The answers Mitch quickly gave were very serious: “My wife, my family, my freedom, my religious beliefs.” And then Trent added, “Mine would be if the Empire killed my whole family. Then I would totally join the Rebel Alliance and fight against the Empire.” As everyone laughed, Trent added, “No, I’m serious.” (He then proceeded to tell me that when he was a very little boy, he used to be afraid he’d come home from school one day and walk in to find nothing left of his dad and I but smoldering skeletons. Poor little thing!)
But Rome’s kinship with my son Trent regarding Star Wars metaphors is not the only reason I began this Author’s Note with my Star Wars tale. Going back to the Han versus Luke as the romantic hero—the first reason Star Wars is pertinent to my inspiration for One Classic Latin Lover, Please is this: it was Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back, and Return of the Jedi that really helped me consciously understand my lifelong adoration of one Ricardo Gonzalo Pedro Montalbán y Merino. For just as Han was far more manly than Luke, so Ricardo Montalbán was iconic to me as the ideal Latin lover.
Now, of course I’ve always loved Ricardo in everything—old movies, Fantasy Island, as Kahn in the original Star Trek series and in the Star Trek movie The Wrath of Kahn. And I loved the way he would always say, “Rich Corinthian leather,” in old Chrysler commercials. I loved Ricardo’s accent, his mannerisms, his smile, his dashing good looks, and the way he danced. For many years, my favorite Ricardo Montalbán movie was Neptune’s Daughter. I loved Ricardo and Esther Williams singing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” But when the day came that I was lucky enough to catch Two Weeks with Love on TV somewhere—wham! Two Weeks with Love starring Ricardo and Jane Powell is still my favorite Hollywood musical of the 1950s. I love it! I love Ricardo’s character in that movie—so suave, so romantic, so flirtatious. Yikes!
And obviously he continues to inspire me, even long after his death. It isn’t only his movie personas that I admire. A devout Roman Catholic, Ricardo was married to his wife, Georgiana, for sixty-three years until her death in 2007. Not only was he married to her but also he was faithful to her, and that is a thing to be admired—especially in Hollywood during any era.
This next little ditty I’m going to tell you about isn’t nearly as sunshiny as either Ricardo Montalbán or Star Wars, but it is a very big part of one of Tierney’s thought processes. I’ll begin by telling you this: Mom was always reading articles. A favorite impersonation for me, my sister, and my husband to do of my mom is to wag an index finger in the air and say, “You know, just the other day I was reading an article…” We always have to leave it open-ended, of course, because there could be a billion different endings to Mom’s famous tagline. It could be, “Just the other day, I was reading an article about the methods used for amputating limbs during the Civil War, and did you know…” Or it might be more like, “Just the other day, I was reading an article on cumulous cloud formations, and it said…” My mom was always reading articles—thus the inspiration for the “emotional red flags” article Tierney’s thoughts reference in One Classic Latin Lover, Please. (I find that my mother always inspires something in every book!)
Though I’ve never read an article about it, I did watch a program once on warning instincts—how many mental warnings people experience before something bad happens to them and how many they ignore. One incident counted nearly forty red flags a woman identified having gone off in her mind before she was victimized. She said in the interview that she’d realized afterward if she’d listened to even one of those warnings and followed it, her victimization could’ve been avoided.
I found the program not only incredibly informative but also profoundly affirming to what I’d always believed—that if we listen to our feelings, our silent promptings, and act accordingly, we can save ourselves, our children, and our families from who knows what kind of disasters and possible harm. Of course, the hard part is listening to our “emotional red flags,” following their instructions, and then—when nothing goes wrong—just accepting that it’s always better to be safe than sorry.
One incident I experienced in college was a very good example to me of how important it really is to heed thoughts or feelings of pending danger. It was life-altering—literally. It changed the way I watched the world and paid attention to my instincts.
