TMI Thursday: peel the onion
Tangent, to the tune of Ghetto Superstar:
Ghetto Aerostar/ that is what you are/
You don't need a car/ vans are best by far/
Drive away with me/ from my parking space/
We can take the whole family/ Whoa-ohh-oh.
Anway, I was a working girl. There was a new world of boys to crush on that fall -- not boys from my high school or youth group, but coworker boys who didn't already have an impression of me as the formerly gap toothed semi-nerd or churchy goody-goody.
And then there were the assistant managers, twenty-somethings, I assumed, waltzing around in their shirts and ties and acting all wordly and superior. One (what was his name?) had a right hand that was painfully larger than his left. We gossiped about possible causes of that situation, but we flirty-giggled when he let us hold our palms up to his to see just how much bigger his hand was than our own. (Okay, I giggled. I can't speak for my fellow concessionistas.)
There was the dreamy Italian assistant manager, Tony, married but friendly. He and I exchanged email addresses one evening because he was going to send me something important. Of course, I don't really remember what, exactly, he was meant to send.
That spring I was on the homecoming court at my high school. (Please don't get the wrong impression about my teenage years: I was representing some Christian-y club, and not even the one for fellowshiping athletes.)
I don't recall if I told Tony the exciting news via email, or at work one evening, but he was thrilled for me. He decided he would attend to show his support, and it would be all "blast for the past" for him, since he was a graduate of the "other" high school in my county. (I grew up just outside of Louisville, in the suburbs, and there were only two high schools in the county back in my day. And, yes, typing back in my day just made me feel old.)
Since I was a loser at that age, I told my parents that he was coming.
This information didn't sit right with my father.
I actually don't remember how it all went down, but we had dial-up juno old school internet, and unless my memory is especially hazy, I think the whole family might have shared the same email account.
Dad opened one of the emails from Manager Tony and read something like, "the other people at work, your parents, and my wife might not understand that we are friends, blah, blah... people are like onions, and to really get to know someone you have to peel back all the juicy layers..."
Yeah, my parents were pissed. This guy was married and emailing their underaged daughter, and if I couldn't see any sexual innuendo in the correspondence, I must have missed the metaphor.
So, a meeting ensued, and attendees included Manager Tony, General Manager Man, and Amber's Dad.
That was the end of our emails. Manager Tony wasn't allowed to even breathe in my direction after that.
But, what my parents didn't know (and still might not know, actually) was that there was a third cute assistant manager, tall and twenty-something, and dashing in his shirt and tie. (But actually quite heinous looking in street clothes, sadly. Also sad: I didn't learn that until a lot later on.)
I'd been making out with Manager Number Three for months in the back of the concession stand, in the dark theatre hallways, in little storage closets, in the back of the other concession stand, in the room where we clocked in and out, and in the back of the box office.
My dad was never the wiser, but Big Right Hand Manager did catch us kissing once, and it pretty much faded after that, because I found out my work boyfriend was kissing numerous other girls in the back of the concession stand, in the dark theatre hallways, in little storage closets, in the back of the other concession stand, in the room where we clocked in and out, and in the back of the box office.