Having an often ignored blog, I took to questioning my own style of writing. My fear is that if I were to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, I would live a long lonely life of spinster-hood spending Thanksgivings alone eating trail mix by the handful and watching reruns of Ellen Degeneres while dressed head to toe in spandex. (Eh. Could be worse I suppose.) And maybe this is why I ignore my online diary sometimes; some stories are just too fragile to reveal so I hold back. I hesitate to allow the finger tips to write what culminates in my head.
I am in the mood to exploit but I will make it subtle. On my way to the library this morning, in my new beloved neighborhood (that's right people...I have moved yet again) I ran into a boy I used to date. I use the word boy with great meaning here. I knew this was his neighborhood first. I should have known better than to step foot in his territory and better yet, to relocate myself and all belongings. In fact, I gave him the two-thumbs-up/go ahead to rent his apartment during our futile 7-second relationship, months ago. And damnit for doing so. Upon signing my lease, I gathered this would be a huge concern; random Sunday morning run-ins to grab coffee on said trips to the library. Who goes to the library?
I see him from afar. We make the recognition. We awkwardly hug. He asks where I am living. I want to lie and tell him far away but I tell the truth; that I am only 30 or so houses from his.
"What are you up to today?" he asks.
"Going to the library. I still don't have a library card," I say.
"Yeah, they are free you know," he states.
We say goodbye and he tells me to call him later. As I walk in the direction of the closed Library I think I will not call you later, but what I will do is go blog about you to the world of Blind Karma...I am inspired.
I know him from high school but I can't say that we were really that good of friends. He was nice to me, I was nice to him and other than the occasional run in at a keg party and perhaps an English class together, we rarely spent time breathing in the same oxygen. I thought about him as often as one thinks about cleaning out air ducts in a heater; rare to never. We graduated high school and went our chosen paths. We would see each other while home for spring break or summer vacation, cheers a red dixie cup to the yesteryears and be on our way.
Somehow and unbeknownst to me, he got on my mass email list while I was traveling and was reading about all my adventures abroad. He knew my trials and tribulations with the Indian train system, my bout of Dengue Fever, my bad luck with owning things. My friends from home would make comments about how he would say things like "I love Jamie Dwyer." or "I want to marry her." or "She is stunningly beautiful." Really? I wonder why? If I had a dime...I would have $0.80.
Then the out-of-no-where text messages flooded my inbox like a tsunami. It would be 2:30 in the morning and I would get verbatim song quotes from obscure artists. Drunk messages abounded and I was confused where this love was coming from. Had I given the wrong vibe at our last 2-minute interaction? Was I wearing a low cut shirt that night? Did the witchcraft Elizabeth and I dappled with in the 8th grade really cast spells? I was lovable and had supernatural powers?
My responses were vague and sometimes none at all. He had moved to San Francisco some time after graduating, so when I made the decision to move there myself, and he being one of the two people I knew, communication picked back up. I sent emails as follows:
Oh hey there,
Guess who is moving to your neck of the woods? You got it. I will let you know when plans are more solid. Let's forge a friendship and in the meantime can you ask around if any sane people you know are looking for a roommate?
cheers!
San Francisco is similar to Chicago the way that black is similar to white. San Francisco has hills. Chicago is flat. San Franciscans are mostly eclectic homosexual and/or transgenders who wear a lot of plaid and join drum circles on their days off. Chicagoans are more often than not straight, chubby and mostly from Michigan. But there was something oddly comfortable about this new town of mine that made me feel just as at home. Perhaps I was riding high on the cloud 9 from a new space, a new job, a new future. And perhaps this is why my impeccable judgment was so skewed those first few weeks.
I had made plans with this aforementioned boy to grab a drink and see his co-worker play a show at a bar in the Mission. Cool, I thought. Friends. I met him there and we drank beer and reveled at this 40-something year old polka band that was rocking the house. We caught up like we knew each other well. He told me about his new job and the prospects of it being a good one. He briefly discussed his ex-girlfriend and her drug problems. We talked about who was pregnant and/or getting married from our class. By beer number two, we had made our way through the yearbook and I made the decision. He was attractive; a thought that I a.) never had before and b.) never thought would ever have. Was it the lighting in the bar that shadowed his complexion just so? Maybe the sounds emitting from the accordion were sending us into a trance? Was it the fermented wheat circulating in my veins? Huh.
A few days later we found ourselves rolling around on my carpeted studio floor, making out. I was confused. Had this foggy air gotten to my head? Was I really kissing this turd? He was so lame. Or so I thought. Actually, he was funny and smart, well-traveled and played soccer. His prospects of business school in the Fall made me assume he had an interest for ambition. Like wine, he was getting better with age I guess. I was allowing my harsh yet accurate judgements of my teenage years strip away from my critical mind. It was somewhat cleansing I suppose, my new like for someone I never thought would be worth my time. Only assholes make comments like that. I am an asshole.
