Brandon* was the second guy I dated. He was handsome with green eyes, brown skin and an easy smile. I liked him a lot, but our relationship was doomed from the beginning.

He met me on campus on a Friday afternoon by the Bruin Bear for our first date. We walked over to his green Ford Explorer. He unlocked the passenger side door for me and opened the door. I got in, smoothed out my skirt and sat down. He shut the door and walked behind the car.

I just sat there.

A moment later, Brandon unlocked his door, got in and started the car.

“Have you ever seen A Bronx Tale?”

“Uh, no.”

“Well, there’s this thing called the door test and you just failed it.”

“Huh?”

Brandon explained what I’d done wrong, or rather what I hadn’t done. While he was walking around the car, I should have unlocked and opened his door. Instead, I just waited and assumed the door would be unlocked as I was used to keyless entry and automatic locks.

“I should dump you right now,” he continued.

“Really?”

He didn’t dump me then. Instead, we had a great a dinner, had fun at a party and continued dating each other. A few weeks later the initial spark fizzled and we were through.

I lost contact with Brandon about 5 years ago**, but I still remember his lesson. It might not be the most significant thing I’ve learned from someone I’ve dated, but it’s definitely useful.

At least I don’t get dumped after the first date… it just comes a little later.

* Name changed to protect the innocent.

** Last time I saw him was outside of the Avalon in Hollywood in ’04. He looked good. Don’t you hate when that happens?.

*** Thanks to Joel for inspiring this piece with his own post on the topic and his reaction to my confession: “I am shocked, shocked that you of all people would fail the door test! I would never think that about you. I feel like I just found out you have a weekend coke habit or that you’re a closet republican… wow… just wow…”

“Are you a fan?” asked the parking attendant at the beach.

“I’m wearing the hat, aren’t I?” responded dad. He handed him some money.

“I guess so,” said the man in the booth.

He handed dad his change with the parking ticket. We drove off to find a spot closer to the beach.

In the back of the maroon van, I sat with Danny, Lori and Adrian. I was confused. Being a metiche, I had listened in, but the short conversation didn’t make sense.

“Dad, why did he call you a fan? Did he mean fan, like un abanico?”

“No. A fan is someone who really likes a team. He asked if I was a fan because I’m wearing my Dodgers cap.”

“Oh. I like the Dodgers. Does that mean I’m a fan?”

“Yup! You better be!”

I was seven years old. The year was 1988.

“So why DB?” P3000 asked.

“It’s not his initials or anything. It has to do with his smile. DB stands for _______ ___. A fellow blogger chose the name after seeing a picture* of him. It’s one of those smiles that just sparkles,” I explained.

“What? Do people with awesome smiles travel in packs or something?” he joked.

“No. Actually, I’m not used to dating someone with a better smile than mine.”

P3000 laughed. I know how it sounds (er, reads), but I mean it. I date guys who are a little different than me. Despite a few crushes, I’ve never dated a writer, blogger or graduate student. It’s just too much sameness and a bit of competition.

That goes with smiles too. I’m the one with the broad, cheesy grin. I’m the one who answers “never” when someone asks if I wore braces. I’m the one who brightens up the room and charms with a flash of my grin.

But it’s different now. I find myself humming along to Café Tacuba’s Quiero Ver and thinking of how much I miss DB’s smile, if only to brighten up more than just the room. To brighten up my mood.

*The photo she saw is my favorite. In it, he’s wearing a black suit, white shirt and black tie. He smiles broadly at the camera, as if just told he’d won some prize for his work. His smile is irresistible.

May 2000, sophomore year in college

MEChA meetings never started at 6 and this Wednesday late in the spring quarter was no exception. My friends milled around talking about classes and preparations for the upcoming youth conference and long weekend. Some stepped out to get something from the coffee house. I took a seat near the window away from anybody else. Soon the room filled up and my crush ended up on my right.

I liked when the crush sat close to me, whether it be in class, study hall or at a meeting. We’d keep each other entertained by passing notes and drawing pictures.

The meeting started 10 minutes later. G, a visitor from USC, picked the introduction topic: say something nice about the person sitting to your left (we always went to our left since that’s where the heart lies).

I have no clue what anyone else said nor what I said. I didn’t write those things down in my butterfly-shaped journal. But I did write what the crush said: “Well, the thing about Cindy is that she has a really good heart. And she has this huge smile, when she smiles it brightens up the whole room.”

The others around the circle awwed. I blushed. Then smiled. I had to smile.

That was the first time I recall someone complimenting my smile.

En la esquina de Breed y la Primera esperé detrás del autobús anaranjado. Aunque que el área sea familiar, parece muy distinto con la construcción del metro. Ya no existe la escuelita pre-kinder cerca de Utah. En esa escuela adornada con un lindo mural, ensayabamos con Sergio y su grupo, Danza Tenochtilán.

En un momento, la luz cambió de rojo a verde y el autobús avanzó rumbo al este. En la esquina al sureste vi una palabra pintada en la pared: MAZATL.

***

MAZATL. Inmediatamente traducí la palabra. ¡El venado!

No tengo que explicarte que Mazatl significa venado en Nahuatl, el idioma de los Mexica (o Aztecas) por que tú me enseñasté Mazatl, una danza en que se recree el juego entre cazadores y los venados.

Me avanzé más y MAZATL se convertió en MAZATLAN MARKET.

MAZATLAN. Una linda ciudad. Quiero recordarme de los cinco días que pasé allí hace cuatro años. Quiero acordarmé de la sensación de volar sobre la playa en paracaídas, del agua tibia de la mar y del asombro de ver el más lindo atardecer de mi vida. Pero no. Esas memorias lindas de Mazatlán se convierten en memorias de ti, el Venado.
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