Ode To My Childhood Alter-Ego
Back home on my childhood bed, Mom has laid out a half dozen dance belts, tiny beige thongs I’d worn under my ballet tights, designed to support my curious and newly sentient genitals — and a name rushes into the room:
you know, the guy from my math homework, my permission slips, my pen pal letters. Everywhere: Adrion Skot.
He was age nine, before another year and another digit piled more weight onto his world. Adrion knew nothing of acne and heartbreak, long division and Twin Towers. His cheeks were ruddy with stage rouge or soccer sweat. He was Papa John’s and Mamma Mia, grand slams and grand plies.
He still sounds like music, like the first name flourishes into the ballroom to the awestruck murmurs of tuxedoed onlookers:
and as the last name stamps her heel down, the string quartet stops mid-stroke and everyone knows she has arrived —
Was he stage name or alter ego — Whoopi Goldberg or Chris Gaines? Or one of Sendak’s Wild Things?
Can you be your own imaginary friend? Can I turn a boy into a marquee — better yet, a lighthouse guiding me home to the best I’ve ever been?
If you liked this, check out “Weird Stuff That Happened To Me As a Marginally Successful Child Actor.”