Delicious Rejection: The Memoirs of a Hopeless Romantic

by James Robert Russell

Overview

Neither a salacious tell-all book nor a venomous bashing of the participants, Delicious Rejection shares the depths of emotions that James Robert Russell experienced in his relationships with the women in his life, both past and present. This autobiographical collection of stories and poems follows his amazing emotional ride on love’s roller coaster. He recounts the details of those relationships—some happy and some that still occasionally haunt him. He dreamed enough to suffer through the pain of disappointment, rejection, and betrayal, while also living every moment to the fullest; recognizing and appreciating the smallest details helped him soar to the heights of passion, love, and excitement.

As a parent, husband, professional, and member of his community, everything that he has done, written, or accomplished has been about what he was, not who he is personally. Delicious Rejection represents the mark Mr. Russell intends to leave on this world—an indelible mark about who he is and how he feels. These poems, stories, and expressions of his journey come straight from the heart, where the words originated.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781450243346
Publisher:	iUniverse, Incorporated
Publication date:	08/02/2010
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
File size:	278 KB

Read an Excerpt

Delicious Rejection

The Memoirs of a Hopeless Romantic

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By James Robert Russell

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 James Robert Russell
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-4333-9

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Chapter One

The Early Years

I was born a predominately black child and grew up in a predominately black neighborhood. This situation has certain unspoken responsibilities, inherent expectations. In retrospect, I probably failed in most of those requirements. Fortunately, I've never measured my success or worth by other's standards. I was skinny, freakishly tall with abnormally large ears which took years to grow into. Possessing above average athleticism, I was able to compete with my peers despite deficiencies in coordination, aggression and toughness. On the positive side of the ledger I was intelligent, creative and passionate about everything. Accepted in both my own peer group and by older kids; I was given two nicknames in addition to the one given to me by my family. The first was Dumbo; a not so subtle reference to the size of my ears. The latter was Computer. A flattering tribute to my amazing math acuity; keep in mind this was the early sixties and computers though primitive by today's standard were a marvel at the time.

The fairer sex has always been of interest to me; even before I was old enough to know why. In the early sixties there was still a great deal of formality. Trips to shop downtown were my favorite, especially at Christmas time. Men traditionally wore suits. Women always wore dresses; accessorized by hats and gloves. Heels and hose were an absolute necessity. This fact was not lost on me. I guess I've always been a leg man. The versatility of women has always fascinated me. Housewives transformed themselves into models for PTA meetings; the isles of the auditorium their runways.

My sensitivity was apparent very early in my formative years. There was a local children's TV show hosted by Miss Barbara. The show ended with Miss Barbara singing a song which included her looking through a hoop and pretending to see her fans; calling out their names individually. "I see Billy and Susan etc". Confident that she was speaking directly to me, I didn't rest until I was a guest on the show. On the other side of the coin, there was a song on another of my favorite shows that even now on a bad day will recall pain. I suppose that there has always been a part of me that never felt like it belonged or fit in. At five years old the sadness was uncontrollable. The chorus of the song; "I'm a lonely little petunia in an onion patch, an onion patch, an onion patch. I'm a lonely little petunia in an onion patch; and all I do is cry all day" unleashed torrents of tears.

Of all of the holidays that we celebrated in elementary school; Valentine's Day was by far my favorite. It was my opportunity to express my feelings to those few special girls in my class. More importantly, gauge their opinions of me. These were the times before political correctness became a part of curriculum. We were allowed to give cards to the kids we chose to without concern for the feelings of those who might get fewer cards than others. Therefore, it could be stressful on many levels. But I believe this is a necessary part of the maturation process.

My family wasn't well off, but we were creative. Buying Valentine's Day cards was not in the budget; so we made them from construction paper and lace doilies. It was tough even then for kids to be individuals in school. I think the fact that I was almost always, well "different" made me tougher. I learned to set the trend for others to follow. Actually, I thought the homemade touch made my cards special. At the advice of my mother, I gave cards to all of the girls in the class. Later when I had my own money; earned on my paper route, I added candy. However, there were two sizes of cards; the special girls, the ones I felt attracted to got larger ones. Unfortunately, they also attracted the lion's share of the attention from the rest of the boys in the class. I never got the level of attention that I wanted from them though I remained friends with most of them through high school.