So the following weeks were spent drinking coffee with breakfast sandwiches and listening to NPR, going to dinners at romantic little nooks in cute little covens throughout the city. You know, 'couple-like' activities. We once strolled a farmers market and I was impressed to learn that he liked cheese as much if not more then me. I didn't think that was possible. On my days off, I would bike to his office and bring him fermented tea which he hated and cookies which he pawned to his cubicle-mates. It was sweet. The early morning text messages returned and instead of fearing for my salvation, I would smile and glow the rest of the day. It had been a while since I had gotten this much adoration from someone who was not homeless and 50 years or older, so I was swimming in it.
But still, I refused to tell anyone, save the casual email I dropped my mom and sister one day . I was explaining how much I liked the views of the Bay and Eucalyptus trees and how biking to work was very dangerous but fun. And oh yeah, I am making out with this random boy from high school. Call me when you can. XOXO.
I certainly told no one we associated with of this newly budding intimacy for complete consternation that high school would get wind of it. This included my best of friends who would undoubtedly look down upon me as if I had taken the life of their pet hamster. The most solid link that two of us had was our dear friend Dominic whom I claim as my longest-to-date friend and who couldn't keep a secret if his life depended on it. Good for memory lane, bad for potential reputation ruining information. Since Kindergarten, Dominic and I have been bosom buddies. I used to jump on his trampoline after school. He was my first boyfriend, claiming I looked like Courtney Cox thus making him the luckiest boy alive. I pantsed him in the fifth grade which he has never forgiven me for but says he will be my friend until we die. Thanks Dom!
If Dominic found out, all of Salt Lake City would so mum was the word. I would make sly comments in the nature of "tell anyone from home about this and you die" while laughing but in all seriousness, this boy knew I wasn't joking. My friend Erika came to visit in the thick of this not-so-public affair and caught on immediately. Something about our "body-language" and our "proximity" in the diner booth gave it away. I was mortified. The truth had to be told.
I let the cat out of the bag and explained to Erika that he was different then the one we knew in high school. He was somehow mature and manly in his very own 5 foot, 9 inch way. And although he lacked the ability to grow a beard in full, he seemed stable and normal. But as I tried to rationalize my annoying feelings for him over shots of tequila and sangria, I felt guilty, like I was doing something illegal. Erika was baffled and when we shared it with our friend Elizabeth, I thought I was going to be disowned. I would be the Be Fri taken out of the st end. And their bafflement made me insecure and doubtful. I should have taken that premonition and run a marathon with it.
The red flags started popping like kernels in a Orvile Redenbacher commercial. I realized that I had not once seen where he lived. His vague attempts to take me there always seemed to be interrupted by "last minute plans" or inconvenient "work events". I never once met a friend of his outside of his workplace and I started to question if he had any. When I told him that I had four consecutive days free from work one weekend, he mentioned how we should take a little trip south to Santa Cruz and live the life of luxury in the mansion sized house of his sisters' husbands' parents'. Wonderful I thought. And when people would question my motive for the excursion, I could casually pass it off as a trip to purchase hippy-dippy dangling earrings and hemp lotion. None the wiser. But somehow the day of the supposed trip came and all I heard was crickets. In fact, it was a Thursday and I didn't hear from him until Sunday...as he was returning from a quick trip to Tahoe. Sketch. Ball.
And this is where the record screeches to a halting stop, where the breaks get slammed and tire marks are strewn on the asphalt with power that deploys airbags. Was I being played? No?! Could I be? Wait. I thought I was the one playing him? I know what you're thinking. What a bitch! I know. Strangely, this perfect secret relationship that I so badly wanted not a single soul to know about had gone to the masses. I hate to admit it, but it slightly rocked my bitchy world.
The week it ended I came down with a horrible flu. I had swollen lymph nodes so round and swollen, if extracted and embalmed, you could play a tennis match with them. It flattened me supine for a week solid so in true woe-is-me form, I dragged myself to the first solo movie date I have ever taken myself on, and watched He's Just Not That Into You while hacking my left lung up. Huge Mistake. When the phone calls and G-chat messages stopped robbing me of productive time, I began the mantra...weird, he is just not that into me. He must really not be into me. Into me, he really is not. Impossible.
Quite Possible. Short lived and for the better this phase was transient at best. Too whacky to be sustainable, I figured I should find someone that I am not ashamed of. Someone's name that I will yell from the rafters in glorious praise and rather than hide our handholding, show it off like a well deserved gold medal.
Unlike previous breakup disasters I have lived through, the decision to erase his number from my phone in hope to permanently extinct him from my memory was made. Since this was mostly on his terms, I couldn't trust he was sane enough to be on any contact list. So off of my email he went. I am on good standing with all ex-boyfriends, but he...I wanted nothing to do with. Something about our little situation made me feel absurd. I deleted him and all evidence that he existed. To me, he was dead.
