The brain doctor told me that friends weren't the people whom we wanted to unload all of our problems on. Friends, he said, are the people whom we just want to spend time with. Time going over the bullshit of the day. Time watching TV that you both enjoy. Time trying to make each other laugh. Sometimes, he said, you do unload your problems on them, but that it was their choice to offer to listen and stay because they also want to spend time with you. In the end, though, friends are about shedding off any outside crap and enjoying the time.
You were probably the best best friend I ever had.
For four years we were nearly inseparable. Where you went, I followed. Where I went, you followed. Any new people came into our lives and the decision to keep them was a mutual one. You not only had a license, but a car and were willing to pick me, and my brothers, up for school every single morning. We both liked cartoons well past the age we were supposed to. You had a biting, sometimes cruel, wit that always made me laugh. And for some reason, you liked me, too. (As I've gotten older, it's been getting harder for me to understand why you, or anyone else, like/d me. That's probably a mix of my no-self-esteem and depression, though.)
I had known you for a long time before I knew you were my best friend. About half of our lives. And during that time, we were friendly, but I'm sure if we were exactly "friends." During our time it was still considered wrong, or at least questionable, for a boy and girl of seven to be friends. Sure, we could all play tag in a huge group, but for me to encourage you to play Cat's Cradle and you to get me to play basketball, that was a rarity. So you mostly hung out with the girls in our grade and I mostly hung out with my one real friend, my best friend, at the time.
I've written about us before.
My favorite story of us as little kids is still you selling me curse words for fruit snacks. It's the best price I've ever paid for anything because I still smile when I think of that day.
Did you know that because we were together so much and got along so well that just about everyone we went to school with thought that we were dating? Did you know that our parents, or at least our mothers, expected that we would eventually marry? Or at least get close to marriage?
I certainly didn't, at the time. Hell, I didn't know until I was specifically asked if we were married, yet. It was a bit of a shock.
I'd be lying if I said I hadn't fantasized about my female friends. Can't be helped. I didn't fantasize about you, though. I've known you since we were seven. You were the sister I never had and better than any sister that I might have had. Also, by the time we were basically inseparable I knew you too well. I knew your quirks and crazies, you buttons and issues. I knew you and in knowing you I learned that there are things you can say, thing you can do, with friends that don't fly when you're also intimate with that person.
With you, though, as a friend anything went. That whole discussion we had, on the bus with one third of our classmates, about turning human breast milk into cheese and then selling it as an aphrodisiac? All the places sand gets and the problems that come with it? How the attack on the Death Star in the original Star Wars is all about sex? ("We're too close." "Stay on target!" "Loosen up!") There aren't that many people out there who would have let me just go off on those topis, let alone joined in.
So, what happened? Just saying college happened or growing up happened isn't really enough for me. Not enough at all.
During our senior year of high school you started pulling away, some. There were two others, girls, who you seemed to enjoy spending more time with than me. I understood because most people aren't like me and only want/need one or two really close friends; most people want more. I missed you, but I knew that your time was your time, not my time and not our time. But sometimes the relationship you had with those two seemed less and less like a friendship and more and more like a relationship. The three of you had these weird jealousies and reactions. And then the way it all ended with the three of you hating each other, that was just strange.
I did ask one of the two, the one I was closer to, what happened and I asked you, too. Neither of you wanted to tell me. You just got angry and she always told me to ask you. Mutual friends hinted around that there was a sexual relationship between the three of you. I don't know and probably never will. Still, if it wasn't sexual it was extremely intimate.
Anyway, exactly what the three of you meant to each other isn't the point. The point is that this was when things changed between us. Then college happened and you were in the north and I went south and you learned the joys of becoming a fag hag and I became more and more isolated. I started to get left out of gatherings when people were back from school because I didn't want to drink alcohol and you and they did. Did I make you feel self-conscience? I didn't judge you or them, it simply wasn't something that I wanted to do. As time went on you stopped coming back from school and if you did it was just for two days and we didn't always get to visit. I kept sending you e-mails, but you didn't always reply and I wrote you less and less.
After years and years of not hearing from you, not seeing you, you friended me on Facebook and I saw that you were engaged. I e-mailed you and your wedding was that weekend. Of course I had to be there even though I hadn't heard from you for years and didn't know the guy.
Your wedding day was the last time that I remember seeing you. That day I was horribly uncomfortable surrounded by people I hardly or didn't know, but for the ten minutes that we had to ourselves was like nothing had ever changed between us. Just the smooth flow of conversation.
That was the last time we spoke. I don't even think we've exchanged e-mails. I quit Facebook after that and since your account is only viewable to friends I can't see it. I don't, and probably never will, know you husband. I haven't seen the photo's of your children. Are they boys? Girls? One of each? Are you still a nurse? In the ER still, or have you moved to something less stressful? Are you still obsessed with fantasy books? Do you have plans to introduce you kids to Pinky and the Brain?
I miss you. I miss having a friend like you. The way I am nothing is going to change between us. I wish you and your family happiness.
Showing posts with label girls. Show all posts
Showing posts with label girls. Show all posts
Thursday, July 03, 2014
Wednesday, May 07, 2014
Understanding Love, 1
I've heard it -- or read it -- said that if you think you've been in love, you haven't been in love.
Still, I think that at one time I loved you. I think I loved you hard.
I remember thinking about you when you weren't there and feeling happy and sad and a little sick to my stomach. I remember being with you, sitting, and feeling happy and a little sick to my stomach. I remember the rumors about you and your former boyfriend. I remember the day you transformed yourself into a very sad, very insane woman and handed out flowers. I remember how easy it was for you to slide from your social group to mine and then back to yours and how I'd already been rejected by your social group; I could have lived on the outskirts just to be close to you, but that would have been pathetic and I already had so many things working against me. I remember the day you saw the toys I carried around in my backpack and you found it amusing, not in a cynical or cruel way, but more in an I-understand-why-you-carry-these-things way; you understood that I liked what I liked and I used them to get reactions from people. I remember your kindness.
