I Forgot to End Our Imaginary Relationship, Teen Idol
By: Stacey Curran
Tags: Childhood, 70s, Relationships, Humor, Nostalgia

I Forgot to End Our Imaginary Relationship, Teen Idol

True Love Forever, Interrupted

Parker Stevenson and Shaun Cassidy in “The Hardy Boys”

Dear Mr. Cassidy,

It has recently come to my attention that I neglected to end our relationship that I alone started, and that I alone declared exclusive, in 1977. Upon review of my journals, dating back to your time on the Hardy Boys, I noted that I pledged my true love forever (TLF) to you many, many times. I even wrote you letters declaring this.

I am aware that you likely never got these missives, on which I used my best Palmer Method penmanship. I am sure that whoever ran your fan club at that time was threatened by my searing prose and kept them from you. My carefully chosen caterpillar stationery from Caldor’s paper aisle would have made a lasting impression had you seen it, and you would have surely responded posthaste.

However, I feel it only prudent to circle back to the aforementioned TLF issue, as I age and get my medical directives in order. I don’t want any confusion at my death bed, because I do believe that in third grade, I listed you on my pink emergency card as my primary contact. This may remain a matter of record. Back then, I surmised that should some ghastly fate befall me in my eighth year of life, you would be legally obligated to attend to me, duty-bound by the power of that grammar school index card. I came to this conclusion based on difficult experience: I broke my arm in second grade, and rued that I had not thought to list you sooner.

Obviously, I knew that you were famous, and on the other side of the continent, and on tour, and in jet planes, whereas I was only allowed to go to the mall arcade if my family was in the food court.

I trusted you would be as loyal as I was to you, had you known I existed. Although I was aware that you were vaguely older, maybe even old enough to drive a car, and I was still trying to master shoe tying, I did not yet understand the divide. Obviously, I knew that you were famous, and on the other side of the continent, and on tour, and in jet planes, whereas I was only allowed to go to the mall arcade if my family was in the food court. But I was sometimes dropped off at 10 am-noon skate time on Saturday. You were never there, because you you probably went to the all-night skate like the older kids. Regardless, had you seen my ribbon barrettes that I made myself, we surely would have begun a correspondence.

Portrait of the artist as a young teen idol

My sister and I trusted that you probably sensed when we said goodnight to your poster every evening. It prominently adorned the hollow closet door of our flower-wallpapered bedroom, and it was both of ours, officially. I always had to share. But she was but a 5-year-old, and not capable of the type of true devotion I was. I think it was her idea to give Andy Gibb a tiny space on the back of the door, after she saw him on Solid Gold, but notably, we sang “Da Doo Ron Ron” way more than “Shadow Dancing.”

Once, we switched you to the wall briefly, which ripped the poster of you wearing that painter’s cap a little. But this only happened because we were also trying to squeeze a new poster of you with your white piano on the door as well. For the official record, any time you were in a Tiger Beat centerfold with Parker Stevenson, we cut him out of it. Other girls were taken with Leif Garrett and all those Bay City Rollers. But not us, and especially not me. If you’d only realized that I once wrote your name 500 times and used a whole pack of colored construction paper to do so, you might have been my pen pal. “Hey Deenie” isn’t easy to memorize in one day, but I did it, in case you ever needed me to be a backup singer.

Until fifth grade, I bought any magazine that had your face on it. It really wasn’t until I saw The Outsiders that I finally rolled you up for good. I mean, C. Thomas Howell? Matt Dillon? Rob Lowe? They were all on one poster, too. I only considered cutting out the Steve character, but he turned out to be Tom Cruise. And, I didn’t even have to worry about Nancy Drew showing up as a guest star in their movie. I know it was Frank, not Joe, who smooched her in that one episode, but I was concerned she’d return for you.

Years later, I heard you were on General Hospital. I never watched. I couldn’t look back. Those Sunday nights of yore when I changed the channel from the Wonderful World of Disney to your show, could not be recaptured. By the time you were in Port Charles, I was almost old enough to vote, and fully understood that you were never coming over.

So, I hereby revoke any TLF claims I once made, and any I may discover in the process of curating my literary achievements, which number in the few. Consider this an official release from any attendant ties that may have been generated whence upon I turned in that emergency card to my third grade teacher, who didn’t notice. My husband, coincidentally named Shawn, is now listed as my contact, so I hereby revoke you of any and all responsibility, none of which was real, but all of which was very realistically imagined.

©Stacey Curran, 2020