in the beginning came me
There’s a lot of terms for the way I was raised.
Some say I was a latchkey kid, that I had a Huckleberry Finn childhood.
Anything to deny the fact that I was neglected.
Mom worked days, Dad worked nights. Mom got the bed at night, and Dad got it during the day.
I didn’t go to school. Didn’t do homework. Went outside by myself, played in the street by myself, and went back into our family apartment, all by myself.
I cooked meals for myself, typically ramen noodles or spaghettios, sat on the couch by myself, and flipped on the TV to my favorite channel, all by myself.
But once a day, every day, and always at 3PM, I’d catch up with my favorite televised friend.
Ron Remi, the cheery faced and brilliant British dinosaur detective. His show Fossil Files was all about investigating ancient bones to determine how the animals died.
I was a curious and dinosaur obsessed kid, so of course I dug my claws into it the moment I sat myself down in front of Episode 1.
It wasn’t just the dinosaurs I would be glued to on screen though.
Every time I caught even just a glimpse of that smiling face on the TV, I’d catch my little heart doing backflips.
He was my best friend. My only friend.
And I loved him.
I didn’t know what it was about him that made me so excited, nor did I care. I didn’t think about the why back then. I just knew there was something about him that was special. There was something in his aura that I picked up on and sought after, like he was a warm blanket on a cold rainy night.
I didn’t care what it was, and I wouldn’t claim to know even now.
But I loved him. As much as I could love someone who was only as real to me as a cartoon character was, I loved him.
I only had one chance back then to actually meet Ron in person. He was doing a tour to numerous museums in the country and having meet and greets with fans.
I begged my dad, “Please! The tickets are only $30!”
“No, Neiven, for the last time, we don’t have the money.”
“But you guys just bought a new TV!”
“Exactly, a new TV that you will be using the most of, I’m sure.”
“But I didn’t want a new TV, I wanna meet Ron Remi!”
“Well we don’t always get what we want, kiddo.”
I cried the night that Ron came to our museum and I wasn’t there to see him. It was in the local paper the next day, and my mom innocently showed me the article, probably not even thinking twice about it considering it was Dad who kept saying no while she kept shooing me away with the classic line, Listen to your father.
“Look, isn’t that the guy you like? We would have brought you to see him if you had told me about this.”
I felt a swelling heat erupt behind my eyes, then I pouted and walked away from her.
“Hey, don’t have an attitude with me, mister!” she called out to me.
I just shut my bedroom door on her, laid down on my bed, and screamed bloody murder into a pillow.
Ron never did another museum tour like that. Four seasons into his show and it seemed like his fire was dying. There was less spunk in his character, melancholy in his eyes, and his voice was noticeably dimmer with each following episode.
As a result, audiences grew less favorable of him. More and more Fossil Files themed goods met clearance shelves every day.
Back then, I was thankful for the tide of cheaper merch. I was finally able to get my hands on a Ron Remi action figure, a set of bedsheets, and a lunchbox.
A lunchbox I kept my art supplies in, since I didn’t go to school.
By the time I was 12, Fossil Files fever had ground to a halt. Ron left the show, and his replacement only lasted a year before it was cancelled entirely.
But I never stopped watching. Even after Ron was replaced, I still wouldn’t miss an episode, even a rerun, just in case Ron popped back in as a guest star or showed up in a flashback.
I slept with that plastic figure of him like it was a plushie. Put it on a pillow and wrapped my little arms around it like it actually had the power to keep me safe.
It wasn’t until years later, in my mid-teens, that I realized what I had all that time was a crush.
It took me seeing him again, fresh and in his thirties, to make the connection. He was in an interview, he and his wife, talking about some new project they were working on.
He moved to rest his head on his hand and crossed his legs and shot that precious smile I always loved, and I felt a rush. Like a hit of dopamine straight into my veins. My already rambunctious hormones shot into overdrive, and I squirmed at the uncomfortable yet pleasant heat.
Then he went to hold his wife’s hand as she gave an anecdote about her father dying, and I mentally scowled. Why was he married? Why wasn’t I older? Why wasn’t he younger? Why weren’t we both in a situation where we could actually meet, and for fuck’s sake, why wasn’t he bi too?
It was such a vibrant collection of variables, to think I hadn’t even taken all of them into account before deciding that yes, surely if the stars were just slightly more aligned, I could be the one married to Ron Remi.
A man I didn’t even know in person. A man I’d probably never meet. A man who was on the other side of the country, often on the other side of the world, filming a TV show to be watched by millions of people.
A man who was exactly fifteen years older than me.
As time went on, I never forgot Ron. I still reposted memes of him every time I saw them on social media. I still followed his unkempt personal YouTube channel and rushed to like the rare video from him every few months. I still rewatched the old episodes of his show when I needed a break from the world, and yes, I still made myself a bowl of ramen noodles or spaghettios while enjoying myself.
I fell asleep to his voice. Awoke to the show’s theme song. I quoted him at work and scoffed every time I was asked, “Is that from a TikTok or something?”
I still collected his merchandise. I still had that old action figure, well loved and paint chipped and most of his original clothes and accessories missing.
A few poorly salvaged patches of fabric were all that remained of the blanket, but I still slept with it when I felt like I needed to, still held it close, even long after the action figure had been permanently moved to the computer desk.
The lunchbox, lid broken long ago, now housed copic markers and bic pens and a variety of other drawing tools, everything a wannabe cartoonist needed to begin a plentiful journey into failure.
Ron Remi had been there for it all, even if he had no idea that was the case.