As a few twinges of rejection would hit my stomach now and I then, I contemplated how I could have handled the situation a bit less callously. Did it hurt his feelings to be cast in the dark and hidden from our shared world? I didn't think so but my sister did.
Sam: So what's up with that guy?
Me: Nothing. He is dead to me.
Sam: Why? You told me he was funny and possibly had ambition.
Me: He is a faker of ambition and can't grow a beard. I also think he is a closet coke addict and cheap. Good riddance.
Sam: Did you ever tell your friends about him?
Me: Yes. Unfortunately they found out. How embarrassing.
Sam: You're a bitch.
Me: You're a bitch.
Sam: Well, you should find a real boyfriend soon, preferably one you like and will tell people about.
Me: Fine, I will try. Thanks for the advice.
It wasn't until months later, the day before my sisters wedding, that I heard from him again. As I paraded down the grass of the Field Museum, practicing the steps to give my sister away, I received a text message from a random number with a 415 area code. In the print...'I am a fucking idiot.' I didn't recognize the number...like I said, I had banished him. But then it clicked and it all made sense. Indeed he was and I couldn't have agreed more.
So then starts a slew of messages exploding from his creepy fingers about how he was so sorry that he blew me off, how he thinks about me all the time, how he told his mom he handled things very wrong...blah blah blah. I felt neither happy nor relieved. Just sorry that I had wasted so much time with a presumable lowlife. I texted back and we chatted a bit. I told him his apology was three months late.
A few weeks after that I agreed to meet him for dinner. I thought it would be nice to officially close this nagging chapter of my life. Exchange a "so, what have you been up to lately?" and "did you ever end up buying that orange bike?" and be on my way. I was about 30 minutes late, not a surprise to those who knew me well. He thought I was standing him up.
Boy: When you weren't here at 9:15, I thought you weren't coming. I know I deserve it.
Me: You just can't catch a cab in this city. It is definitely no Chicago.
Boy: Nice to see you. You look great.
Me: (pointing across the street) Hey remember when we ate at that taqueria and the chicken burrito gave you explosive diarrhea? That was funny.
Boy: So what is it like to work in the ER?
Me: I am surrounded by crazy drunks, who throw things at me and swear constantly. I hated it at first but am learning to love it. Do you have any friends yet?
Boy: I know my shortcomings, you don't need to remind me.
Me: I know, that was rude.
Boy: How is your family?
Me: Good. You never knew them and you most likely never will but they are all doing great.
Boy: My mom was in town and asked about you.
Me: Interesting. I never met your mom.
Boy: I told her that I fucked up.
Then, it happened. Something so unexpected I had to squint my eyes and lean in closer as to get a better look. He starts crying. Not just tears welling in his eyes, but streams of salt running down his cheeks partnered with the type of breathing that happens during an anxiety attack. I looked around to see if anyone else noticed and thanked god that the pulse of the busy restaurant was darkened and loud. He broke down and regurgitated an hour of bullshit that equaled apology, regret and remorse. I asked for the check and we left before anyone could recognize us.
I could sense that he meant it. This was the type of conversation that I believe is challenging for anyone to profess. I really felt awful for him as it seemed he has seen better times. He looked skinnier and his eyes were sunken in. Cocaine? Sleep deprived? Sad. He explained to me that while I was denying his existence to colleagues and loved ones, he was miserably trying to put a hold on his flailing life. A new job, new friends sans his ex-girlfriend, surfing his friends couch and homeless for some time. All aspects that he was secretly hiding too. Apparently, neither one of us were being honest. So I accepted his multiple sorry's and told him that he has some serious issues that could greatly benefit from psychiatric attention. He nodded in agreeance. I told him that because I am a kind and compassionate person, I would listen as he tried to make sense of his life in shambles. But only as a friend. He tried to grab my hand and hold it. I told him not to touch me.
I invited him to an event supporting an organization that brought music to children in the developing world. The more the merrier. Why should the children suffer? An attempt to be the 'friend' I told him I would be. It was an evening where a plethora of my friends and fellow nurses joined in art exhibits and mingling. He showed up in a suit jacket and acted like we was on drugs yet again. His words were not linking to make coherent sentences. He realized I was ignoring him so he left 5 minutes after he arrived. Enough is enough. I realize there are limitations on my ability for friendships. I reinstated my vow to ignore him.
Now, we share a similar address and I am certain that this mornings' run in will be one of many. A little uncomfortable but the boy cried over me so I guess it can't get any worse. Come the day I am walking, arms wrapped around a tall gentleman and giggling about something adorable he whispered into my ear, will be the real kick in the gut that I was too shy and nice to deliver. Until then, I will exploit him namelessly and shamelessly here on my world wide weblog.
1 comment:
1. I may be straight, chubby, and live in Chicago, but I am NOT from Michigan, thank you.
2. You never told me he CRIED
D. I miss you.
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