High school was not a kind place for me. It wasn't cruel, either. It was more indifferent. I was fat enough and nerdy enough that I put people off. I was smart enough, nice enough, and "normal" enough that no one attacked me, physically or mentally, for being different than they were. I was a place holder, a space taker, to most of the students, probably most of the teachers, too. I was an object to be walked around and a group member to be ignored.
To you, though, I wasn't just an object. You always greeted me, even when I was forced to sit alone in a group of four desks and I spitefully made sure I sat in the desk closest to the door. When, one day, you were rejected by your group and had to sit with me, you liked it enough that the next day you came back, even though there were empty seats elsewhere in the classroom. And you came back the next day and the day after that and each day until the school year ended.
There was a day, when we had a substitute teacher, when we sat at our desks, across from each other, and we talked about The Rocky Horror Picture Show. You had discovered it more recently than I had and were in the process of indoctrinating your friends. Just as the substitute teach came up to our desks you said that the weekend before you had "devirginized" your boyfriend, at the time. The sub said that he and a lot of young men were devirginized during their time in the Army, you turned red, and I bit back laughter. You stumbled and stuttered, trying to explain the movie and the tradition of the lipstick "V"s on a new watcher's cheeks. The sub said that if your boyfriend needed more help with the devirginizing he should join the Army; they have a lot to teach, he said. You looked down and said that he was actually joining the Marines. I snorted. Even better, the sub said. I burst out laughing and a half-second later, you started to laugh, too, still redder than a strawberry.
It was you kindness and your ability to laugh at your mistakes and your forgiveness to me for laughing at you before it was with you. It didn't hurt, too, that you were easily the most beautiful female in our class, if not the whole school. I remember how you kept your hair carefully tucked behind your ear, but when you were concentrating hard it would fall from its place as you leaned forward and the very tip of your ear would poke out of your hair. I remember your eyes flashing in anger at the idiots in the classroom and in joy when I could make you laugh. I remember your smile: your huge smile when you were excited; your sly smile when you had gotten away with something; and your small smile when you were simply content.
I knew that if you loved me at all it would never be the same way I loved you. There was someone, a friend, who was smarter than me, nicer than me, and much better looking than me who you said you couldn't like as anything other than a friend. What chance did a schlub like me have? It was okay, though, because I got to spend 50 minutes alone with you every day we were at school and I wouldn't want to give that time up for anything.
We went to the same school out first year of college. I didn't go hunting for you. I have this thing about social strata and not trying to shake it up and while I knew where I'd end up -- outside and alone -- I didn't know where you would choose to be. I knew you'd choose, though, because you were smart enough and acceptable enough to end up anywhere. I did call you a couple of times, though. Once to tell you a teacher had died, one who I really liked, and you helped me feel better. The other time was to see if you were headed home one weekend because I needed a ride back to school. You were and you did. We also ran into each other a few times and just chatted. Your roommate, who we went to school with, was not nearly so kind.
I held on to the feeling I had for you for a few years until it reached the point that I had to give it up. I was going to a different school and wasn't ever going to see you again. It was hard letting go, but I had to even though it made me feel good and safe.
You were the only person I wasn't in semi-regular contact with who I wanted to see at our ten year reunion. You didn't come. I'm not going to the 20 because once in a room with those people again and just being an object was enough. I've kept an eye out for you on Facebook, but cannot find you. Either you’re not there, or you've changed enough that I no longer recognize you when I see you. I don't know and I'm not going to be concerned about it because it probably wouldn't change anything anyway.
I hope your life is nice. I hope that even if you didn't become what you thought you were going to become you're something that you like. I hope your husband appreciates what he has and shows it to you every day even if it's just by taking your hand for no particular reason and giving it a small squeeze. I hope that any kids you might have got your smarts more than you looks, but I hope they have that same sly smile when they're up to mischief. And I hope that when you think back to high school and that fat guy you sat across from in English it's with fondness.
Still, I think that at one time I loved you. I think I loved you hard.
I remember thinking about you when you weren't there and feeling happy and sad and a little sick to my stomach. I remember being with you, sitting, and feeling happy and a little sick to my stomach. I remember the rumors about you and your former boyfriend. I remember the day you transformed yourself into a very sad, very insane woman and handed out flowers. I remember how easy it was for you to slide from your social group to mine and then back to yours and how I'd already been rejected by your social group; I could have lived on the outskirts just to be close to you, but that would have been pathetic and I already had so many things working against me. I remember the day you saw the toys I carried around in my backpack and you found it amusing, not in a cynical or cruel way, but more in an I-understand-why-you-carry-these-things way; you understood that I liked what I liked and I used them to get reactions from people. I remember your kindness.
High school was not a kind place for me. It wasn't cruel, either. It was more indifferent. I was fat enough and nerdy enough that I put people off. I was smart enough, nice enough, and "normal" enough that no one attacked me, physically or mentally, for being different than they were. I was a place holder, a space taker, to most of the students, probably most of the teachers, too. I was an object to be walked around and a group member to be ignored.
To you, though, I wasn't just an object. You always greeted me, even when I was forced to sit alone in a group of four desks and I spitefully made sure I sat in the desk closest to the door. When, one day, you were rejected by your group and had to sit with me, you liked it enough that the next day you came back, even though there were empty seats elsewhere in the classroom. And you came back the next day and the day after that and each day until the school year ended.
