But if I don’t get this out of my head.

I’ll be chewing my guts forever.

If I keep typing.

Constant and forward thought will keep the tears from brimming over.

I’m broken inside.

And it hurts.

v1.0

I fell in love with a girl a long time ago. She was smart, capable, engaging, and a natural beauty. She brought fun into my otherwise rigid and rehearsed life. I was 11. She was a classmate. I moved away, but I kept in touch with her; mailed her lengthy letters filled with short stories and drawings. With my friend, The Mormon’s, help, I upgraded from letters to audio cassettes, punctuating our commentary with poignant songs. This went on for years. She never wrote back. But I still loved her in the way that only children know how to love: blind and unconditional.

One day, on a whim, I called her to find out how she was. She was going through a bad breakup. She was broken inside. She hurt. I told her I’d come over. I was older then. I had lived more of life. I knew that there were things that couldn’t be forced. I knew that she and I would only be friends. I was well adjusted to that idea.

We went to a coffee house that night and just talked. Outside, however, the planets were aligning and caused just enough of a gravitational field to alter her thinking. She told me she wanted to date me. Those were the only words I’d have taken over a Governor’s pardon if I were ever sitting on the electric chair.

For the first time in a long time, I felt alive. God, what a strange concept to be in a moment and realize that you haven’t lived until that moment. And how amazing is it to have it be another person that breathes life into you?

I was 17 and she lived half an hour away in another city. With my parents and my home life, she might as well have lived on another planet. My parents, my father especially, would never approve of me driving that far for a girl. He was against commitment of that magnitude at that age. Besides, he had already gone through a similar and costly debacle with my brother over similar circumstances. His long distance relationship and events contextual to that were such sore points for the family that it became easier to hide the phone bill rather than incur my father’s wrath. My slight of hand became so good, that I could fetch the mail, find the phone bill in the stack by touch alone, slide it into the band of my underwear under my shirt, and then bow and curtsy in front of my father without having the cellophane window crinkle and betray me. My mother and I went to great lengths, but they were worth it, because my father was pretty maniacal when it came to spending money on his children’s happiness. When I pre-approved a date with the girl, my father took note of the mileage on the car before and after to make sure I had adhered to my itinerary. I knew, in the deepest valleys of my soul, that if I defied my father, a grisly fate awaited me.

I couldn’t see enough of this girl.

At the time, there were very few things in my life that would be worth defying my father for.

She was one of them.

I would sail a boat on dry land for her.

We were three months in. If I ever discounted my earlier love for her when I was a child because of my age, I definitely loved her now. It permeated every fiber of my being. I took school deadly seriously, thinking that school was my foundation to build the best possible life for her. And while she never said the words, I felt loved. She gave me strength, passion, a reason for living. And her love was all I needed to take on the world.

And then it all ended.

“We decided that we should just be friends,” though I don’t remember being present when that decision was made.

And then it all turned to shit.

She dated one of my friends.

If I could have, I would have painted rainbows black, burned all the roses, and torn the blue skies.

That was the second time in my life when I wanted to die.

But I adjusted. Life gave me lemons, so I sliced them open and rubbed them over my wounds until I got used to the pain.

Months later, her relationship with my friend fell apart, so she called me. We met. It was romantic. It was physical. It was short-lived. She met someone else. Moved away with him. Moved back. I don’ know. We’d meet on odd occurrences. I’d try to make something happen. I’d fail. Despite giving her my number on several occasions, she’d never call me. Sometime, around 2000, I had found out that she was sick and in the hospital. I dropped off a Happy Birthday card and a Get Well card, hoping she would call. She never did.

I cut her loose. That was six years ago, but I only consciously stopped remembering her birthday about two.

Life goes on.

Life went on.

I still thought about her. Quite often, really. More vindictively than fondly, though.

As fate would have it, I found her online. More out of novelty than anything else, I contacted her. She replied, briefly catching me up on her life. She’s single. She has a 4 year-old daughter.

I replied.

She didn’t.

I shot off a couple more e-mails and no response from her. It was a microcosm of our relationship thus far. Realizing that, I stopped contacting her, feeling foolish for having done so to begin with.

Months go by.

Months went by.

Then out of the blue, she contacts me this week. She fills me in on her current troubles, explaining why she’s been so silent, both recently and over the years. Her reasons are very good. I will do her the small courtesy of not broadcasting the details of her dire straits, but just know that they are long, jagged, and treacherous to negotiate. She says we can meet if I want.

Since I was going to be in her town, visiting The G-Man, I asked if we could meet then. She suggested we have coffee in the morning. I agreed. Knowing that I’d have to get up preternaturally early to get to the coffee place on time, I tried to go to bed early. I tossed and turned until 2:30 am. I admit it, I was excited.

She texts me the next morning to cancel. Her kid is sick. To be sure, I was disappointed, but I went about my day and hung out with The G-Man. During the get together, sometime in the evening, I stepped out onto the balcony to give her a call and check up on her. My intention was to let her know that if she needed anything or if she wanted me to come by, I would. I’d leave that very second. Unfortunately, I get shitty reception at The G-Man’s place and my phone battery has about a five minute talk-time. Moreover, I’m talking to her and I’m saying the words of my lead in when I realize we don’t have the foundation between us for me to be so compassionate, but it’s too late, because I’ve already said my lead in. So since I couldn’t move forward, we got sucked into this vacuum of silence. I ended up saying, “I don’t know why I just said that.”

She obviously picked up on where I was going, because she replied, “You can come over if you want (static, static) plans tonight.”

I don’t know if she said, “but you can’t stay long, because I have plans tonight” or “but I don’t want to ruin your plans tonight.” I wanted to ask, but then realized my phone could drop dead any second and she’d think I hung up on her. Since her number is on my phone, there’d be no way for me to call her back until I recharged. So I just asked if we could talk about it later and hung up. I left my phone on.

Hours later, I find text messages from her, spaced about an hour apart from each other, each one sounding more lonely and pathetic than the last. Worried, I call her on The G-Man’s brother’s phone to sort it all out.

I explain to her why I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I’d come over if she wanted me to. I explain my thinking on the lack of foundation between us; how we don’t know if/how we fit into each other’s lives. I tell her I didn’t want to come off creepy. Time, after all, is a gigantic barrier.

After a pregnant pause, she tenderly replied, “I know you, René.”

How could she just say that to me, melt through years of separation, tear through all my defense mechanisms, and gaze plainly at my exposed soul? I felt an immense pressure in my chest, like something grabbed a hold of my heart. It was her: a 17 year-old girl, reaching across time and space to bring me back to her. In that moment, I felt that if I could just will it hard enough, I could blink and the nightmare of my life would dissolve and I’d find myself in her arms, leaning against my Toyota Camry, with the sunset streaking through her hair. She’d be looking intently at me, wondering where in my head I’d lost myself.

But I couldn’t.

My nightmare is real.

We made plans to meet for lunch. I had two days to kill before then. So, as a nice homage to old times, I met up with The Mormon to make another recording. This time, we put it on CD. It took us about eight hours to get the thing engineered, but when we finished, it was a work of art.

What were my intentions? None, really. Did I expect something of a sexual or romantic nature? Of course not, but while I decided I wouldn’t steer anything in that direction, I wasn’t pre-opposed to it happening naturally, either.

Well, as much as I tried to delay leaving for the restaurant, I still ended up arriving early. I sat in my car for a little bit and then leaned against the wall of the restaurant, looking very James Dean-ish, if I do say so myself. She pulled up on time in a silver CR-V while I tried to control the beating of my heart.

Everything went downhill from there: The Beginning.

Ever since the phone call on the balcony, if there was one thing I wanted to do when I finally saw her, it was hug her. Not just hug her, but envelope her in my arms, let her know that I was really there for her and that my compassion and friendship were just as solid.

So she approached and I gazed at her, trying to lock eyes so that the music could swell around us, but she preemptively moved in for a hug and I guess I didn’t react fast enough, because she pulled back almost immediately and made a face that said, “Fine. Whatever.”

I salvaged the situation by pulling her in for a two-arm hug. She gave me a one-arm hug with a little pat on the back.

I won’t bother you with the details of the lunch, because to write them would only bore you as much as the real events bored me. Suffice to say, we do not jell as people and I said as much to her. To illustrate: because I’m a charming man and because I want to make a connection with her on as many levels as possible, I extended my hand, palm up, across the table so that she could place hers in mine. She did so and I cupped it with my other hand. In this manner we talked while I played with her knuckles. We got to a point where she made some comments that seemed contradictory to earlier statements and I called her on it. I jokingly repeated her earlier comments in an exaggerated affectation of her voice, which is just my way.

She shit a chicken.

She violently yanked her hand out of mine and crossed her arms, asking if that was how I thought she really sounded and how dare I mock her voice and her earlier comments. I simply sat with mouth agape while she bent my ear. I clarified to make sure that she was truly offended and then said the only thing that I could say.

“It was not my intention to offend you and I won’t do so in that manner again.”

I couldn’t say I was sorry, because I wasn’t. In fact I was prepared to call it a day, but I gave it one more push and asked, “Should we call it a day or can we get past this?” She begrudgingly agreed to move on, but the conversation had already jumped the shark, so we left a few minutes later.

Outside, I gave her the CD that The Mormon and I had made for her. She affected surprise and opened it up. She saw who it was made by and asked, “Who’s [The Mormon]?”

I was astonished. In years gone by, I never made an audio recording for her without The Mormon. We were a comedic/dramatic duo. Inseparable. You can’t have audio recordings from me and not have The Mormon. She might as well have opened up the CD and asked, “Who’s René?”

v9.7b

I watched her drive away and I was left feeling completely unfulfilled. In any kind of relationship, being able to communicate effectively and satisfactorily is a prime requisite. If you gloss over that fact it will fuck you later on, I guarantee it. People really take conversation for granted, but they don’t realize how much conversation says about you. When I sit down and talk to someone, there are a lot of things I pick up on.

Does this person cut me off while speaking?

Do they make listening noises or appropriate reactions?

Do they make relevant interjections or do they try to steal the conversation away?

Do they follow the story?

If they must interrupt you, are they able to get you back on your train of thought?

And a thousand other tell-tale signs that a person does or does not care about you and what you have to say and how courteous they are. Then, of course, there’s the psychological part of what you say and how you listen to it, but that’s a whole other level, entirely.

The conversation at lunch was very one-sided and mostly about her. When I’m with a girl, I don’t mind talking about her, but there’s only so much I can do to that end. I knew the conversation had slipped into the point of no return when I said, “I like your eyebrows. Do you pluck them?”

The problem here is that throughout the rekindling of our relationship, I was operating on old programming, v1.0. Romantic, Altruistic, Knight in Shining Armor. I allowed it to override the current v9.7b programming. Logical, Fair, Realistic. Granted, it’s my own fault for keeping legacy software installed, but that’s a moot point since I can’t remove it. Subsequent programming was built on v1.0 architecture. It’s integral to who I am. The best I could do was build around it and hope I didn’t leave any holes in the security. Apparently, I did.

The day before lunch, I had asked her why she pulled me back into her life after so many years.

She said, “Because you make me feel special and I wanted to feel special.”

I was offended and touched at the same time. After careful scrutiny, I realize that I should have been neither. I should have just taken the situation as someone needing something from me. She might as well have called asking for money. v9.7b would have cut things off then and there, but v1.0 had infected too much of the programming and I gave her the benefit of the doubt that there was more to it.

And I think that is where she and I fail as people in each other’s lives.

We don’t really exist as people to each other.

To her, I’m a mechanic. When her life breaks down or she goes through a breakup, she comes to me to get fixed. I make her feel great again, restore her self-esteem, and then she’s off and running to the next guy who’ll disappoint her.

To me, she’ll always be that 17 year-old girl, embodying the love that could have saved me.

After too many cigarettes and a good amount of time patching the software, I’ve decided that I will still be there for her in her time of need. But I will only regard her as one person reaching out to another person for help. It was foolish for me to tangle emotions and history into this.

