Crush Series #5
My Lifelong Obsession: Russ
It all started with hearing his name in between junior high school classes
1977: The end of the school year was near. During a passing period, I heard two girls talking about a boy named Russ. I had not heard this kid’s name before as far as I could remember. But I knew what he looked like just from hearing his name.
Thus, I felt compelled to pay attention to this moment. Because I’m a Pisces. Now I had a quest
And I found him. Such a handsome kid. So confident and masculine.
Later, I realized I was a goner from the fateful moment I heard his name.
Kiss-Met
Everyone including my brother said he was a bully. But I held out hope. It required huge faith, for there was that time Russ bullied a younger kid after school and got stabbed for his efforts. Even if there was a scenario where I could have copped my affection, no way could I sing the praises of this kid.
I was alone.
Potent signs showed it wasn’t one-sided, though I still wondered if I was delusional. I sought out signals to bail. One time, I plopped my junior high equivalent of a yearbook on his desk for a signature. He didn’t toss it back at me. He happily wrote that I was cool. Awww.
One time we both showed up to Western Civ class early. I sat in my chair, struggling not to look his way. And then I did and… he was looking RIGHT AT ME. I couldn’t hold his gaze, but gosh what a ZING I felt. Some sort of inchoate and mutual kind-hearted awareness of each other passed between us.
Russ once randomly hit me. I didn’t feel malice from him, though. It probably came from future spouse abusers — the notion that if a guy smacked a girl’s arm in between classes, that meant he liked her. That kept my mind busy on him.
Ten-year reunion and beyond
At my 10-year high school reunion, I shot Russ a come-hither look. His enigmatic reaction vindicated me. His female date saw it and oh! She read him the riot act. Again, I couldn’t sustain my attention, and high-tailed it out of there. But at least I knew it wasn’t just me.
The potent mystery renewed itself. Even through my subsequent relationships, there was the niggling thought: “What if… Russ…?”
In 2022 I attended this national hippie gathering in Colorado. I saw a guy who looked like him in the sober camp. All that passed between us were smiles. I was in a relationship at the time and didn’t seek out a conversation. I could kick myself that I didn’t at least talk to him seeing that relationship ended a month later.
This connection stays stoked with these powerful breadcrumbs enticing me into… what, exactly?
First draft: Writing about it
I never told ANYONE my first play was about this crush. Gauntlet Catharsis revealed my anxiety about making my feelings known. The ersatz-me protagonist was forced to reveal his crush to the Russ-like target/affection. In the play, violence erupted. Thank goodness that theatrical mayhem never became a reality.
I was destined for a different form of violence. I left the play on the kitchen table and snuck out of the house to attend Denver’s Pride festivities, June 26, 1982. 42 years since the very day I started writing this article.
When I got home, my mother, who had read my play to page 12, informed me I could leave with the clothes on my back. “Because she loved me.” My parents made me rip up that play.
I caused this donnybrook myself. Looking back, I had to know: Blood family? Not my allies. Great way to ensure therapy was part of my destiny.
Their hostility could not stop my creative expression. In fact, it fueled me.
My muse in action
Even though I have other interests and other stories calling to me, I keep cycling back to this gushing vein, this gentle affection. This crush deliciously tantalizes me with its ambiguity.
It lives in uncertainty, this love. I go back and forth with that reunion moment — did I have a chance? Whatever. We have lived our lives and established our own habits. But have all the possible moments of connection passed? I wonder. It certainly keeps the creative fire burning.
And I still make discoveries: My character Jackson says in my short script, “I often dream of a day when a 7th grade boy can tell another 7th grade boy that he likes him.” What if? Am I right?
Opuses Nos. 1 through 100
Forty-seven years later, I have a body of work stemming from this connection. They run a gamut from strange to cottage-core. Orange Pentheus takes an allegorical approach. It’s largely a monologue of a man hanging crucified from an upright goalpost, ending with Death, entering as a linebacker (a Russ). This play has been produced twice.
I’m putting it in a filmic “Russ Triptych,” together with a musical about the high school reunion, and a Groundhog Day sort of exploration of nine variations of me knocking on my Russ’s door. I’ve also written two full-length stage plays from this powerful inspiration.
I have another screenplay which gives a Russ and me the Hallmark treatment. This sweetness is what I can offer. And I’ve already got ideas for both a television series and a feature burbling!
This little essay, of course, arises from that same source… And, like the continuing stream of inspiration, finding the right ending is elusive. So, I will end with this: Though I have experienced vast loneliness, I feel a genuine gratitude for that moment I saw his face in my imagination before I saw him for real. This moment became the headwater of a creative stream flowing in the land of “he knows but he doesn’t know.”
And as I wonder if he loves me, or loves me not, I continue to be the mirror and the conduit of loving regard through artistry and grace.