There was a day, when we had a substitute teacher, when we sat at our desks, across from each other, and we talked about The Rocky Horror Picture Show. You had discovered it more recently than I had and were in the process of indoctrinating your friends. Just as the substitute teach came up to our desks you said that the weekend before you had "devirginized" your boyfriend, at the time. The sub said that he and a lot of young men were devirginized during their time in the Army, you turned red, and I bit back laughter. You stumbled and stuttered, trying to explain the movie and the tradition of the lipstick "V"s on a new watcher's cheeks. The sub said that if your boyfriend needed more help with the devirginizing he should join the Army; they have a lot to teach, he said. You looked down and said that he was actually joining the Marines. I snorted. Even better, the sub said. I burst out laughing and a half-second later, you started to laugh, too, still redder than a strawberry.
It was you kindness and your ability to laugh at your mistakes and your forgiveness to me for laughing at you before it was with you. It didn't hurt, too, that you were easily the most beautiful female in our class, if not the whole school. I remember how you kept your hair carefully tucked behind your ear, but when you were concentrating hard it would fall from its place as you leaned forward and the very tip of your ear would poke out of your hair. I remember your eyes flashing in anger at the idiots in the classroom and in joy when I could make you laugh. I remember your smile: your huge smile when you were excited; your sly smile when you had gotten away with something; and your small smile when you were simply content.
I knew that if you loved me at all it would never be the same way I loved you. There was someone, a friend, who was smarter than me, nicer than me, and much better looking than me who you said you couldn't like as anything other than a friend. What chance did a schlub like me have? It was okay, though, because I got to spend 50 minutes alone with you every day we were at school and I wouldn't want to give that time up for anything.
We went to the same school out first year of college. I didn't go hunting for you. I have this thing about social strata and not trying to shake it up and while I knew where I'd end up -- outside and alone -- I didn't know where you would choose to be. I knew you'd choose, though, because you were smart enough and acceptable enough to end up anywhere. I did call you a couple of times, though. Once to tell you a teacher had died, one who I really liked, and you helped me feel better. The other time was to see if you were headed home one weekend because I needed a ride back to school. You were and you did. We also ran into each other a few times and just chatted. Your roommate, who we went to school with, was not nearly so kind.
I held on to the feeling I had for you for a few years until it reached the point that I had to give it up. I was going to a different school and wasn't ever going to see you again. It was hard letting go, but I had to even though it made me feel good and safe.
You were the only person I wasn't in semi-regular contact with who I wanted to see at our ten year reunion. You didn't come. I'm not going to the 20 because once in a room with those people again and just being an object was enough. I've kept an eye out for you on Facebook, but cannot find you. Either you’re not there, or you've changed enough that I no longer recognize you when I see you. I don't know and I'm not going to be concerned about it because it probably wouldn't change anything anyway.
I hope your life is nice. I hope that even if you didn't become what you thought you were going to become you're something that you like. I hope your husband appreciates what he has and shows it to you every day even if it's just by taking your hand for no particular reason and giving it a small squeeze. I hope that any kids you might have got your smarts more than you looks, but I hope they have that same sly smile when they're up to mischief. And I hope that when you think back to high school and that fat guy you sat across from in English it's with fondness.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Back, Forward, and Back Farther
Once upon a time a friend's nephew was born. When this friend saw her nephew, she knew that she loved the little poop machine (her words) fiercely.
At a later once upon a time, my niece was born. When I first saw her I felt nothing. I've seen her a few times since than and I think she's funny and smart, but I haven't felt, felt anything for her.
To be fair, I honestly don't really feel anything for any one. I like them, but I don't know if I love.
Once upon a time, farther back, I thought I loved, but there was no way I could share it with her. I knew her truths, her faults, her uglies, and her beautifuls and I thought I loved her because of all of it. I never shared it because I knew her. I knew what she thought about me and we were good together even though we weren't together. No one knew. The ones who saw us together were not my friends, and my friends did not see us together.
Friday, May 02, 2008
"All The Odds Are In My Favor"
I knew this girl who loved Cabaret.
We had a class together in college. It was 20th Century American Drama, which always struck me as silly because before the 20th century, the United States didn't produce much original theater, other than Vaudeville, and that's not exactly fully scripted before the company went on stage. I mean, the US had to discover its own unique sort of prose and poetry before it could move properly into drama, and we didn't find either prose or poetry until the late 1850s and they didn't really blossom until after the Civil War. Hell, the US had to have a critic stand up and ask where the American poets were and who was going to be The Poet to lead the writers of the US out from under the shadow of Europe and into the sun so it could become its own being. Lucky for him, and us, there was a poet who was both conceded enough and good enough to stand up and say, "Hey, I'm over here, brah." But the playwrights took longer even. They had to find places to stage their visions and backers who were willing to produce the plays and actors willing to perform. With all that outside money and influence involved, it's hard to not just write what you know will sell. It happened, though, but not much before the 20th century came to pass I think if there had been a 19th Century American Drama class, it would have lasted three sessions: 1) Introduce class and hand out syllabus. 2) Discuss readings. 3) Turn in final paper and take only test on readings. You probably wouldn't get much interesting insight on the readings, either
Anyway, we had a class together, but that's not where we met. Not really.
We met in the hallway outside the classroom.
I, being me, never knew what to do between classes, especially if I had an hour or more to wait. Other people probably went and bought a snack or met friends or lounged around on some patch of shady grass or Frisbeed the time away, I didn't, though. (I was so popular that I wasn't invited to the New Year's party that was thrown in the house I lived in by a friend I'd know since we were sophomores in high school that included lots of old friends. Yeah, I was that popular.) I'd go to building my next class was in and if there was a class in the room I'd plunk myself down on the floor in the hall across from the door. Usually, I was by myself until ten or so minutes before class started, but the second day of this class, about five minutes after I sat down, a girl sat across from me.