I don’t think we left things very well after lunch, so I don’t expect her to call any time soon.

But if she does, I’ll be here.

“Stay where you belong. In my memories.”
–Cloud Strife, Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children

The night I’m going to relate to you was not one of them.

Sometime, December 2003.

Steve, my very good friend of ten years, flew in from his swank setup in Manhattan for his annual visit to see his family and other people, like his friends: myself, trapped in suburbia, and Dave fighting the war in the urban battleground of the big city. Every year the tradition is to go to LA and have a few drinks and a few laughs. This year, we also added Andy, an old high school compatriot, to the festivities. It was about eleven PM by the time we got to our destination. I hadn’t eaten since three.

Another part of the tradition, I suppose, is to go to a Korean bar, since Dave and Steve are both Korean. Steve phoned ahead to get directions while he drove. The Korean bar we were going to was New York, New York, located on Wilshire and Western, in case you’d like to experience the Korean bar scene for yourself. Forty-five minutes later, we were parked and we strolled into the joint trying to look inconspicuously cool as bar etiquette dictated.

Dave was waiting for us at a small row of squat, circular tables he had wrangled together for our party, puffing away coolly on his fancy eurotrash cigarettes. I’ve known Dave for almost fifteen years and during that time I’ve never admired him for his physical attributes or sense of style. Now that our relationship has dwindled to a “see you whenever” basis, Dave has seemingly morphed into a “cool guy” icon overnight. Here’s a quick visual. Dave is appreciably tall. He’s thin with a slender face. He has stubble bristling over the area around his mouth and chin. His flaxen hair is long and thin and hangs down over his eyes. He’s got this kind of intriguing, self-important image about him that draws you closer only to be repelled by his dismissive personality. I grabbed the chair closest to him and basked in his aura while I adjusted to the surroundings. Steve, stockier than all of us and who would probably last the longest of our group in a fight, grabbed a chair opposite me and talked to Andy about law school.

Being in a Korean bar is jarring for me in the same way Mormon gatherings are. I’m conspicuously aware that I’m in the dark skinned minority. In fact, when I looked around, the only other person who was close to my complexion was Andy–a tall lanky Indian whom I was never close to and whom I could never read. We had shared some classes in high school and he hung out with Steve and Dave mostly, so I’d have to classify Andy as a second-degree friend at best. That being so, I would have to look elsewhere for dark skinned camaraderie.

On the up side, you can smoke in Korean bars. They get around the inspectors by not having any ashtrays in the conventional sense. They craft these makeshift ashtrays with plates and wetnaps, easily passed over by the eyes of the most scrutinizing inspector.

Since it wasn’t a full bar, the alcohol for the evening was a Korean beer called Hite and a Korean alcohol called Soju. I had had Soju the year previous and I remember liking it since it was largely tasteless and smooth going down. It’s similar to vodka, actually. So to get things going I had a couple of shots of Soju in between scarffing down handfuls of complimentary popcorn to soak up the alcohol.

For about forty-five minutes we knocked back drinks and yelled conversation across our small cocktail tables, and then the alcohol caught up with me. I started slurring my speech and wobbling in my chair. I wasn’t out of control mind you, but I was definitely on my way. Logic dictated that I curb the drinking and begin the process of sobering up, but it was too late. I was functioning under the twisted version of logic and instead ate more popcorn, thinking that that would stave off alcohol poisoning.

Forty-five minutes later, we all decided to leave and do something else. I suggested we eat to soak up the alcohol, but no one else wanted to eat and I didn’t want to be the lightweight who hampered the evening’s festivities. So I said I’d be fine without food and that I had had enough popcorn to see me through. As soon as I stood up and walked outside, however, my concern for how much I was reacting to the alcohol jumped up considerably. I ran a quick mental diagnostic. Motor skills severely compromised. Body temperature dropping to dangerous levels. I stumbled outside and I was shivering. At that moment, I knew that I stood on the threshold of being completely shit-faced so in the back of my mind I was hoping that it was too late in the night for other forms of entertainment to be viable, but then someone mentioned late night karaoke.

I protested adamantly and said that I would simply go with them, but not sing. Of course, what does that really mean when you’re the drunk guy? Dave turned to me and said, “You got to pop that karaoke cherry sometime,” and that settled the argument. So I dragged my carcass into the backseat of Steve’s Honda Accord and shut my eyes, convulsing in shivers the way I had done four years ago after a particularly ugly alcohol binge when I was vomiting for about four hours. The correlation was not comforting.

I could already feel the chemicals swishing around my innards like the chemical catalyst to a bomb. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, hoping that when I woke I would be safe in my apartment with the night behind me. No such luck. Steve turned on the radio and, being midnight on Saturday, all the stations played techno, rife with “bwoops,” and “zoots,” and sound bytes of Martin Luther King Jr. Furthermore, my head was reclined far enough back that my face was no longer beneath the roof of the car, but instead under the incline of the rear window. What this afforded me was constant acid trip flashes in my eyes through my eyelids each time we drove under a streetlamp, which were many. The techno and the lights all melded with my stupor into a private rave inside my head.

We drove for about twenty minutes. Finally we stopped and Steve and Andy debated quickly over if we were allowed to park where we were. I was oblivious to the particulars because I was still playing asleep in the hope to dear God that they would just leave me in the car. My hopes were dashed with Andy grabbing my knee and rousing me. With inexplicable strength and willpower, I pulled myself out of the car and into walking motion. Andy and Dave went ahead and Steve and I brought up the rear. Ten yards into the trip the sudden rush of saliva to my mouth was the harbinger of doom. I grabbed the railing of a nearby flight of steps to steady myself as I prepared to puke into a nearby sewer grate. Steve came running back and tried to pull me in his direction. I suppose he had found a more suitable receptacle for my vomit, but the gravy train had left the station and I could only manage a few feet before I exhaled a pint of hot steaming liquid into a nearby planter. Dave returned to slap my back while I spasmed and he told some curious security guards that I was all right.

After that glorious moment together passed, we climbed and climbed a seemingly infinite stairwell. At the top, I vomited some more. “Round two,” Dave called it and he held the waist of my coat away from the blast radius. I was beyond all consideration for where people may have to walk the following morning and just puked right there on the walkway. Chunks of partially digested popcorn riddled the liquid on the ground and Dave exclaimed excitedly, “Ooh popcorn!” and squatted down, placing his face disturbingly close to my vomit.

Afterwards, we caught up with Andy and gathered inside the late night karaoke place. It was one of those places that rent out private rooms so you can sing to your heart’s content without the fear of strangers ridiculing you. Having freshly vomited, I basked in the mental effects of alcohol while being free of the intestinal effects and thus was filled with a surge to make a fool of myself. So, while my buddies were still looking over song selections and instructions on how to work the machine, I grabbed one of the mics and sang the first two verses of My Way and then closed off with a “Goodnight Seattle!” Then I sat catatonic on the edge of the couch while my compadres rocked out to In My Places. Finishing that, Steve wanted to hear my full rendition of My Way, so he selected that as the next song and we sang a duet together, altering the lyrics where appropriate. I thought that would be a fitting end for my singing contribution and I found that the pain in my head and the queasiness of my stomach could no longer be ignored, so I decided to lie back on the couch and be as inconspicuous as possible.

I attempted deep meditation to calm my throbbing skull and my tumultuous bowels, but Dave turned the volume on the karaoke machine up to stadium concert decibel levels and the sound pierced through my eardrums and into my brain like knitting needles. Meanwhile, Steve attempted to draw me out of my meditation by coaxing me to sing our song from past math classes, You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling. I was really feeling like shit, so I declined, not wishing to break my concentration. So Steve went it alone, starting with the sexy baritone that the beginning of the song calls for. Hearing his voice fill the lyrics whisked me away to our sophomore year in high school, writing line after line of math for seemingly endless algebraic proofs, with nothing to keep us sane but this one song between us. So when it came for the alto to chime in, I couldn’t leave my friend hanging. I grabbed a mic and screeched out with the best falsetto I could muster. From there, Steve and I sang both parts where we pleased. We were both Bill Medley and Bobby Hatfield at the same time! It was wonderful and terrible to behold. Afterwards, I collapsed back into the sofa, spent. Now nothing could call me away from Zen. Or so I thought.

I’m not sure who selected this track, but Sixteen Tons started to play. A bit of background here: as someone who works in a highly physical profession–I’m a server at a popular Italian restaurant–I can sympathize with the words of Sixteen Tons like no other. As such, the song holds particular sentimental value for me. My friends are fortunate enough to have jobs that are not as physical or no job at all. Steve is a paralegal for a hoity toity law firm in New York. Dave is a bond writer for a Los Angeles based Korean business. Andy is a law school student. These guys singing Sixteen Tons is like singing the national anthem of a foreign country. There is something lacking in the delivery unless you really experience it. To hear my friends butcher the song was more grating on my mind and soul than any amount of inebriation could ever be. Like Lazarus rising from the grave, I cracked open my eyes and commandeered the nearest mic and began singing the song with the kind of gusto and passion that the song deserves much to the fear and dismay of those around me. Their singing stopped momentarily and they stared, wide eyed. Then the song ended and I crashed onto the safety of the couch once more.

Then some scary shit happened. Somebody selected In Da Club by 50 Cent and a few measures in I was compelled to the nearby corner trashcan where I vomited another good pint of liquid. Then I lost all ability to sustain that position and I remember collapsing towards my side. I use “towards” because I don’t remember ever hitting the floor. When I came to, I was twitching. My head was resting on a raised part of the floor used as a makeshift stage with the corner gorging my temple and the unmistakable flow of blood was gushing from my nose and soaking into a small pool into the dark green carpet. Saliva drooled out the corner of my mouth and ran up my cheek. For a moment, I experienced what I like to think bad stroke victims feel when they lose all ability to move but their mind is still intact.

I was freaking out, watching my limbs and torso twitch like that! More absurdly, my friends continued to sing their damn song, blissfully ignoring the epileptic mass of flesh in the corner. Realizing no help would come, I returned to diagnostic mode. I tried small movements, like my foot and then my leg. After those preliminary tests, I realized that there was no cause for panic and set myself upright again and over the knee-high trashcan so I could let my nose bleed into my vomit for a nasty cocktail. A few moments later, Dave approached me to gaze upon my works and despair. I assured him that I was fine, once again, not wishing to be the guy who ruins the night. Afterwards I managed to situate myself onto the couch and bleed out the rest of the night into my hands and my handkerchief.

After a few more screeching ditties, our hour rental was up and we stumbled out into the night once more, but not before a Kodak moment of tomfoolery with Dave and Steve leaning completely horizontal off spring toys that children ride in a small park we had found in the center of the mall. Once we got back to the street, I shoved myself into the backseat to rest while my fellows smoked and tried to get Steve to puke to sober him up for the ride home. For my part, I concentrated on warm thoughts and played with the drying blood on my fingertips, sticky and full of texture.

Cigarettes done and Steve unable to induce his own vomiting, Dave poked his head inside the car and we said good-bye. From there, Steve, Andy and I drove up and down one of the shittiest streets in America that jostled my bowels while we tried to find an on-ramp to the freeway. I was forced to have Steve pull over lest I vomit onto the nice Korean doilies that covered his car seats.

Right palm placed steady against a brick wall, I forced out the last remnants of my stomach while Andy snapped a picture on his digital camera. I was slightly mesmerized and bewildered by my regurgitation because I noted something moving amongst the debris and I could only hope it had already been there pre-vomit. Afterwards, back in the car and on the road, I made the standard drunken apology for having mired everyone down in my incapacitation. “What are you talking about?” Andy asked genuinely, “The night isn’t complete until someone bleed-vomits.” Steve concurred and apologized to me for not having joined me in the vomiting with the world spinning gloriously behind us. I managed to crack a smile at the thought. Mercifully, I passed out on the ride home. When I awoke, we were at my apartment complex and I bid Steve a safe trip home and told Andy how it had been good to see him after such a long time. Then I stumbled upstairs and after about an hour of tossing and turning and listening to my stomach I fell asleep. The following morning I went to work without the slightest trace of a hangover.

