You're Not Pretty Enough (5 page)

Mac looked at my bare shins and feet and smiled at me
kindly, but his eyes were sad. “Well, I’m bummed you didn’t tell me earlier man, but OK.”

“OK, thanks!” I said and turned to trounce back.

“Hey!” Mac called after me. I turned to look back at him,
shivering.

“Tell Richard he’s an asshole and that I will kick his ass if he makes you do something like…” and then he waved his hand angrily at my legs.

“OK!” I called and turned back toward the house.

“What did he say?” Richard asked.

“That I could go.”

And that was that. No big lesson.

My mom and Richard divorced that same year. It was weird to see him go, but I didn’t feel particularly attached. On the day he left, I was
outside reading a book in the grass, leaning up against a tree. He came over and knelt down to my level, just like when I was a little kid with the burned finger at church.

“I’m leaving,” he said. “Keep your studies up. You’re
smart.”

“OK…bye.”

I never saw him again—never heard from him. But I still remain fascinated by bees.

I dropped my book and stared at the TV. It was late fall
1986, and I was at my dad’s house for the weekend, half-watching MTV loop its most popular videos. But this one I hadn’t seen before.
Who is this band? Who’s that
guy
?

The video itself was kind of average—just some
glorified concert footage with typical hair-band aesthetics: skin-tight leather pants; adoring groupies wearing heavy makeup; lame pyrotechnics; and big, teased hair.

But who is that
guy
? What I remember most about him
is his beautiful, sculpted face—the face that launched a thousand of my daydreams. He bounced around the stage playfully, smiling big and sweet. He was sexy, but not overtly sexual. He was different from the other singers in that
genre who looked like they would either screw you or kill you before stealing your eyeliner and Aqua Net.

I made sure I didn’t blink toward the end of the video when they showed the band’s name at the bottom left corner of the screen.

“DAD!” I yelled. “We need to go the drugstore so I can get some magazines!”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now!”

I bought every
Teen Beat
and
Tiger Beat
I
could get my hands on and clutched them carefully until we got home. From then on, I digested every last detail about Jon: Born in New Jersey on March 2, 1962.
That’s only an eight-year age gap, reasonable.
Started sweeping floors in a recording studio at seventeen.
Doesn’t mind doing menial tasks
to further his dreams, so he’s a hard worker and not stuck up.
Released his first song, “Runaway” in 1983.

Proving I was the best Bon Jovi fan.

People say I became obsessed, but I say I became passionate
and focused. I used my allowance to buy magazines, records, cassettes, and VHS tapes to record videos. I made scrapbooks and hung posters in my room. I slowly transitioned my style from loose-fitting clothes in soft Easter-colored pastels
to tight, torn, acid-washed jeans and bolder, sexier colors like red and black.

I am follicly blessed.

After school I watched my little sister until our mom
arrived in the evening. Delaying homework, I’d hold the TV hostage watching Bon Jovi videos, pausing the frame every time a close-up of Jon came on the screen and then advancing slowly to study every nuance of that perfect face. Day after
day, I’d let my mind wander into a dream world where I was Jon’s girlfriend. He’d invite me on tour, and I’d watch each concert from just offstage, where he’d turn from the spotlight and sing the most piercing lyrics directly to me.
At night we’d forgo partying with the band to watch
The
Golden Girls
and eat room service on our hotel room’s king-size bed
.

I was barely sixteen and in my sophomore year. Though I
still had hormonal urges—including many middle school masturbatory fantasies starring Prince—none could compete with the force of that first big crush. I didn’t get asked out on many dates—but I did get asked to school dances. During the “Year of Jon,” I’d politely decline, saying my
parents wouldn’t let me date until I was a junior. I’d tell this to my mom, thinking I was being clever.

“But, honey, you know I’d let you go to dances.”

“I know. I’m just saving myself.”

“For who?”

“For Jon!”

“OK…but until, you know, that
happens,
you should still have fun.”

“Oh, OK,” I’d say, rolling my eyes.
These are just boys,
I’d think about the kids in my high school.
Jon is a man.

My mom glanced at me sideways, looking like she was filing this moment under, “Is my kid crazy?”

Though I was certain I was the only one who truly
understood
Jon, I was self-aware enough to know that others liked him too. When Bon Jovi announced their
Slippery When Wet
tour
dates, two friends and I strategized on the best place to camp out for tickets. Our plan required
waiting in line overnight at the mall, and my mom was not immediately onboard, but I wore her down.

“Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease?” I said, face scrunched in pain, hands clenched, and arms stiffly by my side as
if I’d freeze that way if she said no.

