T'was the Stroke Before Christmas
Part 2

by blinkie (Steve Chiappa)

A little about Cindy: I felt as though I’d been hit by lightning the first time I saw her, when I was only 13. Now, more than 40 years later, as I looked at her sitting next to me, the lightning struck me just as hard.

She is my princess, my angel, my Cindy. To me, everything stopped when she entered a room and I still feel that way. She was always the prettiest girl in the room, and in my eyes that hasn’t changed.

Cindy is actually her middle name. Her first name is Ximena, pronounced “Sea-may-na.” though most people can’t pronounce it. She tells me she had been named for the queen in El Cid. I guess that’s true, although I haven’t read the book or met anyone who has.

Anyhow, I fell in love with her the first time I laid eyes on her. She was wearing a green coat with fake white fur trim, and matching shoes with one-inch heels. She was the picture of 13-year-old sophistication. I was smitten!

I ran home and announced to my father that there was no need to date anybody else. I had met the girl I was going to marry. It wasn’t until years later, after I had children of my own, that I realized how understanding he was at my announcement. He simply turned beet red and told me that perhaps I should keep my options open. My kids wouldn’t have been so lucky.

To make things even more difficult, Cindy was an older woman by a full two weeks. It has always been my opinion that God gave her those two weeks as a head start, but I caught her anyhow. I told you I used to be much faster.

We grew up during the sexual revolution of the ’60s, a revolution that swept across America yet somehow managed to miss our neighborhood. It should have occurred to me early on that fooling around of any kind was going to be a problem. Cindy came from a strict Latin family and we met while attending the same church. Every Sunday, the Reverend Williams, cheeks a fiery red, would bellow out his weekly warning of brimstone and damnation. Sex in thought or deed was bad alright. It was one of the worst sins, he continually reminded us.

But you know how kids are. We used to go on many walks through the neighborhood, hand in hand. Cindy lived on 25th Street, and I lived on 33rd. One beautiful, crisp spring day, we were out for a walk on 29th Street. Cindy’s mom was at work, or so we thought. The street was deserted. Surely it was safe.

Quite the 14-year old Clark Gable, all decked out in my favorite purple and green checked shirt, I turned to Cindy and whispered, “Give me one little kiss.”

“Are you crazy?” she replied, “My mother will catch us.”

“No she won’t,” I responded, with a little too much bravado. “She’s at work. Besides, she never comes down this block anyway. We’re safe.”

Cindy thought for a few seconds and then said, “Okay,” pressing her lips to mine.

At that instant, a tornado formed in the middle of the street, spewing dirt and debris everywhere. In the eye of the storm was a blue 1962 Ford Falcon. Behind the wheel, frothing from the mouth, was Cindy’s mother. The passenger door flew open. A scream came from inside the old jalopy, “Sea-may-na, get in the car!”

Cindy was swept away into the whirlwind, as it disappeared down the street. I was left alone at the curb, my purple shirt and my budding manhood shriveling in the spring sun.

It would be three days before I would be allowed to speak to her again. Not that I didn’t try. Over a hundred phone calls went unanswered. Finally, on the third day, she rose from the dead.

When she answered on the first ring I immediately assaulted her. “What’s wrong? Where have you been?” I demanded.

“It’s my mother. She’s really mad. She says that only whores act like that on the street. She doesn’t want me speaking to you unless you apologize to my entire family,” she replied.

This was going to be bad, I thought. Bad — but manageable. She was worth it. Cindy was an only child who lived alone with her mother. How many people could possibly be in her family? Plenty! And I had to apologize to every goddamn one of them, stacked up like outbound planes on the runway at LaGuardia.

First there were the aunts. There were only three of them. (Lucky for me the fourth was in Colombia.) Then came her uncle. He was a minister, whose views were decidedly reactionary. Taking my hand, he said, “Nice to meet you at last. You know I don’t believe the races should mix.”

After him were the cousins. They came in every size and shape. Most were about my age, but some were considerably younger than me. I even had the privilege of apologizing to Cousin Carlos. He was five at the time.

But the coup de grace had yet to come. From somewhere deep in the Colombian jungle, an old medicine woman had been summoned.

Stooped over and with a mane of wild white hair, the little sorceress had been summoned to exorcise all traces of the evil kiss. They tried to tell me she was someone’s great aunt, but I wasn’t buying it. She was there to cast a spell over me. I was convinced of it. She was at least 100 years old and didn’t speak a word of English, yet she invited me over for a chicken dinner so I would have a chance to apologize.

So, stupidly, off I went for a home-cooked meal and to make my final apology. What awaited me resembled a scene from a B-movie voodoo ritual. I was forced to endure half-cooked chicken, still bleeding in parts, while listening to a Spanish homily, which went on until well into the evening. But at least I was forgiven.