I have a death wish. I know this with utmost clarity and I’m okay with it. I’ve often wondered when and how my death will come about. In all probability, I will probably die in some alcohol related death. I repeatedly poison myself with it. I ride with people who are under its influence. I drive home across long distances at stolen car speeds while alcohol slows my reflexes and blurs my vision. My only hope, since not-drinking-alcohol is not an option I’m willing to take, is that I die in as good of company as the friends that saw me through that particular evening. During my time as the burden of the evening, these guys, minus the minor seizure fiasco, really looked out for me. The following day, Steve and Dave gave me a call to make sure that I hadn’t vomited in my sleep and gone the way of Jimi Hendrix. These guys are definitely people I would gladly die with.

And I’d like to think that I came close to it.

Here’s to next year.

You could have gotten the same thing at any bar for the price of a few drinks.

I have not enjoyed life for any significantly measurable amount of time. In my family, I was the low man on the totem pole of abuse. My father abused my older brother; my brother doubly abused me. On the social front, I was buffered by two forces to keep me walking the lonely path of bachelorhood. On one side, I was constantly and in the cruelest ways rejected by girls I desired. On the other side, I refused to settle for any of the squat, sloth-like, snaggletooth monstrosities that hit on me. Personally, I had low self-image. I didn’t feel like I belonged in the predominantly Caucasian society that I lived in. As such, I grappled with trying and failing to be white. Over the years, these pressures and many more like them slowly stained me black in the deepest sense. I have dug an emotional moat around myself and destroyed the drawbridge. So, even though I value and strive to form strong relationships, platonic and otherwise, I am ready to abandon those relationships at any given moment without the slightest hesitation. I have no qualms with dealing out pain, seeing death, or taking life. I don’t fear dying. Have you seen my will to live? Because I seem to have lost it.

The fact that I know these things about myself is precisely the reason why therapy — in the conventional sense — is useless to me. Therapy is about self-discovery and ultimately self-acceptance and I have already taken the time to do some emotional house cleaning. I accepted my reality. Aside from recommending medication, I couldn’t imagine that a therapist could offer anything more.

My do-it-yourself therapy kit came in the form of an online journal, which I published to handpicked readers. I had attempted to maintain a private journal, but because I already had my thoughts well contemplated in my head, my entries degenerated into emotional shorthand and I lost the impetus to write. Publishing my journal allowed me a deeper introspective view of myself by forcing me to articulate my thoughts so that my readers could understand my point of view. No question is more powerful than the question: “Why? ”Why was I sad? Why was I angry? Why did I think this about that? There were many nights when I wrote, so sure of my stance or belief on an issue, only to find my reasoning faulty or just plain stupid. It was profoundly cathartic to externalize myself in this way affording close personal scrutiny. It was a process of discovery and redefining. It was everything I could ever hope to get out of therapy.

In April of 2002 I was overcome by a very deep depression, which was the product of several factors. First, I was not doing well in school. Having transferred from a junior college based on a semester schedule to a university based on the quarter system, I was not prepared for the workload or the pace of the classes. Furthermore, I was an English major and I hated the material, but viewed the major as the least of all evils so continued my losing battle in classes that bored me to tears. Within two quarters of my transfer, I was placed on academic probation and from the looks of the current quarter I would soon be dismissed. Nights were spent lamenting the heartache I would cause my mother who expected me to right all of my older brother’s academic failures. Any sleep I did get was so near waking that I wouldn’t bother to call it rest. Instead, I would opt to nod off in class, which only further ensured my dismissal.

Secondly, I was working as a debt collector for Sears Credit Collection. At first, the job was a godsend in that it was one of the few decent paying jobs that catered to a school schedule. After a few months, the mindless repetition and the seething hatred exuded by our “customers” chipped away my mettle and I hated the job. Within six months, I had used up all of my “segments” (allowable sick days) for the year. If I took just one more day off for any reason (death in the family, serious injury, saving a baby from a burning building, you name it) I would be terminated.

Thirdly, I was still continually being snubbed by women or passed up for other guys who, in my opinion, were not better choices. My life was not going in the direction I had hoped. I considered suicide as a viable solution. In doing so, I threw caution to the wind.

I simply stopped going to work and school. For the first time in my life making these fatalistic decisions had no effect on me because I planned to commit suicide before any adverse repercussions could manifest themselves. Besides that, my car broke down and I was without reliable transportation for about a week anyway, which would have resulted in the same outcome with work and school, in that I would have been fired and I would have missed out on taking requisite tests in classes. Strangely, the depression I was suffering was not the stereotypical depression one sees dramatized on television or in the movies where you sleep a lot and have no energy. In fact, I behaved pretty normally. I was just waiting around to die.

Before I kicked off, however, I decided I would make one more go at happiness (i.e. easy money). I did some quick research and became a Webmaster for several self-created porn sites. I figured that since Internet porn businesses had suckered me out of some cash in the past, that my fortune was just a few million clicks away by other suckers worldwide. Unfortunately, teaching myself the intricacies of web authoring and then promoting my sites by myself was insurmountably harder than I thought it could be. Two months passed and only enough lonely souls visited jackability.com to cover my starting capital. I let the website die and was now prepared to follow it.

I turned to my journal. I was ready to end my life, but I had to reconcile my emotions with my Catholic upbringing. I didn’t fear God, per se. In fact, I didn’t necessarily believe in God anymore. I feared the possibility of God. To cover all my bases, I had to view my choices from the perspective that God exists. The initial conclusion I came to was that while suicide would send me to hell (i. e. willfully engaging in acts that ensured my death, like decapitation), risking my life would not send me to hell (i. e. engaging in acts that offered high potential for my death, like free mountain climbing, driving while heavily under the influence, etc.). I honestly thought I had found a religious loophole. But then the argument was clouded by the idea that God is omniscient and knows my thoughts and intents. And if my intent is to get killed, regardless of the action, God will consider it a sin great enough for hell. That idea gave way to a more dangerous thought: if the action is irrelevant and all that matters is the thought or intent then I’m screwed anyway, because I’ve had very sinful thoughts in my life that I never acted on. Confession wouldn’t save me, because God would know I was only confessing to get back into His good graces and not because I was actually sorry or felt I shouldn’t have thought those things. After all, if I didn’t think I should be thinking those thoughts, why did I think them in the first place?

At the end of a lengthy journal entry, I realized I could not circumvent the dilemma of God and, worse, I concluded that suicide or no suicide, I was going to hell. Since I imagined hell to be worse than (or at the very least, the same as) my life I decided I needed to take some life affirming actions to stave off that inevitable outcome. It’s amazing what a logical, introspective examination can do for you!

The turnaround time was instantaneous. I immediately looked into damage control with my college career. A buddy of mine, who had also been on the same road to dismissal, was able to make a complete recovery by checking out the personal counseling available for free on campus. I witnessed how well he was performing in school now and I considered taking the therapy. I analyzed the situation as logically as possible up until the moment I walked into the offices. I still couldn’t see how someone who didn’t know me or anything about me could “fix” me. In fact, I had this concern that I would be balled up into some category and then receive textbook advice. On the other hand, I had never had any real experience with therapy; I only had vague caricatures of therapy from the media. So I put my fears on the back burner and committed myself to the endeavor. Maybe they could give me an answer as to why I performed so poorly; why my mind wandered in class; why I was not inspired to learn any of the material. At the very least, they might recommend psychotropic drugs to improve my mood.

When you go in for counseling they make you fill out this survey about your mental disposition and you answer by filling a bubble signifying the degree to which you feel the statement applies to you. For example: “I feel people are always looking at me.” 1,2, or 3. “I have thoughts about killing myself.” 1,2, or 3. “I eat small woodland creatures.” 1, 2, or 3. This form is then given to an “intake person” who reviews it and then interviews you in order to refer you to an actual counselor. My intake person was this grotesquely obese woman. Her jowls jiggled when she spoke and her joints were engulfed by the surrounding cellulite. Her lower abdomen distended morbidly and her breathing was labored in the way that only fat people can be winded while sitting down. It was unsettling to look at her. This was not the comfort I had hoped to find in therapy.

So the intake began with some legal mumbo-jumbo about disclosure. If she felt there was a very realistic possibility that I would kill myself, then she would have to report that to people who could intervene, such as my family. To have my family know about this was out of the question, but I still wanted to see if therapy could offer me something, so I told her that my suicidal thoughts were more passive than anything else, which was true to a large extent, and this seemed to allay her concerns. We got to talking about my situation with school and how I was down and the whole shebang. This led into my past and family life and whatnot—the kind of thing you expect to find in therapy—along with this lady scribbling mysteriously on a notepad. From there, everything went down hill and I no longer felt like the unique snowflake that I was with unique problems. Instead I felt like a multiple-choice question on a test. There was one right answer and all she had to do was find it.

“René, did your father drink when you lived at home?”

“Sure. Pretty regularly, in fact.”

“Would you say he was an alcoholic?”

“Well, there was a time when I felt he drank excessively, but I wouldn’t call him an alcoholic. He drinks pretty rarely now.”

“Hm, you know a person can drink a couple of beers on the weekends and still be an alcoholic.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that.”

Scribble, scribble.

“René, has there been any depression in other family members?”

“Well, there were nights when there were family arguments and my mother was pretty sad, but I wouldn’t call her depressed.”

“She was probably masking it.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that.”

Scribble, scribble.

And that’s the kind of categorizing I didn’t want. My thoughts and observations didn’t matter. She had made up her mind. So after the intake, I was informed that all the real counselors had gone on vacation for the summer and that I would be speaking to an intern. Therapy just kept getting better and better.

My guy was a tall lanky fellow who would sit with his elbows propped on the arms of his chair and hide the lower half of his face with his hands as he stared intently at me through his glasses. Well, I can only assume he stared at me because the lamplight reflected in his lenses, causing a glare that prevented any kind of eye contact. It all felt very impersonal. Before the interview started, we had to get more legal, waiver signing, disclosure nonsense out of the way. Then, in an attempt to give him a better vantage point from which to assess my frame of mind, I gave the guy a copy of my journal on disc. I figured I’ve put some pretty personal and candid thoughts in it. What better way to get a lot of pertinent information about a patient in the shortest amount of time? I was trying to help him out. He simply tossed it on his desk, making no sign that he would read it, and stated something to the effect of that no matter how much information I gave him, he would never truly know me.

Wonderful.

After that, I opened up with small talk. I asked him how he was doing. His response, in classic therapist fashion, was to immediately question why I was questioning him. Normally, I would have said that I was just making small talk, but I anticipated he would ask why I was making small talk, so I cut to the chase and said something that was analysis worthy. I told him I wanted to make sure he was comfortable before we started talking.

“Hm, interesting,” was his response.

I suppressed an urge to laugh out loud and then went on to explain why I sought therapy. I talked about all of the things that got me down. I talked about my worries. I talked about my lack of focus with school.

“Why can’t you seem to focus, René?”

“Well, I don’t really feel interested in a lot of the material that’s required and I day dream a lot.”

“What do you day dream about?”

“Oh man, a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

“Uh, it really varies.”

“Give me an example.”

“Uh…well, like zombies for instance. I often think about how defendable my home is from an invasion of zombies.”

“Hm, interesting. What else?”

“Uh…I think about the past a lot.”

“What about the past?”

“Situations that I might have handled differently.”

“Hm…what I’m hearing is that you’re looking for control. When we started you admitted that you wanted to make sure I was comfortable. You wanted to control this situation just like you want to control past situations where you didn’t have control.”

“Yeah, I guess so. ” But he left out the zombies. What about the zombies?!