I was reading. I don't know what, exactly. Sometimes I read something for fun. Sometimes I was doing the reading for the class before class. And sometimes I'd read stuff for the class that I just left. She pulled out some big text book that I knew wasn't for the class we shared and started highlighting. I went back to my reading. Eventually, others came and we all headed into class.
The next class I got there first again, but when she got there she pulled out the reading for our class. After a while, she asked me what I thought about some character and I blah-blahed for a bit and then said that something, I don't know what, reminded me of Cliff from Cabaret.
She looked up, and for the first time looked me in the eyes. "You know Cabaret?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said. "It's a great movie."
"It's my favorite," she said.
"Movie?"
"Anything. I mean, I love Liza, but that show. God." She looked off, sort of above my head and to my right. "The songs. Christ. It's just amazing."
"So, you've seen it?" I asked. "I mean the play? With all the songs? 'Cause I've only seen the movie and I know they cut a lot of 'em."
"I've seen it," she said, looking at me again. "We performed it at our high school."
"Really? In high school?"
"Yeah, we had this great drama teacher."
And we chatted on for the rest of the hour. Not about school, but about a play and a movie that we both enjoyed. When we got into class I sat where I liked to sit and she sat next to a guy who was, and probably still is, much prettier than me. It was okay, though, it's not like we were friends.
Then next time she got right down to it and asked me my name and major. After I told her I asked her what her major was, as is the proper procedure in this kind of college conversation.
And so, we started talking. Soon the talking turned away from school related stuff and toward other things. I probably learned more about her than she did about me. I often listened more than I spoke; it's just the way that I am. I learned why she choose her major and what she'd rather have been doing. What kind of men she liked. Her drinking habits. Her occasional job. Her current job. About the guy she was sort of/not quite dating, but they stayed up one night to watch the sun rise and he both tortured and titillated her. Where she wanted to be five years after graduation. Where she expected to be five years after graduations. And there was more.
It's not like she did all the talking. She listened to me talk about my family and friends. I told her about what I hoped to do after college. She's the only person who knew the beats of the novel I wanted to write. And other things that I didn't often speak easily about to anyone. It was okay with her. Safe.
After a few weeks, I understood why she liked Cabaret so much. She wanted to be Sally Bowles. She wanted the freedom that Sally appears to have. She wanted the ability to shut out everything that didn't have to do with her immediate wants. She wanted to be away from all the things that bothered her and be surrounded by pretty things and pretty people. Her problem was that she couldn't ignore the world around her like Sally could. She noticed changes in the world and took many of them to heart.
Some days, another girl from the class would show up and sit across from me, next to the one who liked Cabaret. When that happened, we didn't talk anymore. It was okay, though, it's not like we were friends.
One day, she talked a lot about her job. She was a waitress at a cafe where all the waiters and waitresses sang for the diners, mostly stuff from musicals because that's what the diners knew. She told me that the head piano player, who was also the guy in charge of all the music, tapped her to sing "Maybe This Time." There a light in her eyes that I'd never seen before in the weeks since we'd met. It was the first time I'd seen her truly excited over anything. It made her beautiful.
Six sessions from the end of the classes, I decided to ask her out to go for coffee or a movie or even a drink, which I didn't do. Five sessions from the end, I chickened out. Four sessions from the end, I caught her after class to ask her, but before I could, she let me know how much she appreciated me and in what way, and while she meant it as a compliment, a nice thing, it didn't feel that way to me, though. It still doesn't. I didn't ask. And for the last three sessions, I spent my hour elsewhere.
After the final, the next time I saw her was six or seven weeks into the next quarter. She spotted me as I crossed from the quad to the sidewalk by the library and called out. I walked up to her. She told me about the day the piano player turned to her, smiled, and nodded and she first sang "Maybe This Time" in front of an audience. She succeeded beyond her own expectations and I was excited for her. We stood on the corner blocking foot traffic for forty-five minutes, just talking. In the end, I gave her my phone number because she said we should get together and just talk some more.
She never called. It's okay, though. It's not like we were ever really friends.
We had a class together in college. It was 20th Century American Drama, which always struck me as silly because before the 20th century, the United States didn't produce much original theater, other than Vaudeville, and that's not exactly fully scripted before the company went on stage. I mean, the US had to discover its own unique sort of prose and poetry before it could move properly into drama, and we didn't find either prose or poetry until the late 1850s and they didn't really blossom until after the Civil War. Hell, the US had to have a critic stand up and ask where the American poets were and who was going to be The Poet to lead the writers of the US out from under the shadow of Europe and into the sun so it could become its own being. Lucky for him, and us, there was a poet who was both conceded enough and good enough to stand up and say, "Hey, I'm over here, brah." But the playwrights took longer even. They had to find places to stage their visions and backers who were willing to produce the plays and actors willing to perform. With all that outside money and influence involved, it's hard to not just write what you know will sell. It happened, though, but not much before the 20th century came to pass I think if there had been a 19th Century American Drama class, it would have lasted three sessions: 1) Introduce class and hand out syllabus. 2) Discuss readings. 3) Turn in final paper and take only test on readings. You probably wouldn't get much interesting insight on the readings, either
Anyway, we had a class together, but that's not where we met. Not really.
We met in the hallway outside the classroom.
I, being me, never knew what to do between classes, especially if I had an hour or more to wait. Other people probably went and bought a snack or met friends or lounged around on some patch of shady grass or Frisbeed the time away, I didn't, though. (I was so popular that I wasn't invited to the New Year's party that was thrown in the house I lived in by a friend I'd know since we were sophomores in high school that included lots of old friends. Yeah, I was that popular.) I'd go to building my next class was in and if there was a class in the room I'd plunk myself down on the floor in the hall across from the door. Usually, I was by myself until ten or so minutes before class started, but the second day of this class, about five minutes after I sat down, a girl sat across from me.
