The following reflection was written in 2003, when I was between 25 and 26 years old.
When I came back from an evening out with people from the ReView and I proclaimed to Russel and Rachael that I “ate Estelle” with every ounce of sexual innuendo I could muster, I don’t think they quite knew what to make of me. They knew I was lying to some extent, but they also knew that what I was saying was so crazy that it had to have some amount of truth to it.
The truth was that I had gone to this little Italian restaurant a ways down the road from Bradford, back towards where Exit 48 spills off Route 495. Those who had put that semester’s issue of the ReView together had gone out to celebrate and I ordered an individual-sized pepporoni pizza, which on the menu was called ‘Estelle.’
This was a joke I way overused through the next year or so. It was quite a long while before I finally revealed to Rachael who the hell Estelle was.
I was in a silly mood. You can’t really blame me. The ReView had come out great. I had been assisting Rich with the design of it, learning the ropes in a way that I had hoped would happen with both of us working at the publications department — a hope that was dashed when Darryl had me basically stuff envelopes for a living. I had been working with Jen and Tammy, who I admired greatly. They had even asked me to be co-editor of the magazine the following year.
During those weeks in April, in that silly mood, with a developing crush on Tammy, I wrote probably the only poem of mine that I still think is any good. It was called “Or Is It?” and it was about a crush that a guy has on a girl and he professes his love in a poem and she says, “That was nice” not knowing it was about her.
It turns out I read this poem at a coffee house Tammy was at and she basically said, “That was nice.” It was quite a prophetic poem.
What that has to with Estelle, I don’t know.