For the next couple of sessions it was pretty much the same thing. Once he had found what chapter of the therapist handbook I fell under, everything I said was about trying to get control, not having control, being controlled, etc. Afterwards, I confided in the friend who had sought therapy at the same place about the whole “control” bit. My friend looked at me wide eyed and explained that they had said the same thing to him. Apparently, his “issue” was all about control, too! I was left with the question, why is control a problem? Control is a good thing. Control is natural. Do we ever — should we ever — want things to be out of control?

A few sessions later, I told my counselor that I was unsure about my academic status with the university. This raised red flags. If I was no longer a student, I couldn’t receive any help from them. Never mind the fact that I had told them I was suicidal. My life was only worth saving so long as I paid tuition. “I think we should be clear about your status as a student before we meet again, René.”

That week I received the dismissal letter in the mail.

Therapy offers very little for people like me. I am too analytical and too self-aware to simply accept what a therapist says without reconciling it with my own diagnosis. Through self-examination I found that the answer was so simple and right in front of my face: Give up. My problem was not that I didn’t see the answer, but that I had misinterpreted it. I had chosen to give up living, which was incorrect. The answer was to give up fighting reality. Maybe this was the great revelation I would have come to if I hadn’t been dismissed and stuck with the therapy: Stop Controlling the Situation. It was right to lose that job. I hated it. Instead, I became a server at a restaurant. It has its downsides, but overall I enjoy it. Getting dismissed opened my eyes. The English major was not for me. I didn’t enjoy reading. I enjoyed writing. I discovered the Creative Writing program and worked my way back into good standing as a major. The girl situation still blows, but no amount of journal writing is going to fix that.

While I was able to resolve my issues myself, that’s not to say that therapy — in the conventional sense — is useless. People who are not fortunate enough to have emotional outlets like my journal can certainly benefit from therapy. A therapist is paid to listen. Therapy can help those too bashful to talk to friends or family about personal problems for fear of becoming a pariah within their own social circle. A therapist is paid to accept you. Therapy doesn’t help me because I’ve evolved beyond these constraints in my search for self-definition. The only person that needs to listen to me and accept me is myself.

Is he man or myth? Good Samaritan wandering the suburbs of San Jacinto or an illusion within a sunstroked brain? For those with the kind of peculiar luck that crosses your path with him, Crazy Larry will change your life forever. I am one such person. And this is our story.

***

Sometime, 2000. After six hours of school, I was walking back to the parking lot in heat that made everything beyond one hundred yards swim in my vision through invisible sultry tendrils. I got to my car and the dull amber hue seeping from my headlights reminded me all too late that I should have turned my headlights off after exiting the daytime headlights zone on my way to school. I was fifty miles away from home and friends were just as far.

The amount of people without jumper cables–myself included–is staggering. After an hour of approaching people heading to class, I finally convinced a tall lanky white guy with glasses and a bushy moustache to jump my car. He drove his truck over–which looked like it had been assembled from old tank and airplane scraps–and parked it in front of my Toyota Camry. He undid the chain with links fatter than my fist that held his hood down and set up the cables, while I inconspicuously gave his vehicle a once over for any confederate flag bumper stickers. I should have paid more attention to what he was doing, I see that now, but at the time I was too dazed with heat exhaustion to realize something was wrong with his setup until I saw sparks flying from my battery. Needless to say, he didn’t get my car running. Truck Guy put his hood back together and took off, leaving me to plead for help once more.

And then I met Crazy Larry. I saw him walking down the concrete path from whatever class he had come from. His thin body was outlined against a backdrop of brightly sunlit cement and stucco. He wore shorts that ended mid-thigh and a Hawaiian shirt that was unbuttoned to reveal the tan skin of his beer belly. Being an older guy, easily in his early fifties, I thought he would be a bit more competent. When I waved to him and explained my situation, he regarded me through his dark sunglasses and ran a few bony fingers up to his scalp, unsettling the white garland of what was left of his hair. He agreed to help me and told me he would pull his car around. Larry’s car wasn’t much better than Truck Guy’s. Without its front bumper and its grill, Larry’s car looked like a cadaver with its face dissected. Nevertheless, his cable setup looked correct. Sadly, it was to no avail. My car didn’t even play the annoying “ding” of my door open with the key in the ignition.

I was defeated and ready to call a tow truck, but Larry really wanted to get me going and on my way, it seemed. He told me that he was really low on gas and wouldn’t be able to keep his car running much longer…but if I gave him a few bucks, he’d be able to fill up and take his time.

This was probably the best offer Id get all day so I agreed. Larry fiddled around with my engine for a bit then said that he needed his tools. I figured he was going to go fill up and then run home and get them, but then he told me to come along. Despite all of the admonitions I had received as a child not to get into the cars of strangers and despite countless milk cartons and slips of junk mail asking if I had seen the person depicted, I felt an adventure calling me so I hopped in. It beat standing in the heat. We got introductions out of the way as we pulled out of the parking lot.

“My name’s René.”

“I’m Crazy Larry. Nice to meet you.”

“You’re name’s Crazy Larry?”

“Yeah. I had a teacher last semester and she was like, ‘Damn, that old man is cool, but he’s crazy.’” His voice, ripped and torn from smoking too many GPC’s, had a gravelly Rod Stewart quality to it, which made me constantly clear my throat. Then, to prepare me for the red light he was about to run, he told me that he’s an aggressive driver, but he’s never had a ticket. Luckily, we cruised into a nearby gas station in one piece. As we got out of the car, Larry noticed the corpulent female attendant working on one of the pumps.

“Hey!” Larry shouted at the woman who was no more than five feet away from him, “How are your juices flowing?” She stared wide-eyed at him. “I can get your juices flowing for you if you’d like!”

“They’re doing just fine,” she replied, slowly walking away.

Larry grinned at me as he filled up. I noticed he didn’t use all of the five dollars I gave him. Before we left, Larry made a quick stop at a nearby liquor store where he emerged with a forty ounce King Cobra. As we drove, he ripped off the cap and took hefty swigs, all the while asking me questions about myself.

“Where you from?” he asked, lighting a GPC cigarette.

“The Philippines.”

“Ah, I was there once. During Nam. Girls down there got some tight pussies. Don’t ever get involved with a girl who’s had four kids.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“You’ll waste money investing in stitches so you don’t keep falling out of her.” I laughed, but he wasn’t joking.

***

Where does Crazy Larry live?

So we drove a bit longer and I became more and more aware that the road was leading up into the hills. I tried to remain calm, but I’m also a rational human being and I’ve seen enough true crime stories in my time. The idea that Larry was taking me into the woods to hack me into little pieces did cross my mind. The setting was perfect for it, too: unnamed dirt roads, small slummy area surrounded by trees, no city maintained lights, virtually nothing to attract anyone who didn’t already belong in this area to come snooping by before I was tossed into the chipper. My macabre reverie was interrupted as we passed by a Jewish synagogue.

“I got the Jews to my left and the scientologists to my right. How’s that for religious diversity?”

As we drove up the bumpy road to what I can only assume was Larry’s neighborhood, we passed a young black girl, probably around seven years old. Larry leaned over me and yelled out something unintelligible yet friendly at her. The young black girl started after his car. A few moments later, Larry yanked the wheel sharply to the left, taking us off the road and up a steep, leaf-covered slope where his “home” was. What I suppose would have been considered his front yard was littered with old machine parts and derelict appliances. Next to a pile of worn tires stood a rusted oven range with a pair of shears stabbed straight through the range top. As for Larry’s house, the entire place had the dimensions of my bedroom. From the outside I mistook it for a large tool shed. But when he opened the door, I was amazed to see all the furnishings of a home inside–albeit much more compressed than would be considered comfortable. For instance, the distance between the couch and the television was only a few inches. On the other hand, this arrangement facilitated changing the channels since the television was one of those sets with knobs just to the right of the screen.

By this time the black girl had caught up and she started talking to Larry. He introduced her to me as Miesha (my-EE-sha).

“Hey Larry,” she began, her voice full of childlike innocence, “I passed that spelling test in school today.”

“Spelling?” Larry replied while he looked for his tools, “They teaching you to spell ‘too’ and ‘there’ and ‘where?’” The walls of Larry’s place were plastered with paper covered in basic spelling rules and letter pronunciation. It was obvious that the man had had to start from the bottom recently. This, however, was in stark contrast to the pages of complex medical terms covering the opposite wall like wallpaper. Larry would later mention something about trying to be a medical transcriptionist. That was of course right before he told me he was 5150, which is a legal designation usually reserved for people in homes and mental institutions. Larry must have been hard pressed for a filing cabinet, because he pasted or taped all of his documents on the wall. This included his eviction notice and what looked like a restraining order.

“I got an ‘A’ on the test, Larry,” Miesha continued.

“Can you spell ‘vagina?’” Larry asked, grinning.

“Yes, but I’m not going to.”

“How about ‘penis?!’ Can you spell ‘penis?!’” Normally, I would have been creeped out by that little exchange, but there was something about how Larry delivered his lines and how unflinchingly Miesha received them that made the scene seem very commonplace. In fact, save for that short repartee, Larry disregarded Miesha’s presence. Instead he rummaged about his home, looking intently for his tools. Finally, Larry took a swig of his King Cobra, handed me the set of wrenches and ratchets he discovered in a cabinet, said goodbye to Miesha and we were off. We returned to my car and did our best to charge it up. During this time Larry finished his beer and tossed it into a dirt patch. My car still wouldn’t start so we decided it was time to check if the battery was even taking the charge. We strolled into a local auto parts store and Larry immediately made a scene.

“Where do I go to check a battery?!” he yelled. The attendant, a man approaching middle age, sporting a neat moustache and longish brown hair, waved him over to the counter and Larry hoisted the battery up. While the attendant, Robert, performed the test, Larry busied himself with the hefty female attendant on duty. “Do you need a personal fitness trainer?” Larry asked, “I supply the pink leotard.” He grinned a toothy grin. The woman said no and moved away accordingly. Robert finished his test and told me that the battery was “bad.”

“Aha!” Larry cried, “What did I tell you? Am I good or what?”

“You’re all right, Larry,” I replied.

“Shit, I don’t want to be ‘all right.’ I want to be good, man!”

“You’re good Larry. You’re good.” Just shut the fuck up already.

So I bought a new battery, courtesy of Master Card and Lady Visa, and we took it back to my car and installed the sucker. Still no go. Upon closer inspection, Larry found that my alternator fuse was burned out. He surmised that Truck Guy crossed the cables and blew my fuse.

I had to hand it to Larry. He knew what he was doing. We tried to pull out the alternator fuse, but it kept disintegrating in our hands. We figured that it had melted together with the surrounding fuse box during the fiasco with Truck Guy. Instead, we pulled out the two fuses next to the burned out alternator fuse so that we would have a reference. So, with these two female fuses in hand, Larry and I left the parking lot in search of a female 80-amp alternator fuse.

As we got into his car, Larry turned to me and said, “Life’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

***

Where does Crazy Larry eat?

As it turned out, no auto parts store in town carried an 80-amp female fuse. And everyplace we went to kept referring us to other places that might carry it. And each time we went to some place, Larry became less and less agreeable. He had also purchased another forty ounce King Cobra and was at this point sloshing it around the car, all over his shorts and my leg. He seemed totally oblivious to the frothy liquid soaking into his lap. Instead, he graced me with more of his urbane comments when we pulled up to a stoplight.

“Fuck! Fuck these fucking fucked up lights! All you fucking do is fucking bake in this fucking heat! Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!!!”

We went to at least five different places scattered inconveniently across town. Of course Larry kept his spirits up by hitting on the women at each establishment, using his “personal fitness trainer” line with masterful delivery. At one point he saw a young girl traipsing about a field and yelled, “If I were sixteen I’d take you bowling! You like bowling, don’t you?!”