I was reading. I don't know what, exactly. Sometimes I read something for fun. Sometimes I was doing the reading for the class before class. And sometimes I'd read stuff for the class that I just left. She pulled out some big text book that I knew wasn't for the class we shared and started highlighting. I went back to my reading. Eventually, others came and we all headed into class.
The next class I got there first again, but when she got there she pulled out the reading for our class. After a while, she asked me what I thought about some character and I blah-blahed for a bit and then said that something, I don't know what, reminded me of Cliff from Cabaret.
She looked up, and for the first time looked me in the eyes. "You know Cabaret?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said. "It's a great movie."
"It's my favorite," she said.
"Movie?"
"Anything. I mean, I love Liza, but that show. God." She looked off, sort of above my head and to my right. "The songs. Christ. It's just amazing."
"So, you've seen it?" I asked. "I mean the play? With all the songs? 'Cause I've only seen the movie and I know they cut a lot of 'em."
"I've seen it," she said, looking at me again. "We performed it at our high school."
"Really? In high school?"
"Yeah, we had this great drama teacher."
And we chatted on for the rest of the hour. Not about school, but about a play and a movie that we both enjoyed. When we got into class I sat where I liked to sit and she sat next to a guy who was, and probably still is, much prettier than me. It was okay, though, it's not like we were friends.
Then next time she got right down to it and asked me my name and major. After I told her I asked her what her major was, as is the proper procedure in this kind of college conversation.
And so, we started talking. Soon the talking turned away from school related stuff and toward other things. I probably learned more about her than she did about me. I often listened more than I spoke; it's just the way that I am. I learned why she choose her major and what she'd rather have been doing. What kind of men she liked. Her drinking habits. Her occasional job. Her current job. About the guy she was sort of/not quite dating, but they stayed up one night to watch the sun rise and he both tortured and titillated her. Where she wanted to be five years after graduation. Where she expected to be five years after graduations. And there was more.
It's not like she did all the talking. She listened to me talk about my family and friends. I told her about what I hoped to do after college. She's the only person who knew the beats of the novel I wanted to write. And other things that I didn't often speak easily about to anyone. It was okay with her. Safe.
After a few weeks, I understood why she liked Cabaret so much. She wanted to be Sally Bowles. She wanted the freedom that Sally appears to have. She wanted the ability to shut out everything that didn't have to do with her immediate wants. She wanted to be away from all the things that bothered her and be surrounded by pretty things and pretty people. Her problem was that she couldn't ignore the world around her like Sally could. She noticed changes in the world and took many of them to heart.
Some days, another girl from the class would show up and sit across from me, next to the one who liked Cabaret. When that happened, we didn't talk anymore. It was okay, though, it's not like we were friends.
One day, she talked a lot about her job. She was a waitress at a cafe where all the waiters and waitresses sang for the diners, mostly stuff from musicals because that's what the diners knew. She told me that the head piano player, who was also the guy in charge of all the music, tapped her to sing "Maybe This Time." There a light in her eyes that I'd never seen before in the weeks since we'd met. It was the first time I'd seen her truly excited over anything. It made her beautiful.
Six sessions from the end of the classes, I decided to ask her out to go for coffee or a movie or even a drink, which I didn't do. Five sessions from the end, I chickened out. Four sessions from the end, I caught her after class to ask her, but before I could, she let me know how much she appreciated me and in what way, and while she meant it as a compliment, a nice thing, it didn't feel that way to me, though. It still doesn't. I didn't ask. And for the last three sessions, I spent my hour elsewhere.
After the final, the next time I saw her was six or seven weeks into the next quarter. She spotted me as I crossed from the quad to the sidewalk by the library and called out. I walked up to her. She told me about the day the piano player turned to her, smiled, and nodded and she first sang "Maybe This Time" in front of an audience. She succeeded beyond her own expectations and I was excited for her. We stood on the corner blocking foot traffic for forty-five minutes, just talking. In the end, I gave her my phone number because she said we should get together and just talk some more.
She never called. It's okay, though. It's not like we were ever really friends.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Tay Dripper
The drive was long and the test was easy. Everything was on computer, so we got our scores right away. I did really well. I'm in the fourth group to be called on, which means that I did as good as a person can do who isn't already a state employee (3) or a veteran (2) or a disabled veteran (1). After the test, I found myself hoping that the people working for the state are idiots and then took it back because my stomach started to fill with guilt.
After the test, I cruised through the mall, since everything that involves the state in Cow City is right by a mall. Strange, but true. Anyway, there was a duel purpose to the cruising finding a gift for father's day and getting my parking validated. Luckily, I did that at one store. I also found something for myself, but that's not important.
I drove across town, then, to visit the store I used to work at and head out to lunch with GIESW.
During my last six weeks at that store, I got the feeling that if I put even a little effort forth (like just barely above nothing) and she would sleep with me. For a while, I considered it, but she was sad. (And still is.) I'm smart enough to know that I don't need a sad person to really depend on me. Of course there was that whole I could have sex with her thing, but I didn't want to hurt her which would have made me guilty which would have hurt me which would have hurt her, and created a horrible cycle of hurt and guilt that no one needs. After talking with her yesterday, I know that if I had put forth that effort she would have hated me for it. I'm glad that I didn't.
Next Tuesday is when my name goes on the state list for jobs. Looking forward to that.
After the test, I cruised through the mall, since everything that involves the state in Cow City is right by a mall. Strange, but true. Anyway, there was a duel purpose to the cruising finding a gift for father's day and getting my parking validated. Luckily, I did that at one store. I also found something for myself, but that's not important.
I drove across town, then, to visit the store I used to work at and head out to lunch with GIESW.
