Dana Carvey Doesn’t Even Know I’m Alive

For a very long time

all I wanted

was Dana Carvey and James Brolin,

Jennifer Esposito and a whole cast of 

far-less-famous characters 

I could mention the names of

but won’t because you’d be faced 

with the twenty-first-century burden of: 

To Google or not to Google?

How in God’s name 

did this film get away with 

a squeaky clean

PG rating?

Every Saturday night I demanded it

along with a fast-food dinner.

Weeknights were for The Simpsons

and my mother’s homecooked meals.

But the weekends−

I needed Devlin Bowman as Bo Derek

like an average child might’ve needed

the latest and greatest video game.

What movie do you want to watch?

my mother would ask me

as she arranged my chicken nuggets

and French fries on a plate.

Master of Disguise!

I’d blurt out 

before she’d even finished her sentence.

If I’d cursed then,

I might’ve answered with,

What the fuck do you think?

My attachment ran deep.

I can’t watch the movie anymore.

If I ever watch it again, I’ll have to watch it alone.

It feels like one of those tucked-deep memories 

teeming with embarrassment.

Why is it embarrassing?

Because it’s something I needed

like a fish needs water.

Childhood desperation 

doesn’t translate well

into adulthood.

I needed Dana Carvey as Tony Montana.

I could’ve done without the Turtle Guy.

But Dana Carvey as Quint from Jaws?

I needed him.

Christine Naprava is a writer from South Jersey. Her work has appeared on fiftywordstories.com and in Soundings East and Studio One. Forthcoming publications include Anti-Heroin Chic and Sledgehammer Lit. She tweets @CNaprava and Instagrams @cnaprava

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