I was flattered when at my twentieth high school reunion one of the "special girls" that had moved away, but married one of my classmates came up to me and told me she had kept a Valentine that I had given her saying, "it had meant a lot to her". The only other direct reaction I received was in the fifth grade. I was walking home from school in front of a group of "older" girls, sixth graders actually. When one of them who lived on my street invited me to walk with them I was excited, but as soon as I reached the group she slapped me as hard as I had ever been hit to date. She had been given a smaller card than her friend. My feelings were hurt even though she had never really paid any attention to me in the past. As I grew in age and experience, I realized that slap in "girl speak" meant that she liked me more than she ever let on, and she felt slighted by the smaller card. She never spoke to me again.

The "special" girls had "beautiful" qualities even at that age. They were usually taller; always prettier, better dressed, smarter, musically or artistically gifted, more refined and mature than the rest of the girls in the class. They even had better handwriting. They shaped my definition of "beautiful" at an early age. They raised the level of the everyday activity to an art form. I was enchanted. It seemed as though the gods were always smiling on them. One of them had an unfortunate bicycle accident on my street while visiting her grandmother. It could have been very serious, as she hit the car broadside. The impact caused her to fly over the handlebars and across the hood of the car. Fortunately, the only injury she sustained was a small "V" shaped cut on the upper thigh of her otherwise flawless legs. The resulting scar was only slightly darker than her skin tone and was placed such that you would have to be intimate with her to see it. It couldn't have been more delicate if it had been tattooed on. Her first name began with a "V"; Beautiful.

I didn't know it at the time but my lifelong experiences with the opposite sex could be summed up by two encounters in my adolescence, the formative years. On one hand the flair for the dramatic. On the other: despair, disappointment, and rejection.

Chapter Two

First Kiss

It was a hot day, more than one hundred degrees in the shade, if there was any to be found. We climbed the winding red clay steps to an unknown destination. It was the second day of a journey that frankly was a miracle come true. As we reached the summit and gazed upon the incredible scenery for the first time our silence spoke volumes about the amazing view.

The summit was actually a garden on top of a mesa. It was a simple place with stones encircling smoothly raked red dirt. The stone benches arranged on the edges provided a ringside seat to the probably endless battle of the sea versus sky for the title of bluest in nature. The battle, officiated by the rocky shore was fueled and orchestrated by the wind. It provided each with a contrast to measure the incredibly vivid blues. To the sea, the wind gave white caps and foam rolling in on wave after wave from the Isle of Goree in the distance. The wind's gifts to the sky were the constantly changing shape of wispy clouds that sped by.

It was hard to believe that as a boy of nearly thirteen I was seeing the Atlantic Ocean for the first time, from the other side no less. It was nineteen sixty-nine. The height of the Black Power movement and I was in Dakar, Senegal. I was tall for my age at five feet seven, but thin at 116 pounds. The scenery had so overwhelmed me that I had forgotten that I was still holding Sheila's hand. We had gravitated towards each other on the long flight from New York. It was an unlikely alliance. She was my age, but light years ahead of me socially. She wore green shorts, tennis shoes and a white sleeveless blouse. She was built similarly to me, but in three-quarter scale. The wind had rearranged her long bangs to resemble rearing horses. The benefit was that I saw her mellow brown eyes for the first time in the light of the sun.

She walked to the edge to get a better view of the boulder strewn shore. I nervously followed her just in time to reach for her slender waist, as a strong gust of wind unsteadied her stance. She turned to face me smiling. I had both hands on her thin, but curvy hips now. This was the first time I had actually held a girl in that manner. I stood frozen, inexperienced and overwhelmed. We stood for what seemed like an hour and it felt like a dream. Her warm but confident voice awakened me with the single word, "kiss" as she stepped into my arms, stood on her tiptoes and kissed me.