At the time, I was the female vocalist in several pop-rock “dance bands” while I was in college, and no matter what the weather was on any give day in good ol’ Rexburg, Idaho, pop-rock dance band practice was never canceled and was always mandatory. Being that Rexburg during the winter months can be—um, how can I say this?—inclement, most students didn’t even bother bringing cars to school back in the early 1980s, even if they did have one. Why not? Well, I remember in April of 1984, as the snow in one of our parking lots eventually began to melt, lo and behold, a car that had been parked there all winter was revealed. It had been completely buried by the deep snow and slowly began to emerge as the snow melted. Who knew? None of us did, that’s for sure. That’s how deep and consistent the snow was that year—deep enough to hide entire cars.
Anyway, as I said, most people didn’t have cars up there, so everyone walked everywhere. Walking was good for my roommates and me (especially considering we ate nothing but Jell-O Cheesecakes, baked potatoes, Chinese noodles, and candy bars out of the vending machines most of the time). But on those cold afternoons and evenings when the temperature dropped to forty degrees below zero, those mandatory (and often nighttime) band rehearsals were tough.
On one such frigid Rexburg evening in 1984, I walked out of the rehearsal room to be met by a cold blast of wind that chilled me to the bone. The bass player for that particular band (Tom, whom I adored, of course—I always dug the bass players) had worn only a light jacket. I had a coat, but it wasn’t my heavy one. Well, we both stood there freezing for a while, contemplating the idea of wrapping up in each other’s arms for warmth as we walked home (an idea to which neither one of us was averse, by the way).
Fortunately and unfortunately, however, one of the guitar players in the band owned a car. (I’ve changed this particular guitar player’s name in to Justin for the purpose of this little reminiscence.) Justin kindly offered me a ride home. The gentlemanly thing to do, right? However, he did not include Tom the Cute Bass Player in his offer, which I thought was rude. I had no desire to be alone in a car with Justin.
Justin had always creeped me out. I was a shallow-thinking eighteen-year-old and thought maybe it was because he was sort of short, round, and not very cute. But there were a lot of short, round, not very cute guys that I liked and was friends with and enjoyed being around. Therefore, it wasn’t until this incident on that frigid day in Rexburg that I realized exactly why Justin creeped me out.
So Justin offers me a ride home—and I’m not going to lie, I wanted a ride home. It was freezing! The wind had picked up, and it was beginning to snow and probably would’ve taken me at least thirty minutes to walk back to our dorm apartment—uphill against the wind and snow all the way.
Yes, I wanted a ride home, but my feelings where Justin was concerned, mingled with the fact that I couldn’t imagine Tom the Cute Bass Player having to walk all the way home, uphill and against the wind, wearing nothing but a light jacket carrying his bass in its case—well, all of it made me pause a moment before accepting.
Then, just as I was getting ready to ask Justin myself if Tom the Cute Bass Player could have a ride also, a shivering Tom the Cute Bass Player asked Justin, “Dude? Can you take me home too?” Rolling his eyes with distain, Justin unwillingly agreed.
Tom the Cute Bass Player was a tall, handsome, charismatic guy with a great sense of humor—a guy that all the girls loved and wanted to date. You know the type, right? Whether it’s the ’80s or the 2000s, it’s always the same. Anyway, Justin’s envy and animosity toward Tom the Cute Bass Player had always been unspoken, perhaps, but very obvious—no more so than when Justin barked at Tom to put his bass in the back seat with Justin’s el
ectric guitar.
Now, being that the guys had put their cased instruments in the backseat, and being that Justin’s vintage hot rod had bucket seats in the front, there was no choice but for Tom the Cute Bass Player and I to share the front passenger’s seat (to which neither of us was averse, of course). But thinking back on the situation as I am right now, I think this may have really ticked off Justin—and possibly added to what happened when…
Anyway, Tom the Cute Bass Player coolly slid into the passenger’s seat, and I hopped in, too—onto his lap. (I was much thinner then and much more able to not only hop but also sit on someone’s lap and not cause them any discomfort.) Tom the Cute Bass Player closed the car door, and Justin hit the gas, peeling out of the parking lot like a ruptured duck. I knew Justin was ticked off, but it wasn’t far to my apartment, and Tom the Cute Bass Player and I were both very warm and safe from the elements (especially considering that his arms were around my waist, mine were around his neck, and we were snuggled close together).