During my last six weeks at that store, I got the feeling that if I put even a little effort forth (like just barely above nothing) and she would sleep with me. For a while, I considered it, but she was sad. (And still is.) I'm smart enough to know that I don't need a sad person to really depend on me. Of course there was that whole I could have sex with her thing, but I didn't want to hurt her which would have made me guilty which would have hurt me which would have hurt her, and created a horrible cycle of hurt and guilt that no one needs. After talking with her yesterday, I know that if I had put forth that effort she would have hated me for it. I'm glad that I didn't.
Next Tuesday is when my name goes on the state list for jobs. Looking forward to that.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
The Weirdness of Leaving a Store and Returning
Once upon a time, when the ‘Bucks in Cow Town was brand new, there was this a Shift Supervisor, I’ll call her FCCM, who decided that what I needed more than anything was a girlfriend. She proceeded to bombard me with questions about what I like in a girl. She wanted to know how important looks were. She needed to know what quirks drove me crazy. And, most important to her, am I an ass man.
I answered all of her questions with red cheeks and began suffering.
“What do you thing of her?” FCCM asked, pointing at a customer. “Do you like her ass?”
Or, while I was washing dishes, she would charge into the back room, grab my soapy hand, drag me to the front, and, among a crowd of coworkers, she’d point and say, “Her! What about her?”
About three months after FCCM started her crusade she came to me early one morning and said, “I’ve figured it out.”
“What?” I asked.
“I know who you should date. I’ve found the perfect woman for you.”
“Okay.”
“Do you wanna know who?”
“It’s not that woman with the baby, is it?”
“No,” she said and hit my arm. “It’s someone you know and already like.”
“I already like her?”
“Yeah, you like her, but you don’t know that you like her yet. She’s perfect of you.”
“And who is this vision of perfection?” I have to admit, I wasn’t really close attention.
“I think you should ask NBJW out.”
I dropped the pastries I was handling. “NBJW? Why her?” And, before you ask, JW does stand for what you think it means.
“Because you two get along so well. You have the same type of sense of humor. You both watch the same TV shows. You’re perfect for each other.”
“Maybe as friends,” I said, picking the scones off the floor.
“NO!” she said. “Not as friends. You and her are em eff ee oh.”
“As friends.”
“Why as friends?”
“Main reason? Religion,” I said. “I, quite often, say some off color things about religion, in general, and Christianity specifically.”
“And what does that have anything to do with anything?”
“You can forgive a friend for saying, ‘Yesterday, my dog shat Jesus.’ but not a boyfriend.”
“She’s not that religious.”
“Except she goes to church twice a week.”
“Fine,” FCCM said, walking away.
Occasionally, after that, FCCM would tell me that I should ask NBJW out, but sort of left it alone.
Yesterday, I was told I could leave work a half hour early. As I was finishing up, NBJW, who is now a Shift Supervisor, asked me to help her roll the bazillion coins from the tips. So I did.
We sat at a table in the back room laughing, quoting cartoons, and flicking pennies at coworkers. It was fun.
My time in the store ran out just as we finished rolling the coins. NBJW gathered up the coins and I packed up my stuff.
On my way out, The Manager (who was The Assistant Manager in the beginning) grabbed my arm and pulled me into the corner by the big fridge. “You like her,” she said.
“Like who?”
“NBJW. I heard you two laughing back there.”
“Yeah, it was fun.”
“I think you two should hook up.”
My jaw dropped. My eyes rolled. And I hightailed it out of there.
I answered all of her questions with red cheeks and began suffering.
“What do you thing of her?” FCCM asked, pointing at a customer. “Do you like her ass?”
Or, while I was washing dishes, she would charge into the back room, grab my soapy hand, drag me to the front, and, among a crowd of coworkers, she’d point and say, “Her! What about her?”
About three months after FCCM started her crusade she came to me early one morning and said, “I’ve figured it out.”
“What?” I asked.
“I know who you should date. I’ve found the perfect woman for you.”
“Okay.”
“Do you wanna know who?”
“It’s not that woman with the baby, is it?”
“No,” she said and hit my arm. “It’s someone you know and already like.”
“I already like her?”
“Yeah, you like her, but you don’t know that you like her yet. She’s perfect of you.”
“And who is this vision of perfection?” I have to admit, I wasn’t really close attention.
“I think you should ask NBJW out.”
I dropped the pastries I was handling. “NBJW? Why her?” And, before you ask, JW does stand for what you think it means.
“Because you two get along so well. You have the same type of sense of humor. You both watch the same TV shows. You’re perfect for each other.”
“Maybe as friends,” I said, picking the scones off the floor.
“NO!” she said. “Not as friends. You and her are em eff ee oh.”
“As friends.”
“Why as friends?”
“Main reason? Religion,” I said. “I, quite often, say some off color things about religion, in general, and Christianity specifically.”
“And what does that have anything to do with anything?”
“You can forgive a friend for saying, ‘Yesterday, my dog shat Jesus.’ but not a boyfriend.”
“She’s not that religious.”
“Except she goes to church twice a week.”
“Fine,” FCCM said, walking away.
Occasionally, after that, FCCM would tell me that I should ask NBJW out, but sort of left it alone.
Yesterday, I was told I could leave work a half hour early. As I was finishing up, NBJW, who is now a Shift Supervisor, asked me to help her roll the bazillion coins from the tips. So I did.
We sat at a table in the back room laughing, quoting cartoons, and flicking pennies at coworkers. It was fun.
My time in the store ran out just as we finished rolling the coins. NBJW gathered up the coins and I packed up my stuff.
On my way out, The Manager (who was The Assistant Manager in the beginning) grabbed my arm and pulled me into the corner by the big fridge. “You like her,” she said.