“I don’t know…”

“Mom, the Mentor Mall is across the street from Margie’s, so if anything goes wrong, I can just go there. PleasepleasePLEASE?” Margie was my
mom’s friend, so it was tough for her to say no.

“Geez, OK. Just…relax.”

“Thank you,” I said, hugging her tightly. “Everything will be fine, promise!”

It was snowing on the evening we were to set out, and our
parents protested lightly, but once that permission is granted, teenagers would rather go through hell than give it back. So, off we went: Jill and Diane and me.

We didn’t even make it out of Newbury, Ohio, our small
hometown.

On Route 87, two miles from my house, we hit an icy patch of road. We spun sideways and wound up half in the road and half in a field next to Skip’s Tavern, one of six local bars serving a total population of about
forty-five hundred. We sat stunned for a second, all in the front row—Jill in the driver’s seat, me on the passenger side, and Diane in the middle. I looked out to the road and could see car lights a ways ahead coming toward us.
We all watched, thinking the car would swerve around the part of us still in the road, but as it got closer we knew.

“Oh my God, he’s gonna hit us,” said Jill. It’s so weird, but in that moment we were all completely calm. I was keenly aware that being
on the passenger side, I would get the direct impact, but we did nothing but stare at the headlights.

The next thing I remember, the police and medics were hovering over me along with Jill and Diane. The car was in the middle of the
field and severely damaged. The police called our parents, who came to the scene and told us that the driver was drunk and that if the car had been two more inches in the road, I probably would have died. Luckily, I came out of it
with only a slight concussion and some bruised ribs. My mom was relieved. After a consultation with the doctor, we drove home.

“Well, at least I don’t have to worry about you being at the mall all night,” she said.

But she’d had enough. Once I’d recovered from the concussion, we had a little chat. And by chat I mean that she put me on notice that she would be ruining my life.

“That’s it! I have had it with this,” she said.

“What are you talking about?”

“You have given your life to him: your time, your tears, and now your blood! As of now, this is over.” My mom blamed Bon Jovi for the accident.

“What’s over?” I asked, trying to keep from getting
hysterical.

“No more Bon Jovi. You can listen to the music and watch the videos, but that’s it.”

“NO! You can’t do this to me. I love him!”

“You think you’re suffering? I’ve suffered over Jon Bon Jovi
more than any mother should ever have to!”

I ran to my room, slammed the door shut, and cried and cried.
This is not over,
I thought,
even if I am livin’ on a prayer.

***************

In 1987, the most popular Top 40 radio station in Cleveland—Power 108—was broadcasting out of Newbury, Ohio. Newbury is about thirty miles
east of Cleveland, but it might as well have been a different world. Completely and proudly rural, we had two stoplights, no McDonald’s, and a Dairy
King
instead of a Dairy Queen.

For me, having WPHR down the street was like having a link to the big city, a link to the music, a link to Jon. One night after getting off work from the local video store, I cajoled my friend Julie into driving to the station to meet the DJ on hand. We simply knocked on the heavy glass, and
after a few moments a man who looked about thirty came to the door. He was a handsome bear of a guy with sandy blond hair.

“Hi!” I said. “We live up the street and think we’d like to
pursue a career in broadcasting, so we wondered if you could show us how you do stuff.” I was improvising.

“Sure, come on in,” he said and turned around to walk back to the studio. Julie and I looked at each other, shrugging like we couldn’t
believe we got away with it. He opened the door to the studio, put his index finger to his mouth to quiet us, and pointed to two stools. We took our perches. He flipped the “On Air” sign, put on his earphones, and pressed some buttons.

A prerecorded voice said, “Today’s Power Hits,” which was followed up with a cougar “ROWR!” Then he spoke into the microphone: “Power 108 with Cat Thomas the Cat Man, playing twelve in a row with zero commercials guaranteed.” Then he hit another button to play a song and turned to us.

“So, what do you girls want to know?”

Since he was the only one there, he let us listen in some more and showed us around the studio. He was nice, completely open, and seemed
to genuinely like teenagers. Especially pretty female ones. With my new style and curves, I looked more womanly than many of my counterparts, and I noticed that he noticed. I didn’t recognize it then, but that was probably my first
turn as an opportunist. Cat, liking what he saw, sent signals to my brain that I could somehow use the attraction to get stuff.

“How old are you girls?” he asked.

“Eighteen!” I lied before Julie could answer. “We’re
seniors.”

“Well, cool. I’m here every week night, so feel free to stop by or call,” and then he handed us his card. We exited the station, locked arms, and giggled all the way home.

I worked part time at a video store, and about once every
week, I’d stop by the station. Though I missed the first Bon Jovi stop in Cleveland, I knew they were coming back around again, so I started planting seeds.