Justin drove uphill against the wind and blowing snow, and it wasn’t long before he pulled up next to the curb of the sidewalk outside Tom the Cute Bass Player’s apartment. I let Tom the Cute Bass Player out, and he removed his bass from the back seat, thanked Justin, told me he’d see me later, and closed the door. And that was the moment—that was the moment the emotional red flags in my brain really began to unfurl! It was kind of like one of those scenes in a sci-fi movie. You know the ones I mean—someone falls into like a cave or something and she’s standing there in complete and utter darkness. Then she finds a cell phone (or, in the movies I grew up with, a cigarette lighter or flashlight), clicks it on, and sees that she’s standing right in the midst of a nest of flesh-eating alien pupas or eggs. Naturally, the light produced by the cell phone has disturbed the nest of human-eating pupa alien things, and they begin to hatch or squirm around, and the person who fell into their nest has no way out. And then the cell phone, lighter, or flashlight suddenly goes out, and the audience hears screaming and munching noises. It was like that feeling when Tom the Cute Bass Player closed the passenger door and Justin peeled away from the curb. I experienced that same sort of feeling (only the light hadn’t gone out and the screaming and munching noises hadn’t begun yet).
Of course, I instantly thought what most eighteen-year-old girls going to college in a small town in Idaho think: “I’m just being paranoid.” That’s what I kept silently telling myself—until the moment that Justin hit the gas pedal and blew past my dorm building, that is!
“What are you doing?” I asked Justin as he hung a left at the main street up ahead, leaving the safety of my apartment and roommates farther behind.
“I’m taking you somewhere,” Justin answered. Okay, not the response a girl wants to hear from a guy that creeps her out, right?
“I want to go home,” I informed him. (A classic line—not unlike many lines uttered in slasher movies, right?)
“I’ll take you home later,” Justin said. “I’m taking you to my place first.”
And the red flags began to unfurl by the thousands! Suddenly, my worried “inklings” erupted into full-fledged fear!
“Take me home now, Justin,” I said as he hung a right, heading into a neighborhood that I never even knew was there before, let alone was familiar with.
“Oh, come on,” he said. “Don’t be such a prude. I’ll take you home later…after we go to my place.”
I am not exaggerating when I tell you that in that moment, my hand was on the handle of the passenger’s side door. I had already determined that I would jump out of the car if I had to. Snow and wind no longer seemed very miserable. Everything in my body, mind, and soul was telling me to get myself out of this situation.
Therefore, I demanded, “I swear, Justin, if you don’t turn around, I will jump out of your car…no matter how fast you’re going.”
“Oh, come on!” he laughed. “I just want to have a little fun. You’re acting all weird. I’ll take you home later. I promise.”
“Turn around!” I demanded. “I’m serious. If you don’t turn around now, I swear I will jump out!”
I had visions of opening the door and tucking myself into a little ball, rolling out of the car the way my little neighbor boy Josh had done once when I was driving him somewhere, made a left turn, and my car door suddenly flew open, sending him tumbling out into the street. He was a little dusty, his hair was mussed, and the flower he’d been holding to give to my mom didn’t have any petals left on it, but he’d survived. Thus, I figured if Josh could survive, without big snow banks to break his fall, so could I.
My mind then determined that if I survived jumping out of a moving car, I would simply get up and run to the closest house and begin screaming and knocking on the door. This was my plan, and to this day I promise you I would’ve carried it out.
But as I started to open the door, Justin hollered, “Okay! Okay! Jeez! You’re such a prude!”
He whipped his hot rod around and sped back to my dorm building, screeching to a stop in front of the parking lot of the building. And can you believe that as I got out of the car, Justin actually had the unmitigated gall to say, “See you tomorrow”?
