When I was nine, I used to pray that Loni Anderson would suddenly appear in my bedroom with me. Loni Anderson was on a popular TV show, "WKRP in Cinicinnati," and I liked her so much that I owned a garbage can with her image on it. Actually, it was two images. Both were large, color photos of Loni in a bikini. It was the source of many innocent lustful nights.
At the same time, I had a crush on two girls from school, Tammy Piotrowski and Julie Fell. They were more friends than anything, but I still liked them either way. Tammy and Julie were best friends, and in my fantasy, they would magically appear in my bedroom with me and we would be together forever.
I would close my eyes and say, "Okay, God, when I open my eyes, Tammy and Julie will be here...now!" I'd open my eyes and expect them to be there. I'd try it again. "Okay, God, when I open my eyes, Tammy and Julie will appear and I will be nice to everybody...now!" Nothing.
That never stopped me from trying over and over again. It never stopped me from making deals with the devil or praying to God for this favor in exchange for good behavior. It never stopped me from pretending that they were there with me in bed.
I'd look to either side, Tammy on the left, Julie on the right, and we'd laugh, embraced in each other's arms, kiss, and then fall asleep. Pure imagination at work.
As I got older, the deals and prayers got more closer to reality. I'd want to ask a girl out on a date and say aloud, as I threw a crumpled paper into the Loni Anderson garbage can, "If I make this basket, [fill in the name of the time] will go out with me and I will take the garbage out for a month without being asked." If I missed the shot, I'd barter two out of three. If I made it, I'd smile. I knew fate was not determined by garbage can basketball, but it never stopped me from trying.
I remember one time, long after I got married and shortly after Frederic was born. The three of us had spent a ten days in Philadelphia, looking for a place to live. After a successful hunt, we were headed home.
It was a Friday in late June/early July. Peak season for thunderstorm activity. We were camped out at the airport for several hours, our flight delayed and then cancelled. We were able to finagle ourselves on a US Air flight to O'Hare, but were warned that the first 30-45 minutes of the flight were not going to be pretty.
We strapped into our seats, Frederic still small enough to snuggle comfortably in front of me in a Baby Bjorn. The pilot told everyone, including the flight attendants to remain seated until further notice. The flight took off and was reminiscent to the world's scariest roller coaster. We were all over the place. There was a male flight attendant seated across from us. Cyndi and I sat white knuckled next to one another, holding hands, digging our fingers into one another. Frederic slept soundly, unaware of the fear we experienced. The male flight attendant calmly sat in his seat, reading a book.
I made a deal that night with God, of course. That, if he got us out of this mess safely, we would be better people. We would begin attending Mass on a regular basis. We would be good parents to Frederic and any other child that came after. We would love one another, respect one another, be happy with one another.
Cyndi and I looked at each other, fear very obvious. I was glad that Devil or whoever never accepted the petty deals of my youth. I was glad that God never answered my prayers, mysteriously handing me Tammy, or Julie, or Loni Anderson in the middle of the night. I was with the person I loved and we had a son who needed our protection. We had a son who, while unbeknownst to him, was in what we perceived as danger. It was our job to ensure his safety. Albeit, out of our hands, specifically.
After twenty minutes or so, there was a break in the clouds. The pilot came on the overhead system and instructed the flight attendants to continue with their service. Several minutes later, the seat belt sign went off and stayed off until we got closer to O'Hare to land.
We got home that night and we knew things were going to be different. Sunday morning came and we went to church. The following Sunday came and we went again. To this day, with the exception of occasional illnesses, duplicity in schedules, unusual circumstances, weekly mass is a part of our lives. It's something that grounds us as a family. I know it has less to do with the prayers we sent than it does with out own internal sense of purpose.
I guess it's good, sometimes, to be ignored.
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