Other times, if women were scarce, Larry would share his nuggets of wisdom with the male attendants. “See, I just want to make sure I buy the right fuse,” he would open, “I’ve made mistakes before. I think a woman is gonna be small and she turns out being big and I keep falling out. Don’t want to make a mistake like that, you know?” Then he would pause with a smile, like a comedian who has finely honed his craft and expectantly awaits his applause. His breath was rank with barley, so I don’t blame the guy who threatened to call the police. I should have been bothered by all this. Being well acquainted with customer service and generally being a courteous person, I should have been irritated to Hell with Larry’s behavior, but instead, I found it strangely fun and liberating. I found that I was standing on the side of the Asses of the World and I reveled in the idea that it was other people’s turns to be tossed out of their comfort zones.

Alas, we never found the fuse we sought and Larry’s good graces were spent, so I bought the closest thing to what I needed and offered to buy Larry some food. We ended up at some hole-in-the-wall taco place: one of those places with no real name, just the word “Tacos” emblazoned on the wall. I figured Larry would be in and out so I waited in the car. As Larry opened the door to the establishment, he immediately screamed “Ay yay yay!!!” at the top of his lungs, like some insane mariachi. I heard him do it several times more while in the restaurant. A few minutes later, he waved me in so I went inside and sat down with him.

“You know,” Larry said to the man working the counter and gesturing to the petite Latina bussing the tables, “I never thought about having a threesome until I saw your wife.” My mouth fell agape. “She’s one of the most beautiful older women I’ve seen.” I think the guy behind the counter didn’t speak English very well and didn’t quite understand what Larry was trying to say. So Larry stood up, went behind the counter and asked the guy if his wife needed a personal fitness trainer. Now regardless of whether or not the guy knew what Larry was getting at, he was obviously uncomfortable with hearing his wife mentioned twice in one conversation.

“She doesn’t need anything,” the guy said sternly.

“You sure?” Larry asked, “I provide the pink–”

“Just eat your tacos.” And that was that. Larry turned on his heel and sat back down without a word. While he ate, I just stared at Larry incredulously. Larry’s hair was white and had receded all the way to the back of his skull and he had liver spots covering his scalp. His forehead hung low over his eyes like an avalanche ready to cascade down onto the floor if I spoke too loudly. His eyes were beady and recessed into his sockets, yet scintillated with the vigor of a man who regards the world as his personal playground.

Two girls walked in from the medical office next door. They bought something and turned to leave, but as they did so Larry piped up and yelled, “All medical people should go to hell!”

One of the girls was brazen enough to come back in and ask, “What?!”

Larry impressively repeated himself verbatim, including inflection. The girl left, shaking her head. I found her later outside when she was getting into her truck and apologized on behalf of Larry.

“He’s old and he’s been in the heat. He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” I lied.

“I know,” she said, “He’s one of our patients.”

***

Final moments with Crazy Larry.

Our last stop was at a gas station. We went in to pay and Larry stepped up to the male attendant, a big guy with dark skin and glasses.

“Hey, you know what I heard?” Larry asked the guy.

“No. What?”

“I heard all Indians are faggots!”

I dropped my face into my hand and shook my head. Larry went to fill up and spilled gasoline all over the side of his car. It was a sight to see, really, considering how easily flaming ash from his cigarette could fly back there, but I got back to my car in one piece and I told Larry that I could handle the fuse myself and that he was free to go.

“Well, nice meeting you,” he said curtly and jumped into his car and sped off. That was the last time I saw Crazy Larry. Strangely, Larry has been with me everyday since then, like the teachings of a new age mystic. During our search for the fuse, when we were almost hit by a careless driver and I voiced my anger, Larry asked me why I was getting so upset since I wasn’t driving and we weren’t hit. With that, things I had no control over ceased to bother me. In fact, the whole experience with Larry molded the way I deal with others. Larry offered to help me, but he certainly didn’t half-ass it. It wasn’t just his good deed for the day. He helped me because he wanted to. As such, I never offer anything as simply a show of my friendship. I offer something because I really want to give it. It’s strange that a few hours with one person can change a life for good.

***

Epilogue

I struggled with the alternator fuse for about half an hour, trying to pry the plastic out with some pliers. I had most of the plastic out, but the metal prongs inserted inside the fuse were tenacious beyond my skill, so I broke down and called a tow truck. The Tow Truck Guy would later tell me that female 80-amp fuses don’t exist and that what I needed was a male one, as he undid the bolt that held the alternator fuse in place. I let out an exhausted sigh, frustrated with the complexity of car engines.

To quote Larry on this matter, “Fucking cars! They’re worse than dogs!”

And that’s alright with me. Someone has to be undesirable so that others can be. I know my place in the world and I accept that. I choose to deal with Fate on her terms. So I go through life, squelching any impulses of pursuit whenever I come across an attractive girl. As the years pass, it’s getting easier to deny my motivations, almost becoming reflex. In this manner, I have caged Fate — or caged myself, however you want to look at it — and kept myself away from Fate’s deadly grasp. Sadly, I suffer from moments of weakness now and again when I carelessly step too close to the bars and Fate takes a lethal swipe at me.

I have no one to blame but myself, of course. I continually and stupidly prance before the bars, just out of arms length, making faces and jeering Fate. Though I never pursue women, I always flirt with them in the over-the-top obvious way that men sometimes do so that they can play the flirtations off as a joke if they’re rejected. The reason this is dangerous is because sometimes the women are seemingly receptive to this approach and I am always left wondering if this is true attraction — have all my lonely nights finally come to an end — or if this is simply bait to lure me closer to the cage bars. What’s most insulting is that whenever I am fooled, I am tricked by the same unimaginative and recognizable formula that Fate has employed my whole life. She allows me to think I’m making progress, intimating no falsity whatsoever and assuring only success. Then, after she sees me take every precaution and check and double check the fail-safes — even offering the girls “outs” – Fate will hold very still and watch me closely with calculating eyes as I crack the cage door open. Then she pounces on me, unleashing the awful truth that she was just standing me up to knock me down.

Afterwards, I’m left to simply shaking my head and sighing at my own gullibility.

***

It starts with the rehearsal.

My brother decided after thirty years of bachelorhood to get married. He and his bride chose a quaint hotel out in Temecula next to a quaint winery for the location of the wedding. This meant a wedding rehearsal. Since I was in the party — not the Best Man, just in the party (a trespass my father will never forgive my brother for) — I was curious as to whom I’d be escorting. It turns out I was going to escort the bride’s best friend, J: a girl, I was told, of surpassing beauty and ample breast size. Her greatest attribute, however, was her diminutive stature. I shrugged the prospect away, ambivalent. It wasn’t as if beautiful women were strange to me. I had seen them before and I would see them again.

The day of the rehearsal was pleasantly warm and bright. The two families and the wedding party meandered until the coordinator was ready to herd us all together. Standing amidst the giggling femininity and the stoic masculinity, I shuffled through the girls with my eyes, discerning which one was mine. Too tall. Too annoying. Too related to me. Ah, J. At last. She was dressed in a blue spaghetti strap top and stark white pull-on pants. When the sun hit her backside just right, I could make out the sliver of purple thong she was wearing, like a glimpse of vein through too pale skin. Her stormy blond hair was pulled neatly back and clipped behind her head, exposing the supple flesh of her neck. When she turned to face me my first reaction was that she was pleasant to look at, but not overwhelmingly sexy as to destroy any hopes of approach except the most brash. On the other hand, she wasn’t ugly. She had a nice symmetrical face with a non-descript nose, sitting inconspicuously above two lush — but not bloated — lips. Her eyes were average, picking up the light easily and flashing brilliantly now and again. Given the proper makeup and attire and hairdo, I could tell that this girl could be devastatingly gorgeous, crushing the strongest man with the weight of her gaze. Now, dressed as she was with only the face God gave her, she was just beautiful.

I introduced myself plainly and we engaged in very brief, very small talk. Soon enough, the coordinator had us rehearse the procession. While we waited for our turn, arms locked, I took the opportunity to expand the small talk. I find that I am very calm when I speak with people I don’t know. All of those years of serving, making the most of the tiny conversations I engage in when I greet a table, have taught me that there is no room for awkwardness when speaking to strangers. I was natural. I didn’t hang onto every word she said, nor did I just wait for my turn to speak. I also noticed that she wasn’t awkward, as most girls are when an ugly guy assaults them with conversation. It was simply a pleasant talk. Granted, there was still the rigid coldness of a business interview about our words, but the heat of our bodies pressed against each other’s sides and the warmth of our breath caressing each other’s cheeks were quickly melting the ice.

Right step.

Left step.

Right step.

“So, what do you do?” I opened. Left step.

“I’m a server at the Yardhouse.” Right step. Ah, so that explains her conversational skills. She was employing my own tricks against me. Clever, clever.

“You going to school?” She did, after all, look young. Left step.

“I’ve already graduated.”

“How old are you?”

“24.” Step, step.

“Where’d you graduate from?”

“USC.” Left step. “I went to college just to become a server,” she sighed.

“What was your major?”

“Psychology.” We got to the steps where my brother and the Best Man stood and J and I parted silently.

“You can’t just let go like that,” my brother interjected, “You have to say something.”

“Next time,” I said and took my place. Now I don’t know who objected to the formation, but before the first run through was completed we were called back to starting positions so that we could create a more appealing arrangement. This wasn’t so bad since it afforded me the opportunity to say some parting words to J when we reached our newly assigned places on the second run through.

“You look beautiful,” I whispered in her ear, with just enough of a “rehearsal” tone to keep things light.

“Thank you,” she said bashfully, drawing out the final vowel. And that was the last of our interaction throughout the length of the ceremony until it came time to practice the recession.

As soon as she took my arm I asked, “So, do you have a boyfriend?” Step, step.

“No.” Step.

“Oh, where do you live?” The question raised in pitch towards the end.

“Colorado—”

“I see. We don’t have to keep talking.” I patted her arm condescendingly. Author’s Note: This tactic of sudden dismissal is one of those dick moves that are oddly effective at manufacturing desire in women. The effect is further augmented in beautiful women who are accustomed to never being dismissed, especially in fields where one survives by their physical appearance. Therefore, it is quite possible to create a kind of faux desire within a beautiful woman. The downside is that she will eventually discover that her desire was simply to be desired and if you haven’t capitalized on your “in,” then you’re screwed and she’s gone.

“You didn’t let me finish!” J exclaimed.

“I’m sorry, go right ahead.” I wasn’t even looking at her anymore.

“I’m moving back to California in three weeks.”

“Well, well. There might be hope after all.” I smiled at her as we joined the others and parted. In my mind, that was going to be the extent of my flirtations with J. She had been something to keep me distracted from the heat and something to prevent the inevitable ennui from setting in. Now that I was free and clear and had only the luncheon to get through, there was no need to talk to her. Besides, the bride’s mother concocted a scavenger hunt for the wedding party to play. As a twist on an already irritatingly childish game, the bride’s mother incorporated an amateur Madlibs story to go along. The two teams, boys versus girls, had to get separate items for different parts of the story. The men, of course, mobilized with military efficiency and filled in their blanks with appropriately funny — and easy to locate — items. Though I still wish the men had gone with my suggestion to write in the word “nothing” for each blank to make our task ultimately easy. Alas. The women, on the other hand, locked their keys in the car and had to wait for a tow truck.

An hour after the men returned, the women showed up with their items and the torture continued as the “story” was read by the bride’s mother and the items presented by both teams. Early on it became painfully obvious as to which team had grasped the exercise correctly. When the bride’s mother read, “When the bride said she would slip into something more comfortable, she pulled out…” the men produced a quart of motor oil. However, when the bride’s mother read, “When the groom opened the door, he found the room filled with burning…” the women produced a box of candles. Very creative. But in the end, the bride’s mother decreed that the men lose and be forced to sing a love song to the bride and groom. The men remained silent. After some prodding and goading, the Best Man piped up and said, “I refuse to sing out of principal, now.” Then he ate his cheesecake defiantly.

Throughout the luncheon I had sat with my family and didn’t give J a second thought until the very end when I was glad handing and saying good-bye to everyone. I took J’s hand in mine and told her that “I consider myself the luckiest groomsman.”