To this day I don't remember climbing back down the stairs or walking her back to the hotel. My first recollection was being let back into my hotel room by my roommates and lifelong friends. I couldn't find the key that was secure in my pocket. Upon entering, I was asked, "Where I had been?" "Why I had missed lunch?" I blurted out "I kissed Sheila" to the surprise and amazement of my friends. I stood there motionless in a hailstorm of questions. I only answered one of them. "How was it?" My response? "As smooth as silk."

Chapter Three

Call Waiting

This story is probably the basis of my entire social interaction with the fairer sex. It provided me with an operational principle that I still use today. More information on that subject will be provided later. Upon reflection, I am confronted with the source of my extreme level of patience, tolerance for emotional pain and then forgiveness.

The title "Call Waiting" may be slightly deceiving. The term is a contemporary one, but the setting of this story is the late '60s. The telephone at that time was almost a "luxury" appliance in my neighborhood. We had ourselves just recently "upgraded" to a private line. Previously, we could only afford a "party line" which you shared with up to three other families. Access was obviously limited, and privacy was certainly not a guarantee. But it served the purpose. The phone we chose was a single black rotary dial model with a long cord. White and beige (decorator colors) were available at extra cost. There was not a phone on the second level of our home. They were called extensions. They were available with or without a dial. Why not? I already explained. It cost extra. Operation was simple. When you called someone and they didn't answer they were either not home or ignoring the phone. So you called back later. If you got the busy signal, they were on the phone and therefore home, so you called back later. The final and most important thing was this. As a child you didn't touch the phone unless instructed. Usually this honor was granted by a parent to tell whoever was on the line that your parents weren't home. Think of it as sort of a primitive form of call screening. You didn't answer the phone because it wasn't for you. You didn't talk on the phone to your friends "tying up" the line because whatever you wanted to say wasn't important and should have been said before you left school. It could certainly wait until tomorrow.

You dare not use the excuse that you needed to get a homework assignment because you should have been paying attention in school. Anyone born after 1970 won't believe this. Those born before 1960 are probably smiling. It was against that backdrop that this saga takes place.

I was thirteen and in Jr. High school. I had only recently explored my emerging interest is girls. My first kiss had been earlier that summer. The object of my youthful desire this time was Candace. She was very intelligent. We were both in advanced studies, she in Section 1 and I in Section 2. We had some of our classes together. Yes, tracking was legal then, and might I say productive. She was attractive and tall, almost my height of five-foot seven. She had "good hair", was light skinned and came from a better neighborhood. In retrospect, she was beyond my reach for several reasons.

We became friendly as the fall semester progressed. I helped her in Geometry, she tutored me in English. One day during lunch period she struck up a conversation. This was major, as she had to leave her girlfriends and venture over to our boys' table. This act alone gained me serious status points among my friends. Suddenly, the bell rang signaling the end of our half of the lunch period. She asked me for my phone number to continue the conversation. Shocked, I gave it to her. She wrote it on her hand as was the custom, smiled and turned to leave. I remember thinking at the time that it should have been sacrilege to mar such beautiful skin with ink. I also learned that I could respond to stimuli emotionally, without using my head. If this story had sound effects you would hear the sound of impending doom with that statement.

When the glow of instant celebrity had dimmed, I realized that I had a major problem. How was I going to convince my mother to let me use the phone? More importantly, we had not established a time for this telephone date. I was consumed for the rest of the day trying to figure out a plan. My only hope was that she would call before my mother got home at 5:30. But of course, that didn't happen. This importance of this telephone call was growing in momentum. It had developed a life of its own.