“Like who?”
“NBJW. I heard you two laughing back there.”
“Yeah, it was fun.”
“I think you two should hook up.”
My jaw dropped. My eyes rolled. And I hightailed it out of there.
Monday, November 01, 2004
Paradox and Maybe
I'm working six days this week because, apparently, I'm a "sweet-heart." Personally, I think it's because I'm a sucker and I have trouble saying "No" to people, especially people of the female gender.
More money is always good, but more hours are not. A horrible paradox.
I don't know whether to classify this as a good or bad thing. I didn't have to do this, I could have told her where to put certain coffee making equipment, but instead I said I'd take the hours. Now I won't be watching the TV that I want to watch because I should get some sleep so I can function early in the morning and then at class after. I didn't though. I said I'd do it. Damn women and their ability to exploit my weak will and make my insides go squishy, even over the phone, damn them.
Speaking of women, Maybe Katie hasn't been in the store since last Wednesday or Tuesday, I can't remember. I remember her drink, finally, and was hoping to be granted the gift of a smile from her, but that has not been. The day I remembered her name, the smile was huge, the eyes flashed, and she spoke to me. My insides melted and I was giddy for the next hour. I sang her song for the rest of the day. On the days she came in to the store and I was steamin' milk, I stole glances at her from behind the bar. I wonder if she noticed? I doubt it. I wonder if she'll be there tomorrow? My insides could use a good melting.
More money is always good, but more hours are not. A horrible paradox.
I don't know whether to classify this as a good or bad thing. I didn't have to do this, I could have told her where to put certain coffee making equipment, but instead I said I'd take the hours. Now I won't be watching the TV that I want to watch because I should get some sleep so I can function early in the morning and then at class after. I didn't though. I said I'd do it. Damn women and their ability to exploit my weak will and make my insides go squishy, even over the phone, damn them.
Speaking of women, Maybe Katie hasn't been in the store since last Wednesday or Tuesday, I can't remember. I remember her drink, finally, and was hoping to be granted the gift of a smile from her, but that has not been. The day I remembered her name, the smile was huge, the eyes flashed, and she spoke to me. My insides melted and I was giddy for the next hour. I sang her song for the rest of the day. On the days she came in to the store and I was steamin' milk, I stole glances at her from behind the bar. I wonder if she noticed? I doubt it. I wonder if she'll be there tomorrow? My insides could use a good melting.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
Gloomy
I'm feeling a wee bit sad today.
It started in the night with a dream about the girl who was my first... whatever it's called when it's more than a crush but probably not love. Once in a while her face drifts through my dreams. After that I always wake u p and I remember her the way she was when we first met. I remember watching her sit at her desk reading, flicking the stray hairs that kept falling to block her vision, concentrating on the page and looking excited each time she turned to the next one. I wanted to get up from my desk, walk away from my friends, and sit on the floor beside her and just watch her read, but I never did, of course. I barely had the courage to speak around her, and when I did I would stutter w-w-words out and st-st-stumble my way through sentences. All I wanted to do was be witty, make her laugh, but I could hardly get anything out. The last week of school, she loaned me a book. I didn't ask for it, she just said I should read it. I didn't have time to finish it. I had to return it and could never remember the title, only the plot as far as I had read. This was fifth grade.
Before sixth grade, she moved out of the district to another one and in the hills all schools are nearly impossible for a sixth grader to get to on his own. I remember looking for her and asking if anyone had seen her during the first week of school. I wanted to see if I could borrow the book to finish it. She was gone. I sort of pushed her out of my mind, but when ever I was at the bookstore, I looked for the book. I didn't find it. That year was the first time I had my heart broken by a girl, as well as many other horrors, making it the worst year of my life.
Sixth grade passed, so did seventh and eighth. Still no book. Sometime in the summer between eighth and ninth grade, two of my friends (brothers) discovered BBSs. When I spent the night at their house we'd stay up until three or four in the morning reading posts and playing text games like Legend of the Red Dragon and Trade Wars. When I learned that she, the one who loaned me the book, was the SysOp for a BBS, I got the program from my friends so I could use the BBSs from home. It was during this time that I fell for her again. I was only allowed to use the phone lines on Friday and Saturday nights, but each of those nights, she and I would exchange letters. Nothing spectacular, nothing that told her how I melted when I thought about her. The nights that she had insomnia and broke in for a live chat with me made it so I couldn't fall asleep for hours after. From her, I got the title of the book, ordered it at the bookstore, and read it. (It wasn't that great, but it was a good way to start a conversation with her.)
A couple of times during the two or so years of BBSing, there were gatherings of the people so we could get to know each other in person at a pizza place, or a lake, or something. I was always hoping that she would be at them, but, according to the people who always went, she never came. Once, though, as I was leaving a party, the guy who was giving the ride pointed to a beautiful girl and said that she was the SysOp that I always asked about. My knees got weak and my stomach fluttered. She was even more gorgeous than I remembered. I tried to walk over to her and introduce myself, but I couldn't. To me, she was too perfect.
*sigh*
I only saw her once after that and it was also after most of the BBSs, hers was one, had been dismantled because the internet was becoming popular and all the SysOps wanted to use their dedicated phone lines to play on the internet rather than let others play on their computers. I saw her at a play, it was either during or just before senior year started. She was sitting in on of the really tall chairs at the back of the theater. Once again, my knees went week and my stomach fluttered. She was talking to the guy she was there with (who happened to be the older brother of a guy who I was friendly with, at least she was with someone nice). She started to laugh. Her eyes squinched up. Her head would fall forward and she'd jerk it back only to have it fall forward again. I think I could have counted all her teeth, her smile was so big. As I walked down the aisle, I couldn't keep my eyes off of her. When the lights fell, I concentrated on the play (which is always easy for me, going to the theater is one of the greatest experiences in life), but when the lights came back up, I kept stealing glances back and to the left to see her again. I wanted to see her laugh again. The old lady sitting behind me probably thought I was nuts. I remember, after the play, watching her slide out of her seat, take the guy's hand and walk out with her. I feared my heart was going to thump its way out of my chest. I haven't seen her since.
