He'll Always Be Seven to me...

I was born with the face I have now.

My mother suffers from the same type of face. If you knew her in kindergarten chances are you would recognize her today.Life with all its forces have not altered the 'look' of my mother, no matter the course of her life, her face remains the same. My mother's face, though more weathered, is still that of primary school, I have the same scourge.

My siblings, as my father, do not face the same woe, their faces have altered through the years, their faces, somehow through time, their faces have evolved, have transformed, their childhood pictures, do not seem to reflect the people they metamorphized into today...They have grown into their faces, through time, and one would truly have to pause and search their refined features to recognize them from their gawky days of childhood and teen years.

I guess the best way to illustrate this would be through the Beatles. Bare with me in this illustration...

John, Paul and George, changed through the years, their young faces from the fifties, with their greased back hair, changed with the Beatle hair cuts, and slowly altered even still in the seventies and one would have to take pause, when identifying the three from their past unto the seventies...

But not with Ringo... No matter what the era, no matter what the 'look' of the day was, Ringo looked; as Ringo does today. There would be no problem pointing out with certainty Mr. Ringo Starr.

I have the face of Ringo. Time tested and true. You can always spot Ringo no matter how much he ages, just as you could spot me.

A plight that some of us have to face, but I suppose there could be worse.

Of course, this face is going to take you on a wee bit of a journey.

I will brings you along with me as I venture onto the subway. A day like any other...

I am riding along the subway emersed in my wonderful, inner world with a conversation of things 'to do' swirling in my head when a gorgeous man strides onto the train. He has shoulder length, dirty blond, wavy hair, he is wearing great fitting jeans with a funky weathered belt, washboard stomach and these fantastic biker boots along with a knap sack slunk over to one shoulder. He is relaxed and calm with himself and the course of his day. He has a truly charming smile. He smiles as he sits across from me. I smile back and go back to my inner world with the aid of reading the advertisements above the gentleman's head.

And when I look down again, I notice that he is still smiling at me.

A sheepish smile, but a smile nonetheless.

I smile back, and lower my eyes to show my embarrassment for the attention.

And then he stands and meanders across the train and stops in front of me.

I look at the great boots and slowly scan up, pass the belt, the washboard stomach, pass the pecs,pass the cool necklace, and stop at the friendly smiling face.

'Excuse me, but are you Pendullum Dribblingwitt?'

'Yeeess?' I reply. I answer more in the vein of a question, as I have no idea how, this gorgeous Adonis, would know my name.

And then he pauses with my answer. And looks at me with hopeful eyes, a glimmer of familiarity floats through their sparkle.

He repeats my name again with conviction, 'Pendullum Dribblingwitt... Well, I'll be....'

Now, I am getting a tad embarrassed and uncomfortable with the fact that this man knows me, and I have not a clue who he is, and I am also aware that everyone on the subway is watching our drama unfold as this man certainly controls the car by his very presence.

'Pendullum, It's me, Alan Rubinchko.'

'Alan Rubinchko?' I repeat looking for clarification through saying the name again. Slowly, carefully, annunciating each syllable of his name, hoping to find him, and our connection through the pronunciation and projection of his name. And through this dance, I am buying my memory; time. Time to mingle with my brain and find Alan Rubinchko in the dusty, webbed-corridors of my cluttered mind.

He, at least is gallant enough to see that his name, even with the greatest of concentration on each syllable is not bringing any kind of connection to me.

He is not unnerved by the vacant smile before him. He decides upon sitting beside me, so, he can give me eye contact and maybe through the persuasion of his eyes I may be transfixed to a memory as he clearly remembers me.

He settles beside me and says ' I sat behind you, Mrs. May's class.'
'Mrs. May's class... That was when? '
'Grade Two'
'GRADE TWO?'
'Yeah, Grade two'

Okay, my memory and my brain can work with that....But boy, that was a lifetime ago... And boy this will take a great deal of needling between the memory and the ole brain...

They converse and then...

Magically, I am teleported back, I can see the classroom, the dimly lit classroom, the beautiful penmenship of Mrs. May on the board, the children working quietly, I am being poked from behind, and the boy behind me is drawing attention to his latest project, he is tossing his pencil up into the air to have it join the half a dozen other pencils he has stuck to the ceiling, I can see Mrs. May surveying her class, I can hear her shrill scream, I can hear her fury....

ALAN RUBINCHKO!!!! COME HERE!

And then it all truly comes back. Alan Rubinchko with the thick, thick glasses, Alan Rubinchko with the black and beige pocket protector in his white oxford shirt. Alan Rubinchko with the spindly body which carried baggy flood pants sinched together with a thin black belt, black socks and white adias running shoes. Alan Rubinchko always laughing and finding new projects in tormenting Mrs. May. Alan Rubinchko always at the front of the class for some mischief he had gotten himself into. Alan Rubinchko always finding some kind of delight spontaneous commotion, much to Mrs. May's dissatisfaction and all of our delight.

And here was an Adonis before me, certainly not a spindly body, and not a pocket protector or coke bottle glasses in sight...

I scramble and now repeat his name, with conviction having found the man in the name.'Ah, Alan Rubinchko, it has been a lifetime... Geez hasn't it?'

'Pendullum Dribblingwitt, you have not changed a bit. Not ONE bit!'

Thanks, I guess... Well, Alan, you certainly have.

'Well, yeah, most people change... But Holy Crow, you have not! Geez, I could spot you anywhere....' And his voice cracks as it would when we were kids. And now he can relax, as he is not insane and he does indeed know me, and now the 'work' is in my court.

'So Alan,' I gasp, as this Adonis before me is slowly transforming a mixture of the Adonis but definitive tinges of a wee boy of seven years of age with black socks and floods.

'Alan, well, what are you doing with yourself?'

And with this, he laughs with reassurance. He pulls his shoulders back, regains his amazing posture, looks directly in my eyes and charmingly says with a flirtation twinkle to his eye... 'Well, Pendullum, I am a male stripper now.'

'Ahh... Uhhh??? You're stripping?'

'Yeah, Really, great money... Amazing money in fact. A lot of women like to see men naked.'

'You are a stripper?'

'I guess Mrs. May gave me a taste of what it was like to be always on stage.'

' Yeah, but you were clothed... And detention never had music...A stripper.' I now say with conviction trying to coax my memory, to let go of an image of Alan of the past and of the black socks and wirey legs and knobby ankles.

Somehow Alan with the pocket protector, the thick glasses with black rims, the floods, the black socks and running shoes are now just all before me and my mind's eye. My memory will not let go.

'Yeah.... Pendullum, you should come and see me some time. There's always a line up, but here's my card. This will let you in no prob. and you don't have to pay the cover. I could take you out to dinner or something. Get caught up...'

And with that statement wavering. My stop arrives on cue.

I say my quick good byes, collect my things and exit with his stripper card in hand.

I wave goodbye as the train pulls away.
He smiles and gallantly waves.

And then glance down at his card as the train is out of sight and I am walking up the stairs.

ALAN the Carpenter. Chip N Dales.

And I know I will never use the card.

I will never go and see the Studded Carpenter because to me, to me, he will always be Alan Rubinchko, a young seven year old boy with black socks and a pocket protector....

And I will always be the young girl who sat in front of him.