“You are!” she replied sassily. Ah, that quick server wit!

***

Fate had been docile the whole day. She had allowed me to go so far as to finger the bars of the cage with no retribution. The impulse was as strong as ever to hit on J, and I might have toppled over under its weight, but experience and instinct propped me up on the other side. So, I walked the razor’s edge, prepared to sheer off an ankle at the first misstep. Somewhere in the middle of the night, between rehearsal and wedding, I decided to make a game of pursuing J. I decided that I would try to get her to kiss me: a wild, unattainable goal, but if miraculously achieved, would prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was into me. Not even Fate would go to such lengths just to get my hopes up.

The groomsmen got together that night for one last hurrah before my brother consigned himself to eternal damnation. I told the guys about my plan and they immediately scoffed at my chances, citing that no girl would kiss a guy after just meeting him and, furthermore, she was more than likely going to be caught up in the wedding and would therefore be unsusceptible to advances.

“You should go for the digits,” my brother chimed in, “she’d probably give you her number even if she wasn’t interested.” I never cease to be amazed at my brother’s ability to miss the point. The groomsmen assured me that their low estimation of my chances had nothing to do with my abilities. The odds simply reflected the situation. Just the same, faced with such negativity, I grabbed my tux and left.

I threw caution to the wind and yanked the cage door open so mightily it nearly came off its hinges. It swung its full arc and slammed against the bars with a frightening and ominous clang.

***

The limo ride with my family to the wedding was slow and languid and I fell asleep on the way there. Like the other groomsmen, I was dressed in black slacks and a cream colored coat with a black bow tie and cummerbund. I had spent an entire hour sculpting my hair, parting it to the side to mimic an older, classier style. In my mind, I had hoped to look like Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. My friend, M, would later tell me I looked more like the skittish, effeminate, and undesirable Peter Lorre.

The limo pulled up to the hotel and my father and I were lead to the bridal suite in the hopes of finding my brother. As soon as we got there, a faintly recognizable blond bombshell came out of the room and nearly bumped into me. It was J, wearing the appropriate clothes — a sleeveless, green bride’s maid’s gown that slung low in the back and draped almost to the floor — sporting the appropriate hairdo — done up eloquently and swaying at the back of her skull — and wearing the proper makeup — barely noticeable, in fact, she had obviously spent some time tanning since I last saw her and her skin was a lovely bronze — to make her look devastatingly gorgeous.

She crushed me with her gaze.

“Do you know where the rings are?” she asked, distracted.

“Uh…no.”

“We can’t find the rings.”

My phone rang. It was my brother. He told me he was on the lawn taking pictures and that my father and I should meet him there. I asked if he knew where the rings were and he said the Best Man had them. I told J and we started walking down the long hall alone together. I turned to her and said, quite frankly, “You look absolutely stunning.” Whether or not she felt the same about me, J crumbled under the obligatory pressure to compliment me back.

Once in the yard, we were separated and I made the rounds, greeting extended family members I only see once a year or on anomalous special occasions like this one. From there it was about another hour of taking photographs, so opportunities with J were meager. Even then, I kept my advances at bay to show her that I wasn’t an asshole and using the wedding as an opportunity to satisfy my libido.

Soon the ceremony was upon us and J and I were once again locked at the elbow. This time our slow march was performed with the utmost solemnity and when we reached the steps I whispered simply, “Thank you,” in her ear and she said I was welcome and we parted.

The ceremony was standard faire. Love is eternal. What God binds together let no man tear apart. Blah, blah, blah. The divorce rate was conspicuously missing from the sermon.

With the sun starting its descent towards the horizon, I watched my brother, newly married, jaunt happily back up the aisle with his wife. I then took J’s arm and we said the things people say to each other when they don’t know what to say at weddings.

“I can’t believe they did it.”

“Yup.”

And then it was more picture taking. While the photographers were getting the required people together, a fire alarm pealed out from the hotel. Slowly people began trickling outside, shaking their heads in confusion and frustration. I figured some kid tripped the alarm or it was some kind of malfunction. Nevertheless, the loud ringing continued throughout our picture taking for a good twenty minutes. While I was waiting for the next shot, I passed the time speaking to a cousin of mine who was getting married herself in the near future. J stood with her back to me, talking to her sister. Moments later, she started rolling her head side to side, stretching it out. I immediately broke off conversation with my cousin mid-sentence and stepped up behind J and asked if she was alright. She said her neck was a little stiff. In a brazen move I placed an arm around J’s waist and began massaging her neck with my other hand.

“Let me know if this gets annoying,” I insisted.

“It feels good,” she replied, reclining her head back a few degrees, “I’m not going to tell you to stop.” So we stood there for a minute, in the eye of the chaos swirling around us, my fingers rhythmically rubbing her neck in circles and her entire body rocking back and forth gently.

And then the firemen destroyed our moment.

As soon as their red trucks were spotted coming down the road, hotel patrons and wedding guests alike started cheering and clapping. Some started laughing and jeering when the fire trucks missed the turn up the hill to the hotel and had to backtrack. The photographer made a quip about taking some pictures of the truck for posterity’s sake and another groomsman and I took that as our queue to ask the firemen if we could pose in front of the fire truck. The firemen — strapping likenesses of Adonis, young and not so young — agreed and volunteered to pose with us after they checked out the building. After they entered the bowels of the hotel, the wedding party made its way down to the trucks and tried to take orders from the photographer who yelled at us from a ledge above through cupped hands. From what we gathered, he wanted us to strike a funny pose: something like people swooning into the arms of someone else. Jokingly, I allowed a groomsman to swoon into my arms.

Snap.

Then the photographer, an amiable fellow with a long face and a warm smile, gesticulated bigly and pantomimed that he wanted the guys and girls to mix up. Apparently, we had polarized into gender groups. I quickly nabbed the spot behind J and prepared for the next “silly” photo. I grabbed her about the waist and let her fall back into me. There we held our intimate pose for a minute while the photographer adjusted his lens and directed others into better light. Holding the pose was strenuous, but I didn’t complain. The smell of her hair mixing with the scent of her skin gave me strength. Afterwards, while waiting to find out if we were taking more photos with the truck, I handed out gum to the hungry and thirsty ladies. Author’s Note: Women are attracted to the man who displays the most utility in any given situation. For most practical purposes, that utility is physical appearance. It just so happened that in this particular situation, what these girls wanted most was a breath freshener and I was the only one with any. In the Altoid-less world, the man with gum is king.

The girls swarmed around me like rock band groupies. Before I could capitalize on my new found fame and start autographing tits, someone waved us back up to the reception area where my brother and his wife were to be announced. I walked with J in silence. Throughout the whole of the picture taking we had passed time with chitchat and any conversation now would feel forced. Also, I had been coming on pretty strong up to this point — not obnoxiously so, mind you, but strong nonetheless — and I decided it was time to let the reel go a bit to give her some space.

I walked over to the fountain, struck a relaxed pose with my hands in my pockets and all of my weight on my heels and gazed pensively off into the distance. No doubt J was being accosted at that very moment by every girl and being asked what she thought of me in the giddy gossipy way that women do. Certainly, J or one or all of the girls would steal a glance my way as a visual aid to their estimation of me. I couldn’t blow my ghost of a chance by letting my guard down and be caught adjusting my penis through my pockets or excavating my ears with my pinky tips. No. It was all Bogart.

Even if I did look like Lorre.

“Do you mind if I bask in your aura of coolness?”

I turned and found one of the groomsmen approaching. Of all the guys the previous evening, he had been the one to give me the lowest chances in getting the coveted kiss.

“Please do,” I replied and went on to explain that I could use the company now that I was giving J some time on her own. As we spoke, the Best Man came up to tell me that he loved watching me give the neck massage. In complete awe, he pantomimed with his fingers.

I turned to the first groomsman and asked, “So what are my odds like, now?”

He considered the question for a moment and replied, “Eh, I’d say pretty much even.”

“That’s not bad,” I said. If I was winning over the guys, then things were great. Somebody poured champagne and my brother and his wife descended a flight of steps into the reception area and the announcer announced Mr. and Mrs. Garcia. The Best Man gave an impromptu speech and while I’d normally try to recount it now, I don’t have enough memory of the verbiage to do him justice. Just know that the speech hit all the right notes. It looked fondly back on the past. It was hopeful for the future. It was humorous. It was sincere. It was concise.

And then came the first dance between man and wife. The band began playing something jazzy and my brother and his wife – having taken dancing lessons for months before, specifically for this moment — danced in a most rehearsed and unnatural manner. While they moved about the dancing area, they almost appeared to be marching and the utter concentration on their faces exposed the silent counting of steps and mental visions of numbered black and white feet patterns connected by dotted lines.

Even J noticed and she said as much to me. I chuckled, fully understanding. Then she told me something I didn’t know. Apparently, the fire alarm had set off the sprinklers on the second floor of the hotel and the entire story had been flooded, including the bridal suite.

“Do they know?” I asked, pointing with my eyes.

“No way. Of course not.” The fire alarm actually had farther reaching repercussions than the flooding of the room. Because of the water, electricity had to be cut. This meant we didn’t have any lights outside after the sun set except for these tiny candles on the tables. This also meant we didn’t have the juice to run the proper cooking equipment for the meals. That meant the caterers had to pack up the food, take it to the nearby restaurant at the winery, cook it there, pack it up again, bring it back to the hotel and then they could serve it. Despite these mishaps, everyone maintained a great attitude and no one complained.

My brother was having good time dancing, so there was no need to bring him down with the flooding news. As I watched him, however, another fear sprang to mind. I recalled that the wedding party traditionally dances after the bride and groom.

There are two necessary things in life that I cannot do. The first is swim. If I’m on a boat and it sinks in the middle of the ocean and I don’t have a life preserver, I’ll be able to dogpaddle for a few minutes and then I’m dead. The second is dance. I loathe dancing. I have no sense of rhythm. I can’t tell where the beat is. I can’t even tap my foot to music in time. If I ever have to choose dancing in public or being dead, I’d rather be dead. When I was seven I was forced to dance to Madonna’s True Blue with a cousin of mine during my own birthday as some kind of sick Gong Show exhibition for my entire family.

Hey

What

Listen

My cousin and I just stared at each other, unsure of what to do. And then the first stanza hit us like a wave of nausea and we were forced into moving.

I’ve had other guys

I’ve looked into their eyes

But I never knew love before

‘Til you walked through my door

I’ve had other lips

I’ve sailed a thousand ships

But no matter where I go

You’re the one for me baby this I know, ’cause it’s

We swayed back and forth, trying to keep rhythm, while family members began whooping and hollering and enjoying the hell out of our embarrassment.

True love

You’re the one I’m dreaming of

Your heart fits me like a glove

And I’m gonna be true blue baby I love you

As Madonna started into the next stanza, the raucous died down and the family grew bored with our swaying. Amidst the silence an aunt finally asked, “Is that all they’re gonna do?”

I’ve heard all the lines

I’ve cried oh so many times

Those tear drops they won’t fall again

I’m so excited ’cause

Mercifully, my father ordered my brother to end the song midline and my cousin and I were excused. We had defeated dancing with our stubbornness, a lesson I would take to heart. I vowed I would never dance in public again, especially fast dance. Years later when I tried my legs at swing dancing, I sucked at it so badly that I stopped listening to big band music for a time. If I have ever slow danced with a girl, it has always been very private occasions. Why I even bothered to dance with those girls is either a testament of my devotion or of my penchant for masochism. Take your pick.