I was rattled—I mean really rattled, wigged out, scared. I raced to my apartment, burst through the front door, and, weeping and trembling, told my best friend and roommate, Sandy, what had happened. We spent some time talking about what a jerk Justin was and how lucky I was. Tom the Cute Bass Player even called to make sure I’d gotten home okay, because he’d had some red flags of his own the instant he’d closed the door and trapped me in the car with Justin.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t had “emotional red flags” before. I’d had them my whole life; I think everyone does. I remember when I was about eight years old, a car began following me as I walked home from 7-Eleven one day. My instincts told me to turn and hurry into the backyard of a nearby house, which I did. The car that had been following me slowed down and, as I watched from my stealth position behind some bushes, even turned around and drove by the house a couple more times before finally speeding off.
So, really, I’d heeded warnings before. But this time, the cold weather, fatigue, and, to be honest, fear of hurting Justin’s feelings by refusing his offer (in other words, “I’d rather freeze to death in a blizzard trying to walk home than ever get in a car with you” sort of implication)—coupled with the fact that Tom the Cute Bass Player was going to be with me up until we were a block or two from my building—had convinced me to ignore the silent warnings of my sixth sense.
What would’ve happened if I hadn’t demanded to be taken home? What would’ve happened if I’d demanded to be taken home, he’d refused again, and then I’d chickened out and hadn’t jumped out of the car? Honestly, I have no idea! It could be that Justin just wanted me to go to his apartment to see his guitar pick collection or to offer me a nice, warm cup of hot cocoa. And although I don’t think Justin meant anything as innocent as all that—although I do not know what would’ve happened and never will—guess what? Better safe than sorry.
Now, perhaps the most profound emotional red flags story I’ve heard of late was from a dear friend of mine as we enjoyed a casual lunch one day. Several of my friends and I had met for lunch on a Thursday at noon. There we were, just chatting about how miserable bra shopping is (you know, the basic lunch conversation), when the subject turned to something else—the possible dangers we come in contact with throughout life and sometimes without ever knowing.
Anyway, my friend began to tell a story. One evening back when she was a teenager, she was attending a church dance. Now of course at church dances everyone knows you’re not supposed to leave the building, right? Well, my friend was a little bored, and so she left the building to go to her car to retrieve something (I don’t remember what—maybe gum). As she stepped off the sidewalk surrounding the building, a car pulled up in front of her—nothing unusual to happen at a church building. And it was just a plain o
ld white Volkswagen bug.
A man rolled down the window and asked my friend, “So what’s going on here?”
“Just a church dance,” my friend replied as her emotional red flags began to unfurl.
The man tried to keep a conversation going with my friend, but she was listening to her emotional red flags that night, offered a polite good-bye to the man, turned, and hurried back into the church building.
Only a few days later, something hit the news that confirmed to my friend that she had been wise to listen to her promptings. The man driving the white VW bug—the man who’d spoken to her—was none other than Ted Bundy, the brutal serial killer of the 1970s who eventually confessed to murdering at least thirty women (though he is suspected of perhaps killing many, many more). When my friend saw Ted Bundy’s photos and heard and read the description of his car in the newspaper and on the news, she knew she’d had a very narrow escape. Can you even imagine?
Yep, I’m a believer in listening to emotional red flags—always. People can say you’re paranoid, overprotective of your children, or just plain chicken, but I don’t care. And even though I’ve never had a Ted Bundy type near miss (that I know of), the times I haven’t listened to my warning instincts—well, some turned out fine, and others did not. So when those flags start to unfurl in your mind, pay attention.
Tierney’s experience with Elias Potts was indeed inspired by not only my own personal experience with those “sixth sense,” “gut instinct,” “spiritual promptings” we all have but also by stories I’ve heard from friends and family. It’s an important lesson that we all learn at some point—either the hard way or, better and hopefully, the easy way.
Did the Milli Vanilli lip sync in the book make you go, “Where’d she come up with that?” at all? Well, if it did, here’s the scoop: I loved “Girl, You Know Its True” by Milli Vanilli! Still love it! To me, it was one of the best songs of the late 1980s, and I don’t care if Rob and Fab were lip-syncing to the voices of some lesser-attractive wannabes. They were awesome! And, yes, Rob was totally my favorite. Of course, the fact that my sons, Mitch and Trent, still plan to dress up as Milli Vanilli one Halloween in the future played a big part in my inspiration for that Halloween party too.
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