NEVER NOD AT SOMEONE IF YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT THEY ARE SAYING...

Artwork: "Poodle Joe"
By Skitch

THEN:

When I was 12 years old and still more of tomboy than a teenager I was met with my first aggressive male attention. Unfortunately for me, though I'd prayed to never get them, I had been presented with breasts long before I got an inkling of an interest in sex. At that ripe old age, I'd had one infatuation with a boy in my grade named Billy, but didn't even recognize it as anything other than an interest to find out more about him and some bizarre desire to be good to him. What the heck was up with that, I wondered. But it was undeniable, singing "Oh Where Have you Been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy," in music class made my heart soar.

I usually rode in the back of my dad's pickup. Sometimes it was  crowded in the cab, but mostly I rode in back because I loved being alone to read or daydream. More often than not the camper my dad had was off the truck and I held onto the wooden rails he'd built around the bed, and I let the wind turn my long blond hair into one tangled catastrophic puzzle that my sister would help me solve before bedtime. Life was sublime and childhood was miraculous.

On the day my dad picked up, Poodle Joe, however, we did have the camper on the back of the truck. Poodle was one of the neighbors, or the closest thing we had to neighbors. We lived all alone on a mountain. It was my favorite place that we had ever lived and it keeps that title to this day. My dad had built the house with a little help from some friends, and though it wasn't the straightest house in the world and a couple of the rooms were wallpapered with newsprint, I loved it dearly. We called it "Up on the Hill". Poodle Joe and his family lived in one of the two other homes that were about a mile from us. That day when Dad saw him walking, he naturally picked him up. You don't let a neighbor walk home when you're headed that way yourself. Not if you were born and raised in the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia.

Poodle Joe was several years older than me. His name was Eddie but folks called him "Poodle" or "Poodle Joe" because he had a huge head of tight blond curls. He saw that the cab of the truck was too full for him and the next thing I knew my space was being invaded by that head full of crazy curls. He climbed in awkwardly and smiled. Poodle settled himself on the wheel well and he began to talk - a lot! He had a speech impediment and I had long been embarrassed for him because of it. I couldn't help thinking that if I talked that funny I wouldn't say any more than I had to. Now his voice was interrupting my sweet solitude, and I couldn't even follow what he thought he was telling me. It was like being trapped in a small space with a bird that was chirping it's heart out, convinced that you understood every note. I remember thinking that, if I'd wanted to listen to people talk I would have sat up front with my parents and my sister. At least, I knew what they were saying when they said things. Many was the time it was too cold to ride in the back and I had to squeeze in between my Dad and Mom or sit on my sister's lap. I could have been there now, safe and sound from this incessant noise that I did not like and could not follow.

Partly because I didn't want to listen to him and yet didn't want to say so, and partly because I only understood two or three words per sentence anyway, I began to, every now and then, look over and nod at Poodle Joe. Just because I didn't want to be too rude. I couldn't reply after all, since I had no idea what to say. I thought a nice safe "I hear you" type of nod was the best move. After a few moments of that Poodle Joe slid over to sit on the tire that was right beside me. I didn't know what had caused that sudden movement but before I had more than a couple of seconds to ponder it, he put his hand on my upper arm and very un-smoothly moved it quickly up and over my right breast. I shoved his hand away and gave him a stern talking to. Who did he think he was? Who did he think I was?

He appeared immediately contrite and apologized profusely. "I sorry. I so sorry. I -" and here I lost three or four words,"Ou say okay!"

"No! No. I did not say okay!"

"I sorry. I sorry! Don't teh ou daddy!"

After I'd listened to his begging much longer than I wanted to, I accepted his apology, mostly because I thought it would shut him up. I was pretty sure it wasn't polite to shoot The Deathray at my neighbors, so I worked on getting the fire out of my eyes. But really, the nerve!

After I calmed down and stopped looking like I was going to kill him, There was barely a pause between the begging and the talking. Poodle Joe began that damnable chatter again. He was now sitting back on the wheel well, and eventually I was lulled into believing he was surely talking about the weather or the old beat up car that he usually drove. I looked over at him, just once, and nodded. Quick as wink, Poodle Joe slid over close to me again and had his hand traveling up my arm. But this time he didn't make it to the boob. I pushed his hand away and shoved him off the tire, bawled him out again. He kept muttering, "Ou said I could! Ou said I could!"

I considered banging on the cab window and telling my daddy what was going on. Three things stopped me: ONE it would be embarrassing, TWO I was prideful and liked to fix my own problems, and THREE Daddy might actually hurt him. I settled for ordering him to sit back on the wheel well and to shut up until we got to his house. I affixed my fiery gaze on him and every time he opened his mouth I said, "Hush!" Unrepentantly, I shot The Deathray at him until we pulled up in front of his house. As he scrambled out of the back of the truck, Poodle Joe tried one last time, "I sorry. I sorry. Don't teh ou daddy! Don't teh ou daddy!"

Through gritted teeth I told him, "I might not tell my daddy, but if you EVER do anything like that again I WILL tell him and I'll laugh while he stomps you right through the ground!"

By the time we got home, I'd subdued the flames in my eyes enough that my family didn't notice anything was wrong. I went straight to my favorite spot in the universe, my swing. I spent the next hour or so swinging, and praying, and wondering why guys had to be so stupid, and berating myself for being stupid right along with them. Had I really nodded at him AGAIN?!

Finally, I put the experience behind me and went in as the sun started going to bed. I forgot the anger, even at myself. Eventually I began to see the funny side of the situation. And I kept the lessons from that day onward. I now offer them as good advice to you: Don't ever nod at someone if you don't know what they are saying, and never underestimate how many times a guy may try to play with your boobs!