Author’s Note: The most embarrassing dancing moment I’ve had was probably in high school. I had been part of the Key Club and the school was hosting some kind of Valentine’s dance and each club was required to send two representatives. By some cruel joke on God’s part I been voted to go with a girl named Z, an academic Latina girl one year above me who had the potential to be attractive, but always mitigated it with boring clothes and that south of the border sass. Anyway, I was so worried about the dance and what I might have to do that I went to my friend’s home after school and practiced some ridiculous dance moves in his room, much to his delight. The actual dance was a bigger disaster. Z was looking really hot in a tight fitting sequined number and her hair and face were done up attractively. To ease into my ridicule for the evening I asked her to dance a slow dance with me. Our first dance consisted of Z giving me encouraging instructions on when to move my hips and lift my feet, keeping time with the changing tempo. When the song changed into a fast song, everything went to hell. I became a marionette doll, with Z pulling at my arms, telling me how to move. Her remarks quickly turned biting when I failed to move my legs simultaneously with my upper body. At length she gave up and did her own thing, while she looked past my shoulders uncomfortably. I told her I was going to get something to drink and went home.

Back at the wedding, normally, I would find a convenient excuse to ensconce myself in the men’s restroom for the duration of the music, but before it came to that, perhaps J didn’t know how to dance either and wouldn’t want to. Then I could just blame her. The least I could I do was find out.

J made another comment about the way the wedding couple was dancing and I took the opportunity to interject, “I couldn’t dance to save my life. You don’t like to dance, do you?”

Smooth.

“Oh, I love to dance,” she said.

Fuck.

The song came to an end and I saw my brother looking around for something. When he saw me, he began waving me over towards him. From what I could tell, he wanted me to dance with the bride.

Fuck.

Evasive maneuvers were activated and I deflected the order onto the Best Man. He walked onto the dance floor uncertainly. I thought this would buy me enough time to hide, but then I saw the Best Man get paired up with the maid of honor. My brother was still waiving me towards him.

FUCK!

It was like an all consuming vortex: inescapable and insatiable, no matter what I threw into its gaping maw. All I could do was dive in, head first and hope that I emerged on the other side in one piece. In an instant I was seven years old again, swaying side to side, tripping over the pant legs of my tuxedo now ten sizes too big. I dismissed the image and strode back to the wedding party table to set my champagne down. Then I grabbed J by the hand and led her out to the dance floor.

“This is gonna be ugly,” I muttered.

Sensing the rigidness of my body, J replied, “I’ll just do what you do.”

I wrapped my right arm around her inviting waist and took her right hand in my left, slightly extended upward to our side and we began turning in slow rhythmic circles in place. I tried to be mindful of the beat and to make sure I didn’t crush her toes. Then, in a masterful show of bravado, I took her right hand and placed it on my chest, cupping the back of it with my palm and drew her closer. I’d like to say that this was one of those movie moments where we lock gazes and lose ourselves in the thought of each other, but that didn’t happen. We smiled politely when our eyes met, but for the most part we looked past each other’s shoulders uncomfortably. I’d say it was on par with most middle school slow dances.

Finally, the song ended and I thanked her for the dance and she thanked me back. Someone said salad was being served so we all took our places at the tables. I rarely do salad. Even more rarely do I do gourmet salad with all those special oils and dressings and weird looking greens that look like weeds. So I gave my plate to the starving maid of honor, a typical annoying teeny bopper with an ebony fetish and an unusually hairy back — so hairy that we nicknamed her Chewbacca. Instead of eating, I paced the tables and lit the candles that continually blew out in the breeze. When the maid of honor got up to take care of something, I announced that I would keep her seat warm for her and sat down next to J.

I had had enough of this pseudo-courting. It was time to see if there was any substance behind the pretty face. Author’s Note: When delving into conversation with someone you’re pursuing, what’s most important is the illusion of conversation. That is to say, it doesn’t matter if you’re really getting to know the other person or if you’re even listening. What does matter is that the other person thinks that they’re revealing themselves to someone who really cares. For getting-to-know-you conversations, an effective tactic is to control the conversation by asking questions where you can anticipate the answer and therefore have a ready response. This tactic only really works when you have some knowledge about what they’re talking about. For instance, I knew that J went to USC, but I wasn’t about to ask her about USC specific things, because I wouldn’t have anything to add. Instead, I might ask her a general question about classes, ready to follow up with something interesting about my classes. By doing so, a kind of compatibility is subliminally suggested.

I asked her what convinced her to move to California. My follow up response would be my history in California: when I moved here, where I lived, etc. She gave me a brief history of her life, revealing that she originally lived in California, but moved to Colorado after college.

“Why Colorado?” I asked. A weak question because I had very little working knowledge of Colorado. At best, I’d have to follow up with insights about Matt Stone’s and Trey Parker’s movie Cannibal the Musical being shot there or the Kobe Bryant rape case. Both unsavory topics.

“I wanted to be with my sister while she was away at college and I just wanted to get out of California for a while.”

“So what brings you back?” Good. Bring it back to familiar territory.

“I want to be an actress.” Of course. “And LA is the place to do that.” Luckily for me, I had had some experience in this area and I was able to keep the conversation going.

“That’s a tough business to break into.” I then gave her a few humorous anecdotes about my stint at becoming an actor in Hollywood. Also, I mentioned how M wanted to get into film school and film yet another modern day Hamlet. Jokingly, I told J that she was welcome to audition for a part. “Have you had a lot of experience?” I asked. Follow up response: talk about stage performances I’ve done.

J talked about an acting class she took on a whim in Colorado and how the class consisted only of her and another girl and how the male instructor, at the end of the quarter, told her in not so many words that she needed to be in LA, acting. I resisted the urge to ask if the instructor was into her or not. Author’s Note: Pretty girls are quick to take praise at face value because they are so starved for genuine consideration after a lifetime of men saying whatever they have to just to get into their pants.

Instead I said, “I would love to act professionally. I’ve done some shows here and there, but nothing professional. More importantly, nothing that paid.” I paused for a moment to allow J to talk about some musicals and plays she acted in before continuing. “My mistake was that I tried to become an actor without having a day job. Things got too expensive and I had to quit. You got something lined up when you move back?” Follow up response: talk about the many work anecdotes I have well rehearsed.

“Yeah, I’m gonna transfer to the Yardhouse in Pasadena.” Ah, a restaurant. Pay dirt. I readied my arsenal of restaurant questions and responses while she told me a bit about what the Yardhouse was like.

“Tell me, what’s the most annoying thing a customer can do?” Follow up response: tell her everything a customer does is annoying then launch into funny anecdote.

“Probably asking for one thing at a time instead of all at once.”

“I totally agree. It’s like, if they know they want crushed red peppers with their meal, why don’t they ask for it when ordering instead of after they get their entree and making me run around the world for it and then complain when it gets to them too late?” Pause for commiseration and shaking of heads. “So, since you’ve been a server, have your tipping practices changed?” Follow up response: talk about how I tip bigger, but am now hypercritical of service.

“I don’t know. I guess I’ve always tipped well, but on the other hand, I’m the customer from hell.”

“What do you mean?”

“I need everything to be the way I want it exactly.”

“Oh no, you’re not one of those…”

“Like the water. I can’t have any ice in it, so I always ask for no ice. Or if there is ice, I have to have a straw.”

“Why a straw?”

“I just can’t drink water with ice in it. I end up with water all over my shirt.”

“Well, if we ever go out for dinner I’ll have to make sure you get water with ice and no straw.” Then I flashed an exaggerated leer. She smirked politely, but wasn’t particularly receptive. A low point, I know, but in situations like this you gotta keep things away from the friendship tip, even if it means coming off crass. Now, before I continue, allow me to say that even though most of our conversation fell on the mundane side, keep in mind that it was also full of nervous giggles and languid gazes and short pauses betraying the things one doesn’t want to say because those things might betray the attraction building inside.

We continued to talk at length, smiling delightedly and holding glances a little longer than practical. The sun was touching the haze on the horizon and I asked if she was getting cold. She said that her sunburn was keeping her warm for the time being. I told her that when she needed it, my coat was reserved for her. She said what she really needed was some aspirin for her head. Ever the utility man, I recalled that someone had brought some Tylenol and I went to track them down. Having got the bottle I headed to the refreshments table to get J a cup of water to wash the pills down. I filled the cup with ice and then, remembering, dumped the ice out and just filled the cup with water. I went back to the table and found J missing. Someone said that she had headed up to the hotel. I found her at the top of the flight of steps with her sister. I gave J the painkillers, which she thanked me for and then escorted both J and her sister back down the steps, saying, “Please after you,” when I let her sister by. To which J responded with, “You’re such a gentleman!”

Scrapheap.

I let her observation pass without comment. We were met by J’s parents at the bottom of the steps — two ironically tall people when taking J’s 5’3” stature into consideration.

J introduced me.

“Mom, Dad, this is R. He’s an actor too. He knows my pain.”

“It’s a pleasure,” I said, extending my hand.

“Ooh and a gentleman, too!” her mother exclaimed.

“See, your mother approves of me,” I said, smirking at J. “I’m just trying to earn brownie points with your daughter,” I explained to her mother.

“Brownie points!” her mother echoed, laughing. Then she told J that she had to go and that her father would take her home. They said good-bye and I noticed that the sky was deepening into purple so I offered my coat to J once more. After a moment she agreed and we engaged in the age old pair bonding ritual of the Coat Switch.

One should never underestimate the meaningfulness of the Coat Switch. First, it says that the man is willing to sacrifice his personal comfort for the woman’s and in this case he can only do so for that woman alone since he only has one coat. He is making a particular sacrifice for a particular woman — nothing to shrug at. Secondly, the acceptance of the coat is a kind of branding of ownership in the singles world. She will not accept the coat unless she is willing to wear that label. One of the deepest cutting rejections is when a guy offers his coat to a woman and she opts to freeze rather than maintain any kind of connection with him. Author’s Note: The female equivalent of this pair bonding ceremony would probably be the holding of the purse. The woman gives the purse to the man to hold while she uses the restroom or tries on some clothes, trusting him not to rummage through it and discover all of her dark secrets. Likewise, the man will only accept the purse if he is willing to be flagged to all around him that he is with this particular woman as he tries to hold the purse as manly as possible, cradling it in the crook of his arm like a football. Author’s Secret Note: Whenever I have to hold a purse I like to wear it naturally to make people think it’s mine.

I savored the moment, helping her slip an arm into a sleeve, watching its flaccid state suddenly grow firm as her hand slid down its shaft, feeling the gentle downward tug from where I held the coat at the collar. She slid the other arm in, I slid my arms across her shoulders and the ceremony was complete. And none too soon, too.

The firemen returned from their task, sweaty and soiled, their uniforms undone just enough to reveal the collar of their athletic shirts and their heaving manly chests. All of the young girls, J included, immediately flocked to the firemen who towered over us like fire retardant titans. I turned away from the spectacle and joined the Best Man and muttered something about how easily hard work can be destroyed. Too many times in my life had I been in this situation, instantly losing the girl to the prettier face.

“It’s the uniform,” the Best Man said to console me.

All I could do was hope that I had built up my connection with J enough to weather the muscle-bound storm. Worse yet, after the girls’ photo op, when they began serving the main course, a time I would wisely use to recoup whatever damage the firemen had done, I was sent on an errand to get my mother some maxipads. The clerk at the store, noticing my coatless tux and the single item I was buying, gave me a commiserating smile.

“One of those nights,” I said.

“We’ve all been there,” he replied.

When I got back to the reception, it was dark and everyone had finished eating, leaving me to eat my now ice cold herb chicken and garlic whipped potatoes with asparagus spears at the wedding party table, alone, while J passed the time speaking to another guy: the Cockblocker.

It wasn’t as bad as all that. It all played out that way, but the devil is in the details. I found out later from a female cousin that on their way to the overpowering masculinity of the firemen she had asked J if she was getting sick of me. J admitted that she was still receptive to my attentiveness and once again stated that I was “such a gentleman.” I have no illusions that J was still thinking of me while under the arm of a fireman, but the fact that she was thinking of me until then is good enough. Additionally, while I was a pitiful sight, eating my cold food alone, to be sure, I caught J stealing glances my way out of the corner of my eye while she conversed with the Cockblocker. Furthermore, her conversation with said Cockblocker was nothing compelling. It was just a rehash of the conversation with me and, having used up her vigor to share her life story with me, was giving the Cockblocker truncated, terse responses to his getting-to-know-you questions. Best of all, though still a Cockblocker, the dude wasn’t really a threat because he was engaged to some big nosed faux Goth chick also at the wedding. All things considered, I was looking alright, even though I got most of these details post facto.

