sweaty hand and sort of slobbered on the top of my own hand. It wasn’t great, but we were in fourth grade and it’s not like Sesame Street ever had an “H is for hookup” episode.
We’d write notes to each other, he’d ride his bicycle passed my house, my 100 lb. dog would chase after him; it was all very romantic.
For the school Christmas program, Chris and I even got the leads — he was Santa Claus and I was, of course, Mrs. Claus.
I remember getting ready that night — my mom let me borrow one of her white wool shawls that smelled like moth balls from her hope chest, she wrangled up a short wig from the Halloween box that we made gray with baby powder, and the finishing touch was a pair of square-framed reading glasses from my late great grandmother. I looked good.
That day at school during our final rehearsal, Chris mentioned to Mrs. Bennett, our music teacher, that his stomach felt a little funny. We brushed it off as nervous butterflies since this was the same kid who got the highest reading on the stress test at the Franklin Institute earlier that year. But just in case, Mrs. Bennett had Ryan, a kid in 3rd grade, ready on deck as an understudy.
As a tribute to his dedication, Chris arrived in the music room backstage in full Santa Claus costume.
The theme that year was a PC version of “Santa Goes to Fat Camp.” My friend Hannah played an aerobics instructor intent on trimming Santa down and steering him away from cookies.
About halfway through the show, Chris started looking uncomfortable. Flushed and red, one teacher backstage suggested he remove his red cap, which he did. About 10 minutes later, sweating profusely, he removed his jacket with the pillow he had been using as a giant, jolly belly. Then his wig. Then his beard.
Standing on stage in just his red velour pants with suspenders and a white undershirt, he delivered his line “Not the pepperoni pizza!” and proceeded to vomit profusely.
The students propelled themselves in all directions away from him as if a magnet had suddenly reversed its charge. The audience sat in silent disbelief (with the exception of Mom Z who howled laughter from the second row). Mrs. Bennett sprang into action, Chris was ushered offstage into the music room, the vomit was cleaned up, and Ryan was soon clad in jeans, sneakers, a Santa hat and coat. We all did our best to pick up where we left off and sure enough, the show did go on.
I don’t want to say that vomiting on stage killed the romance in our relationship. But maybe it was holding his vomity hand as we took our bows after the show.
We recently reconnected on Facebook, where he posts clips of his stand-up comedy act. Amusing, sure, but nothing can top the hilarity of the mouth-dropping 1989 Santa Claus performance that my family STILL laughs about.
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