I've thought about her all day long. I've also thought about the other girls I've more than liked who said I was a "good friend" or that I was just "too nice" to be anything more than what I was to them. (I'd love to know, what, exactly, is "too nice"?) I've thought about the girl who reached through my ribs and crushed my heart with her left hand in the sixth grade. I've thought about the friends who have moved far away and how I won't be able to see them before next summer in their new home. I've thought about the friend moving to China for at least a year. And I've thought about how GIESW's mother wants GIESW to go to the doctor and get Paxil or Xanax or some other wonder drug because GIESW's mother thinks GIESW is depressed.
I've thought about all of this and it makes me sad.
If I were a drinker, I'd drown my self in a bottle. I'm not a drinker, though. Instead, on my day off tomorrow, I'm going to drown myself in a rented movie or two or three and a bowl of popcorn and some SweeTarts.
It started in the night with a dream about the girl who was my first... whatever it's called when it's more than a crush but probably not love. Once in a while her face drifts through my dreams. After that I always wake u p and I remember her the way she was when we first met. I remember watching her sit at her desk reading, flicking the stray hairs that kept falling to block her vision, concentrating on the page and looking excited each time she turned to the next one. I wanted to get up from my desk, walk away from my friends, and sit on the floor beside her and just watch her read, but I never did, of course. I barely had the courage to speak around her, and when I did I would stutter w-w-words out and st-st-stumble my way through sentences. All I wanted to do was be witty, make her laugh, but I could hardly get anything out. The last week of school, she loaned me a book. I didn't ask for it, she just said I should read it. I didn't have time to finish it. I had to return it and could never remember the title, only the plot as far as I had read. This was fifth grade.
Before sixth grade, she moved out of the district to another one and in the hills all schools are nearly impossible for a sixth grader to get to on his own. I remember looking for her and asking if anyone had seen her during the first week of school. I wanted to see if I could borrow the book to finish it. She was gone. I sort of pushed her out of my mind, but when ever I was at the bookstore, I looked for the book. I didn't find it. That year was the first time I had my heart broken by a girl, as well as many other horrors, making it the worst year of my life.
Sixth grade passed, so did seventh and eighth. Still no book. Sometime in the summer between eighth and ninth grade, two of my friends (brothers) discovered BBSs. When I spent the night at their house we'd stay up until three or four in the morning reading posts and playing text games like Legend of the Red Dragon and Trade Wars. When I learned that she, the one who loaned me the book, was the SysOp for a BBS, I got the program from my friends so I could use the BBSs from home. It was during this time that I fell for her again. I was only allowed to use the phone lines on Friday and Saturday nights, but each of those nights, she and I would exchange letters. Nothing spectacular, nothing that told her how I melted when I thought about her. The nights that she had insomnia and broke in for a live chat with me made it so I couldn't fall asleep for hours after. From her, I got the title of the book, ordered it at the bookstore, and read it. (It wasn't that great, but it was a good way to start a conversation with her.)
A couple of times during the two or so years of BBSing, there were gatherings of the people so we could get to know each other in person at a pizza place, or a lake, or something. I was always hoping that she would be at them, but, according to the people who always went, she never came. Once, though, as I was leaving a party, the guy who was giving the ride pointed to a beautiful girl and said that she was the SysOp that I always asked about. My knees got weak and my stomach fluttered. She was even more gorgeous than I remembered. I tried to walk over to her and introduce myself, but I couldn't. To me, she was too perfect.
*sigh*
I only saw her once after that and it was also after most of the BBSs, hers was one, had been dismantled because the internet was becoming popular and all the SysOps wanted to use their dedicated phone lines to play on the internet rather than let others play on their computers. I saw her at a play, it was either during or just before senior year started. She was sitting in on of the really tall chairs at the back of the theater. Once again, my knees went week and my stomach fluttered. She was talking to the guy she was there with (who happened to be the older brother of a guy who I was friendly with, at least she was with someone nice). She started to laugh. Her eyes squinched up. Her head would fall forward and she'd jerk it back only to have it fall forward again. I think I could have counted all her teeth, her smile was so big. As I walked down the aisle, I couldn't keep my eyes off of her. When the lights fell, I concentrated on the play (which is always easy for me, going to the theater is one of the greatest experiences in life), but when the lights came back up, I kept stealing glances back and to the left to see her again. I wanted to see her laugh again. The old lady sitting behind me probably thought I was nuts. I remember, after the play, watching her slide out of her seat, take the guy's hand and walk out with her. I feared my heart was going to thump its way out of my chest. I haven't seen her since.
I've thought about her all day long. I've also thought about the other girls I've more than liked who said I was a "good friend" or that I was just "too nice" to be anything more than what I was to them. (I'd love to know, what, exactly, is "too nice"?) I've thought about the girl who reached through my ribs and crushed my heart with her left hand in the sixth grade. I've thought about the friends who have moved far away and how I won't be able to see them before next summer in their new home. I've thought about the friend moving to China for at least a year. And I've thought about how GIESW's mother wants GIESW to go to the doctor and get Paxil or Xanax or some other wonder drug because GIESW's mother thinks GIESW is depressed.
I've thought about all of this and it makes me sad.
If I were a drinker, I'd drown my self in a bottle. I'm not a drinker, though. Instead, on my day off tomorrow, I'm going to drown myself in a rented movie or two or three and a bowl of popcorn and some SweeTarts.
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