My Father the Hero, VHS / Eugenus Tempur
It’s an innate feeling that comes from puberty. It’s the feeling after watching an Austenesque movie. It’s the reason why a 13 year old Vivian bought white linen pajamas only because no white linen dresses were available, from a Victoria’s Secret catalog before going on a Hawaii vacation with her family. It comes from a now unwanted but undeniable nostalgia of watching “My Father the Hero.” Post-puberty and present day anxious ridden Vivian knows she deserves something magical out of nowhere. She’s a girl wearing a white linen dress on a perfect summer night and by fate and fantasy’s design, a perfect guy finds her. This is the moment; she know he’s lucky for finding the perfect girl that is far beyond what he would expect in a normal girl aimlessly wandering on a beach waiting for romance. Her white linen dress blows from the ocean breeze; they are both pleasantly surprised. The moon reflects off the water into his eyes, she looks closer, his eyelashes flicker and she takes notice of how long they are. The glared lashes become more intense and closer. She refocuses to notice she has been staring into her effective bug zapper hanging from her porch. Her Austenesque movie ends, but still feels remnants of a plausible fantasy. Reality pauses the unrealistic delusions in her gut, but does not restrain it. It is because of these not yet fleeting, guttural delusions, Vivian confidently asks if he knew the family that lived in the burned down house that he’s staring at before she could determine if it was him that she was gazing at or the zapper this whole time. “No, but I fantasize,” he says.
To Vivian, his answer affirms that he had noticed her this whole time while she stirred on her porch as though it was her beach for their fate. She knows that he had been interpreting her aimless thoughts as unique revelations that came off as cute.
He says a lot to her that night. Talking to him was seamless. She felt like Katherine Heigl staring into her love interest’s eyes as a cool ocean breeze blows threw her thin dress. He talks of all the girls that have broken his heart. That they couldn’t or wouldn’t understand him. His intimate diatribe makes her confidence grow. It doesn’t even waiver as he murders himself for not being loved enough for rejected devoted actions of following girls to work for their safety or entering their houses unbeknownst to them to rescue scrapes of food, body hair, and smells for their connivance.
Then it happens. The moment right before you notice that this random interaction on a beach is meant to be. With the remains of the burnt down house in your background, the music swells and simultaneously you say, “I’m a pyromaniac” as he says “I’m a hopeless romantic.”