Mr. Unavailable #55: The Bad Boy

This is a Mr. Unavailable flashback circa February 1988, the suburbs of Buffalo.

Vital Stats: 5’ 10”, 17. Cute, dark-haired bad boy. He was a friend of my brother, and they were both a year older than me. Aethestic: Handsomely grungy in the same U2 T-shirt worn over and over again. Demeanor: My brother ran with the druggie crowd that was on the five-year graduation plan in high school, so #55 was technically a druggie. He was also probably U2’s first American superfan, following them around the Western New York area.

What Happened: It was the winter of my sophomore year. My younger brother was in travel hockey and because he was the baby, the favorite, the golden child—not that I’m bitter—my parents carted the whole family to his out-of-town games, which were mostly in Canada. #55’s little brother was on the team and, as I mentioned, #55 was also friends with my older brother, so we were all in the same hockey circle. One night, #55 came out to dinner with my family. He sat next to me. There was some flirting although I didn’t know that’s what it was at the time. I just knew I felt delightfully uncomfortable.

It was Sadie Hawkins season and, a week or so later, with the dance on my mind, I was sitting on the living room floor with my older brother listening to records when I started fishing for information.

“I want to go to Sadie Hawkins, but I don’t know who I could ask,” I said, crinkling my forehead to feign perplexity.

“I know who you could ask,” he said.

“Who?” I asked, knowing who.

Inevitably, #55’s name came out. I got his number from my brother and called to ask him out. When the asking was done and he’d accepted, one word formulated awkwardly in my brain and found it’s way to my lips: “Thanks.”

(Really? Really? Did I really just say that?)

Despite my overt gratitude, for the next day or so I felt genuine excitement. Bursting to share it, one day in school I told a friend who I was going with.

“[#55]!” she replied, letting one hand come up off of her Trapper Keeper in order to cover her mouthful of horror. “He takes my bus. I heard him saying he was going, but I didn’t know he was going with you. You know he smokes, don’t you?” she asked.

All of my excitement vanished. Not because he was talking publicly about going to Sadie Hawkins. Not because he smoked (and we're talking cigarettes here). But because I cared about what other people thought. And I cared a lot. I spent the rest of the days before the dance actively trying to avoid him. I was mortified when, one day, he appeared beside my locker. Dance transportation was on his mind. Who had eyes on us at that moment was on mine. He was looking at me and I was looking everywhere else.

“Yeah,” he said, “I have a friend who has a scooter and he says maybe I can borrow it.” He hovered close to me, smelling of past cigarettes. He followed me as I closed my locker and started down the hall.

Walking with him in my lime-green Esprit pants and matching orange and green sweater, I wished I was invisible—and not because of my outfit. I was terrified of him, to be seen with him, to be alone with him, and the thought of the two of us on a scooter—with one of us in a dress…with me having to really be with him—troubled me.

Fortunately, the scooter thing fell through, so my mom drove all of us—including my brother and his towering, redheaded date—in our big brown Ford Econoline van decked out with a mini TV and, I’d estimate, about two dozen cup holders. At the dance, I remember dancing with #55—even to the slow songs—and smelling the smoke clinging to his clothes from his trips to the boys’ room. I don’t remember enjoying my time much, and I definitely don’t remember preserving the evening with a photo under the heart-shaped faux-flower trellis.

In the following months and years, whenever he would come over to see my brother, I avoided him. But even though I was the one to put out the sparks, I held a candle for him for years. I’d babysit the kids down the street just so I could watch MTV and, whenever U2’s “With or Without You” video came on, I’d imagine us in the black-and-white scene trying to find each other through the artistic haze. But not even Bono’s silken voice could bring us together.

Signs of Hope: Our mutual attraction

Red Flags: His bad-boyness; my teenage insecurity

Turning Point: When my friend had to stifle her horror upon hearing that I was going out with him.

Diagnosis: For him: If he was anything like my brother, he was probably an un-medicated ADD kid just trying to make it through high school without imploding. The last I heard, which was many years ago, he’d made a few trips to jail and was living out of a van somewhere.
For me: I was a fairly typical teenager—insecure, prone to peer pressure, more concerned with what other people thought than with what I thought, pretty much spineless.

(He deserves an) Epilogue: Now looking back, it makes perfect sense that I was attracted to him in the first place. Bad boys are the quintessential Mr. Unavailables. They’re just easier to spot when they’re in high school because the cliques are so well defined. Later in life, they disperse, blending in amongst the Mr. Availables as writers, lawyers, pastry chefs, ex-cons, construction guys or even plain old office workers—you know, the guy everyone has a crush on. The guy you probably have a crush on, too.