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jUnE 23, 2003 "Blank's friend, on page 82, who had made his car, Duke, into a
Doctor, postman, rifleman, wordman. We are all and every man. Yes, moms and dads of the Weirld, this is what happens when you take a sweet little toe-head boy, wean him on suburbia & stick him in a prepubescent paramilitary training cult like the scouts, then bust his heart open with yer Kramer vs. Kramer hammer, move him all over New England then to the far reaches of the frikken Louisiana Purchase, tell him his mom's a very sick woman and "someday son, you'll understand," then grow him up and send him packing, off to Burning Man!
And what the hell ever happened to Robyn O'Packi? Anyone out there know an O'Packi? I mean, how hard could it be to find an O'Packi? All right, so she probably married long ago, divorced, married again, who knows how many names she's had now. Robyn O'Packi was my first love. She's was the only daughter of my mom's friend Fay, and she was a knockout at 13 years old. Robyn was a coupla years older than me (still is I hope), and is sprinkled throughout my young boy memory like a fine pheromone mist, that odorless fragrance of the id that flutters hearts and eyelids and lands its final sweet toothache kick in the crotch of all creatures great and small, male and female, young and not-so-young.
I knew Robyn when I was young. And long have I wondered what became of her. Like a lot of good things, Robyn and her mother Fay faded away in the resonant gavel crash of The Divorce of '81. But before she left, Robyn taught me something I'll never forget, something vitally important. It was the kind of thing that had such an impact on your mind as a child that although you may not remember what all was said, you can still smell the air in the room, still hear the gulls screeching in the sky overhead. Robyn O'Packi taught me the meaning of the term wet dream. The definition, and then some. Robyn was watching over us at the beach house in Hampton, New Hampshire. As I recall, there was a close-call hurricane that summer. Gerald Ford was President, and Fleetwood Mac's Rhiannon was in regular rotation on the cottage radio. I was badgering my little sister about wetting her bed. "Mandi had a wet dream!" I ratted to Robyn. "No," she began... I would need never conjure up another erotic thought if I could just remember her exact words as she explained this alien phenomenon to me. Whatever she said, it remains my magical first awareness of a mystery flood whose headwaters (I was suddenly quite sure) dwelt somewhere in the soft & salty cove between Robyn's breasts and the bikini-wrapped New England baked stuffed clam atop her long bronze thighs. Thankfully behest of a healthy and consistent sex life, I think I've had one wet dream in my whole life. Robyn O'Packi, apparently now behest of a different last name, will likely forever be but a distant memory to me, glazed and hazy as a girl in a dream. I therefore would like to dedicate my one and only wet dream to you, Robyn, wherever you are. And if by chance or Google this does find you, please pardon my saucy mouth. Your mother Fay was right that day when she turned to see us playing kiss-kiss in the back of mom's big blue station wagon and said, "With lips like that, he's gonna break a lot of hearts." Well, what can I say? Without a malicious bone in my body and careful as could be, I still managed to break more hearts than I imagine even your mother envisioned. All that passion and pain has made me rather shameless. Anymore, I just say what I feel.
-RSM the Duke of "Happy as a Clam!"
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