My face is pretty fucked up.

Take a hard look at my picture and you might notice my nose looks slightly off (it was broken three times), a scar running thru my right eyebrow, and a scar above my lip, again on the right. There’s a scar obscured by my hairline on my right forehead, and a scar obscured by my left sideburn.

Yeah, my face is pretty fucked up. End of story. Well not really. Each of those injuries are marks, they have their own stories.

This is the story of the scar on my right eyebrow, the most important one I earned.

Or to put another way, the story of how I met Richelle. And it’s not romantic. It’s crazy and makes me sound like a punk. But it *is* our story.

My brother Dante and me were talking about women. A topic we used to spend plenty of energy discussing. Both of us had been in a few relationships by that time (I think I had just turned 17, he was 15). We were sluts. Not so much intentionally. I would never call either of us a “player”. Far from it. We just lived close to our hearts, not knowing what the next day would bring. Whether we’d even be alive.

Case in point, we were having this discussion on the Broad Street line 15th and Market platform, underneath City Hall. I forget the circumstances of our being there, but they were not good. Things were going bad at home and we were both pretty much on the streets. We were on our way to see a show at the Empire rock club (long gone) in Northeast Philly to blow off some steam.

I had this bad habit of being too hard on Dante. He was a bit more fast and lose with women then I thought was healthy. Part of that was his charm – women seemed (still are) naturally attracted to him – and I always had to work a bit harder then to get attention. That was the focus of the discussion – how I had come up with a new plan to pick up somebody.

My plan: Bum a cigarette. No really! I explained that if I asked some girl for a smoke, I could instantly judge if I had a chance. So afraid was I of rejection. I get taged as an extrovert (Keirsey says I’m an ENFP), but I’m truly a social cripple. Going to something as simple as our monthly blogger meetups gets me nervous and I avoid public speaking. This would give me a way to pre-judge safely and to start a conversation.

Dante was incredulous. I didn’t smoke. Smoking sucks. But I had an earlier experience smoking, when I was around 12, that one of my mom’s boyfriends “cured” me from – he forced me to smoke an entire pack – one smoke after another. It was ugly. So I knew I could pull it off without looking like a fuckwad. And notice how many women smoke? It’s too easy a conversation starter.

Anyways, we trek to the show. The headliner is a glam band called Bang Tango. Metal with funky bass groove. The kinda thing you normally dance to. Or at least spend some time with a women too. Not to headbang. Not to mosh.

The Empire was a small club. Intimate. You were right up in the band’s face normally. Well, in their crotches at least. Short stage height. Tonight there were plenty of women here. Glam bands attracted them like nothing else back in the day.

There were quite a few cute ones as well. Two of them in particular. Sisters. Both of which Dante started to pick on immediately. They were standing in front of us, their hair was high – real, real high. One of which, he patted her hair down (dude is short), and made a crack. I think she made a remark right back. She, in particular, was something. Hot. Tight flannel shirt. Was that a Poison T underneath? High-heeled boots. Tight jeans. Bright smile, nice legs, and an ass that didn’t quit. There was something about her. Indeed, when she turned around to respond to Dante, and I saw her face and heard her voice, I felt something in my chest I didn’t recognize.

Before you know it, the show started. And Dante and me started a mosh. This is *not* the style music you normally do that to. This was too small a place. But what the hell. We had that steam to blow off remember. A few joined and the typical circle you would see form at a thrash or speed metal concert grew. The band fed off it. Got aggressive. It was good.

Then wham! Some dude attempted to headbut me and instead put his teeth into my eyebrow. Blood ran down my face.

Rock n’ roll ya know. It hurts. But I didn’t feel it all that much. Dante looked concerned. I couldn’t see how bad it was. He asked how I felt. Ran and grabbed a cup of ice. Then asked the cute girl for her bandana. She looked with some form of combined horror/sympathy/sarcasm at me and gave him the bandana. We soaked it in ice and wrapped my forhead.

And I continued to mosh.

Look, I had no health insurance. Didn’t know if I was going to live past tomorrow. Didn’t feel much pain. I had no idea the thing would scar like that.

Besides, that girl was cute.

After the show we made it early outside to see the band pack the bus. They said thanks for the pit. They never knew Philly could be like that and never had a show with so much energy in the audience.

I kept an eye out for those two girls. When they passed by I asked the one who had given her bandana for a smoke.

Indeed there was something special about her. That next month I ended the rest of my relationships, unbeknownst to her – I couldn’t think of seeing someone else while seeing her. She forced me to fall in love, even if I thought I didn’t want to and was frightened of it.

She got me thinking about tomorrow. And I know you know that the feeling in my chest was my heart. It still feels the same way whenever I look at her, talk to her, think of her.

The funny thing is, Richelle’s parents would long think it was my fault she smoked, but the reality was different as you can see. I quit just a few years ago. Richelle still does.

If you’re reading – love ya baby.