Staci
He dated a tall girl in college, named Staci. (This was toward the end of his four years.) Staci was a severe asthmatic — really bad, scary stuff — who also smoked Camel Lights. So, it’s a fair question: what the heck was Staci doing smoking Camels, when she had such bad asthma? Perhaps, had they dated longer, he might’ve asked.
She carried all sorts of muscle relaxants on her person, in case she suffered an asthma attack. Beyond difficulty breathing, her back would get all knotted up: he could actually see the bulges writhing under the surface. Terrifying to behold — so, just imagine the experience from Staci’s perspective.
She also carried a shot of epinephrine (an “Epipen”), and he prayed daily for the fortitude to stab her in the heart, if called upon. He’d known a kid in grade school who’d been terribly allergic to nuts: that guy required a jab in the neck, the one time peanut oil slipped past the cafeteria staff. Staci’s Epipen looked like the tube a cheap cigar would arrive in: when depressed, a needle automatically injected adrenaline into the bloodstream.
(Yes — like in Pulp Fiction. Just like that.)
But what was the nature of their relationship, if he didn’t particularly care about this very tall girl’s life-threatening asthma (or, more accurately, life-threatening pack-a-day habit, coupled with severe asthma)? Well, Staci fucked like a champ. They could go for hours — culminating, of course, in a shared cigarette, the ashtray perched on his chest.
And it was during these quiet moments that he’d utter something gallant, like, “I’d stab you in the heart, if I had to.” To which she’d reply, “Except, the thigh would suffice, really” — because the lummox might actually have to wield the Epipen, someday, and Staci could do without a pierced ribcage. That stupid movie: already 5-years old, and still people likened her medical condition to Uma Thurman’s heroin overdose. Couldn’t there be a movie about a girl who was allergic to bees — who gets stung, self-administers a shot of epinephrine, and goes happily on her way? Was that such an impossible premise?
In the end, it wasn’t meant to be. One morning, after Staci had gone to class, he noticed she’d left behind her tote: eyeliner, lipstick — and, of course, her critical muscle relaxants. When he tracked her down later that day, he labeled it an innocent mistake, saying, “Staci, hey — you forgot this.”
She stared at him in disbelief.
“I meant to leave that,” she stammered. “It’s my overnight bag. For when I stay in your room — overnight.”
“Ah,” he said — still extending the tote, still hoping she’d take it. So, no, theirs was not a romance for the ages.
