It was Saturday night after the band’s holiday concert. Since I was a groovy band kid, I was invited to a post-concert party at the home of band sisters Carol and Cheryl Mathis. Carol played baritone sax, and I played tenor sax, so we often sat together in band. Carol could chew gum and play sax at the same time. Such faculty was a source of wonder and admiration for me.
The Mathis house was situated on Baseline Road, one of the major thoroughfares of Southwest Little Rock. It was just around the corner from Billy Pearrow, a good friend and future perpetrator of teaching me to play trombone.
The house was filled with interesting things, unlike mine which was sparsely decorated with a trio of sailing ships that Dad painted-by-number and a couple of paintings that came free with the purchase of a couch.
The Mathis family owned a real, genuine, honest-to-goodness player piano. It was perhaps the coolest contraption I had ever seen. You could almost imagine the ghostly fingers of Irving Berlin banging away at the keyboard, if only he had been dead by then.
My trumpet playing friend Gary Graves and I were lurking in a corner of the living room trying to appear suave. I had dressed to impress, smartly clad in a turtleneck sweater, plaid bell bottoms, and a belt with a massive peace symbol buckle that, in an emergency, could be used to kill someone.
At one point, Gary stopped responding to my impromptu dissertation on the meaning of life (girls), the secret of happiness (girls), and my favorite thing in the whole world (pork chops. Ha. Only kidding. You guessed it was girls, didn’t you?).
I followed his gaze across the room to a particularly cute young lady with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. Her name was Roseanne, and I had seen her around the band room. She had the kind of aura that causes level-headed men to absent mindedly walk into walls, unbalanced men to cut off an ear, or in my case, to fall head over heels. I’m getting ahead of my story, but I want to reassure you that no body parts will be detached in this remembrance.
Gary and I were stealing glances her way, ever so cool and disinterested-like, while our hormones conspired to devolve us several rungs down the evolutionary ladder. Our communication skills stabilized around early Neanderthal. It was only with effort that we did not start finger painting woolly mammoths on the walls.
To our amazement, Roseanne deliberately stationed herself under some mistletoe hanging near the front door. She then looked around the room as if to say, “Well, what are you waiting for?” Astonished at such a grand and magnanimous gesture in the spirit of the season, Gary and I felt obliged to express our appreciation.
An encounter under the mistletoe was far more thrilling than anything Kris Kringle ever deposited under the Christmas tree. What luck that I was invited to this splendid party. Joining band was the smartest thing I ever did. This was shaping up to be the best Christmas ever!
When I arrived at the front of the line, Roseanne’s bright and inviting eyes turned to me. For reasons unfathomable by my conscious mind and completely at odds with my endocrine system, I shyly demurred from the proffered kiss. In the fiery crucible of teen-age lust, my bravery was transmuted to cranberry sauce.
Meekly casting my eyes downward, I started to make room for the next eager participant. Before I could move, Roseanne threw her arms around me and situated her lips decisively on mine. Recovering enough to wrap my arms around her, I proceeded to lose my balance in the most literal fashion. Together we toppled over the short bookcase behind me, still kissing.
We received a round of applause when we climbed back to our feet.
When Roseanne left the party, she allowed me to escort her to her parents’ waiting car. Strolling down the driveway, I learned that she was dating Dave Daugherty. Dave played French horn in band. He drummed in the rock band Brave New World with my excellent friends Richard and Clark. Just to rub it in, he was a year older than me, the fiend. This advantageous combination made him unassailable boyfriend material.
Perhaps to indicate that I had zero chance of ever tumbling over another bookcase with her, Roseanne casually informed me that “French horn players are the best kissers.” Before that night, I had never been envious of any musician who shoved their hand up their bell.
Even though the kiss was not so much a kiss as a lark, I was eager for more! I was cognizant that only some rare alignment of the cosmos had granted the evening’s opportunity; I happened to be the right shy dork at the right time, namely when Roseanne was feeling flirtatious. That party was the only time being mild-mannered got me anything but neglected. Not that I was complaining, mind you. As Sam sang in Casablanca, a kiss is still a kiss.
On the list of 22 women I have kissed in my life (Division 1A, Romantic, discounting spin-the-bottle frolics), Roseanne is a happy footnote. Beside her name it says, “try dating a French horn player soon.”