I decided that the only way to accomplish this was to be honest. To tell the truth and ask, plead my case, no beg to use the phone. My mother sat quietly as I explained the entire scenario, too quietly perhaps. This was approximately four months after the whole first kiss thing, so I suppose she knew this was coming. She asked one single question. Unfortunately, it was the one question I couldn't answer. "What time was I supposed to call her?" Without thinking, I blurted out; "she's going to call me". As a wry smile appeared on my mother's face, I proudly added "she asked me for my phone number". While trying to contain her growing amusement; she quipped "you don't have a phone number, I do". Then came the inevitable "What kind of parents let a kid use the phone, especially to call a boy speech?" What kind of a "fast" girl would even think of doing it? I tried to defend my girlfriend's honor and only succeeded in making me seem more desperate.

Finally, surprisingly my mother relented. Not only to let me use the telephone, but to keep it clear until Candace called. She put a stack of 45's on the stereo and went upstairs, leaving me to my vigil. It was 6:30.

Exactly one hour later the music stopped and she returned to call my brother and sister in from playing. "No, I wouldn't be eating dinner". I sat on the couch, my posture reflecting my slightly shaken confidence and knots of anticipation in my stomach.

She emerged from the kitchen and walked silently past the now obviously nervous figure lying on his side on the sofa. Another stack of 45's was placed on the stereo. Not even the sounds of Motown had any effect on my rapidly sinking mood.

My Timex taunted me. It was now after 8:00pm. My brother and sister finished their homework and chores and headed to bed asking if I was sick or something. I heard my mother's reply of "something". It was the last voice I remember other than the repeating refrain of Jerry Butler's "Only the Strong Survive" on the stereo. I was lying prone on the sofa. Face down on my stomach, arms at my side in the "closed" position. I awoke the next morning still guarding the phone.

The hardest part was still to come. I had to face Candace in second period French. I was extremely nervous about the meeting. What would I say? What would she say? The class came and went without incident or words. She did smile at me however, when we left lunch. My curiosity was getting the best of me, but I wasn't sure that I would get the chance to talk to her alone. My feelings were also bruised by her casual attitude.

I went to my detention after school; my punishment for being late that day. It allowed me time to focus for the first time that day. I did my homework and read ahead. Dejected, I left school for home and to my surprise ran right into Candace; who had just come from an extra-curricular meeting. As I approached her, I could still see the remnants of my phone number on her hand.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Delicious Rejection by James Robert Russell Copyright © 2010 by James Robert Russell. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Table of Contents

Contents

1. Early Years....................4
2. First Kiss....................7
3. Call Waiting....................9
4. My Sister's Friends....................13
5. Maiden Voyage (Part 1 and 2)....................15
6. First Dates Analysis....................20
7. High School Sweetheart....................21
8. Just One Kiss From You....................27
9. Encounters With Older Women....................28
10. Oasis....................33
11. Coco....................34
12. The Meaning of Sweetest Day....................40
13. Cayenne....................41
14. The Delicacy Called Woman....................42
15. Nikki....................44
16. Love's Light....................48
17. Seventeen....................49
18. First Dates (Silk)....................55
19. Sunset....................62
20. A Perfect End to a Long Day....................63
21. A Day in Love's Journey....................67
22. The Clock Struck Twelve....................69
23. Letter Silk I....................74
24. Job Posting....................76
25. The Repo Man....................77
26. Thinking of you....................79
27. Letter Silk II....................80
28. Marcel....................83
29. Metallic Mulberry....................94
30. Beautiful....................95
31. Pet Names....................97
32. Marcel (The Day the "Music" Died)....................98
33. Autopsy of a Romantic....................104
34. Letters II Silk....................106
35. Krypton....................109
36. Rhonda....................111
37. I Miss You....................117
38. A Lover's Prayer....................118
39. Marriage Proposal....................119
40. Porcelain....................120
41. Breakfast for Three....................123
42. Circle of Love....................126
43. Sleepless....................128
44. Birthday Wishes for an Ex-Lover....................130
45. Venom....................131
46. Eclipse....................133
47. Questions....................138
48. Deception....................142
49. No Pain, No Pleasure....................143
50. Answers....................163
51. The Face of an Angel....................166
52. The Sea....................167
53. Epilogue....................168