I finished my meal, walked past J and headed over to where some groomsmen were passing time with old high school friends of yesteryear. Having followed my example, the girls were now wearing the coats of the guys. Apparently, I was the topic of conversation. The consensus now was that I was going to easily achieve the kiss. One friend said that I had potential to go all the way. I dismissed the possibility of that almost immediately, but hung onto that fantasy for days to come. I told them that my next step was to dislodge the Cockblocker.

Everyone at the table leaned back to look over my shoulder and then leaned forward again to hear my plan. It was short and sweet, but had high potential to be very effective. I went to work.

The cake was now being divided and dished out and since J hadn’t had a chance to try the cake, I nabbed a piece and casually started to eat it. And then I nonchalantly meandered my way over to J who was shorter now that she had removed her heels, which she carried at her fingertips. She smiled at me, mid-sentence and I asked if she had tasted the cake, even though I knew she hadn’t.

“Not yet. Is it good?”

“You tell me.” I scooped a moist morsel with my fork and gently slid it between her parted lips. C-C-C-COCKBLOCKER BREAKER!!!

Mmmm. J commented favorably on the cake. And then somebody announced that they needed all single women front and center. It was that time so J went to fulfill her womanly duty. Before she scampered off, she asked me if I’d hold her shoes for her, which I gladly did. That left me with the Cockblocker.

He walked away after a moment.

With the tossing of the bouquet and the garter, the reception wound down and as family and friends packed themselves into respective vehicles, the wedding party busily tried to make the bridal suite as beautiful as they could. On my way to lend a hand, I ran into J’s sister. I stopped her and asked for her take on my chances with her J and if I should even continue my pursuit. She genuinely agreed that I should, once again citing how much of a gentleman I was. Are nice guys so rare? Bolstered by the sibling support, I headed upstairs to see what could be done.

The second floor looked better on the whole than I thought it was going to. The carpet was soggy, sure, and there was some wet and crumbly trash stacked up against a wall from God knows where, but overall, it wasn’t that bad. Amidst the clean up, however, the guy who was staying in the room across the hall had just returned and stood in the doorway of his room, gaping at the disaster within. The inside of his room looked like the bottom level of the Titanic. Debris floated in puddles. Wallpaper bulged and tore in long strips down the walls. The windows still streamed with rivulets of water. The man stood mesmerized. It was like staring into the awful face of God and he could not look away. I flagged down the hotel owner — a gruff man made gruffer by the current circumstances — shook his hand, introduced myself and asked if he could get someone to haul the trash out of the corridor before my brother and his wife came up. He agreed and I gave another once over of the room, which was alive with all of the bodies bouncing around straightening this and lighting that — the candles from the scavenger hunt were put to good use. As a finishing touch, the bride’s mother laid an open Bible on the bed. I don’t know about you, but the word of God always puts me in the mood for some wild wedding night sex.

As we vacated, one of the groomsman whom I don’t know very well whispered, “Second base, man, second base,” in passing.

***

So this was it. End game. I could see checkmate in twelve moves. I was already imagining J’s soft lips on mine, preparing myself not to react too much to that little surprise I feel when a kiss takes my breath away before I take it back. I was also impressed with how I had rallied the troops against insurmountable odds, drawing even deserters and draft dodgers into the breach once more, dear friends! More than that, people I didn’t even know were giving me knowing smiles and winks. It was an invigorating feeling, to be sure.

While I hunted down a pen — there were none to be found in the hotel room or the lobby — I rehearsed how it would play out between me and J at the end of the night. I’d get her alone, probably be walking her to her car, and then get her number, which, by all accounts — including mine — was a forgone conclusion. And then I would say that I would like to see her when she moves back to California in three weeks. She would say that “she would love to,” which was, once again, also a forgone conclusion. Then we would hug each other goodbye and while embracing I would say something line-ish like, “Three weeks is a long time, how ‘bout a little something to look forward to?” She’d pull away just a little bit, taken aback by my boldness and ask, “Like what?” And then I would look down pointedly at her lips, nibble on my own and then lock eyes. She’d pull away and say something like, “Oh I don’t know…” And then I would say “And I thought I made a better impression on you that…” and then affect a crestfallen demeanor and throw puppy dog eyes her way. She’d hesitate, calculating the day’s events, deciding if she was going to maintain her reason or allow herself to be completely swept off her feet. At which point I would jump in with something funny and say, “I’ll tell you what. Kiss me once. If you don’t like it, then we don’t have to do it again tonight.” She’d laugh and then I would throw my arms out to the sides, tilt my head, and ask, “What do you say?” The tension will have been sufficiently deflated by the comic relief and she will take those small few girl steps toward me, prop her arms on my shoulders and we kiss with awkward shaped mouths because we’re both fighting to suppress stupid grins. Then she’ll say something witty, like “There; that had better tide you over until I get back,” and then she’ll scuttle off to the car that’s been running, with her father and sister waiting patiently inside, watching the whole thing go down.

I snagged a pen from one of the caterer helpers who were chowing down leftovers. I tested it on my wrist and then slid the sleeve back over the blemish. On my way to find J, I met up with the Best Man and we strode through the halls like men with purpose. We arrived at a small reception area where we found the bride and J making the most of their last-minute-not-going-to-see-you-for-three-weeks-enjoy-your-honeymoon-girl talk. An obstacle, but not an impasse. The Best Man, a good guy to have in a tight corner, immediately understood what he had to do: distract the bride so I could do my thing. The Best Man went to work and J got up to give my coat back to me. As I was putting it on, a cavalcade of people poured into the room. The bride’s mother. The bride’s father. The bride’s sister. A family friend. They began chatting it up and embroiling J into their conversations. A pre-fucked feeling washed over me, but I was fighting from strength and kept it together. I couldn’t very well pull J aside, considering that these were the last moments she would see the bride — her best friend of twenty-four years — for almost a solid month. More than that, the goal could not be achieved with this kind of audience. I had to bide my time and look for an opening if it presented itself. A big “if”, considering the circumstances. Now, the Best Man came through once again. He simply modified his part as the distraction. Rather than just distract the bride, he knew he had to distract the whole family by taking the bride out of the equation. Doing that meant getting my brother. The Best Man left to take of that. For the time being, the ball was in J’s court.

She spied me standing out of place in the crowd and walked over. I was prepared to hear her say something like, “walk me to my car” or “let’s get out of here.” Instead, she said, “Well, it was nice meeting you. If you ever do that movie, let me know.” The walls shuddered and the pre-fucked feeling intensified. The goodbye was going to place here, in front of God and all of humanity looking on this tense poker game. It was the final table and it was heads up between J and I. Oh well. If that’s what it would take to get the kiss, then so be it. In poker, you don’t just play your cards. You also play the other person. I felt I had played her pretty well the entire day so I was all-in even with my seven-two, off suit: the worst hand in poker. Before I could move, J extended her hand for a handshake. Pre-fucked instantly turned into fucked in full force. A handshake? Oh my God! What the fuck?! The walls shuddered again. The kiss was impossible now. If she wasn’t willing to give me a hug, how could I ask for a kiss? Still, I had to save face and walk away with at least the number. As I was shaking her hand, I began to utter the question, “Can I call you?” But J, almost preemptively, replied, “If you need to get a hold of me, just ask the bride and she can get in contact with me,” and my question died on my lips. Holy shit! She won’t even give up the digits? Worse yet, it wasn’t “ask the bride for my number” it was “ask the bride and SHE can get in contact with me, not YOU, please GOD, NOT YOU!” No kiss. No number. A pair of bullets. Pocket aces. We dropped our hands, she gave me a mirthless smile, said she was leaving and walked away. The walls shuddered and sagged like tarp, finally falling to the ground in painted heaps, revealing the steel frame of the all too familiar cage. The light faded to black. The people melted into puddles. The furniture crumbled to dust. And J turned around, ripped off her face like in a Scooby-Doo cartoon and revealed the awful visage of Fate, lips curled into a tight grin.

In one mighty swipe, she clawed out my heart and devoured it whole. Then she pounced on me and, laughing hysterically, ripped and tore at my face so not even that could be saved. And I lay there like the ball carrier, inches away from goal, watching the final seconds on the clock tick away, crushed under a three hundred pound lineman named Failure, staring up at the sullen faced groomsmen and other diehard fans feeling ridiculous in their war paint, suddenly silenced by my defeat. After she was done with me, Fate threw my useless body aside and she collapsed into a corner, breathing heavily, fat and sated and still grinning through sticky red lips. I got up, brushed myself off, walked out of the cage and very gently shut the door. And then, shaking my head all the while, I went to find the Best Man and my brother to report my complete and utter disappointment.

The failure, here, was on my part, of course. I ignored two very strong, very important warning signs. First, during the entirety of our getting-to-know-you conversation, not once — NOT ONCE — did she ask me anything about myself. It was always me asking the questions and then volunteering information about myself to show compatibility. That was a very bad sign and I got burned for not paying any heed to it. The other warning sign was that all the while I sat eating my cold meal alone at the table with J looking back at me every so often, she never broke off her redundant conversation with the Cockblocker to keep me company. If attraction wouldn’t prompt her to do so, you’d think simple sympathy or friendly interest would have. Alas. I should have scrapped the whole plan after those two trespasses, but I was too blinded with proving the groomsmen wrong and the idea of persistence and wearing women down. Too many years of living have taught me that no woman I’m attracted to will ever give me any consideration unless I wear her down with persistence. In some sense, I understand that the same could be said with J. I just have to be persistent with her and wear her down, but you know what? I don’t want to work that hard. The beautiful women I have had the privilege of dating — the ones I have never had to make excuses for their looks — were only attainable after YEARS of chipping away. Hundreds of handwritten letters. Dozens of audio cassettes. Countless drawings. A thousand late night phone calls. Four hundred dollar phone bills. Plane tickets. Promises. Professed love.

FUCK.

THAT.

I’m not going through that shit again. So in a way, I can say that I rejected Jodi by refusing to be persistent, but you and I both know that that’s just some group-therapy-rationalization-bullshit to take the sting out of reality. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not adverse to hard work, but breaking a woman down is not a satisfying way to start a relationship.

I rode with the Best Man on the way home from the wedding. After rehashing the night we fell silent for a few miles, mulling over our own private thoughts. And then, almost in unison, I screamed, “FUCK WOMEN!!!” while the Best Man — separated after his wife cheated on him — leaned forward, bared his teeth, gripped the steering wheel violently and cried out, “YEEEEAAAAAHHHHHAAAARRRRRRRRGH!!!”

I caught.

One day, I get this call from some chick who says that she’s “recruiting” for an Editor’s Assistant for Flynt Management. I was stoked and worried at the same time, since it sounded like a temp agency. I called her back and was candid about my ignorance.

“What company is this?”

“It’s the publishing side of Larry Flynt. Is that going to be a problem?”

“I just came in my pants.”

The next day, dressed in a smart looking suit, I drove to LA.

The Larry Flynt Publication building is pretty cool. It’s all black and is designed with a hard-on curve. I walked in and a friendly lobby guy directed me to the proper floor. The 9th floor reception area is as you would imagine most posh executive vestibules: shag carpeting, rich mahogany wainscoting, cherry pine furniture, etc. I signed in and pulled up a chair next to the magazine rack full of Larry Flynt material. While I waited, I passed the time with this month’s Barely Legal. I wanted to show the company that I was interested in their product. This wasn’t just a job. It was a passion.

After a few minutes, the HR Lady, a squat Latina woman, opened one of the ogre-sized doors and called me into the back. We walked down the curving hallway and she sat me down in a room with no windows, which was obviously her assistant’s office because it had the barest of office space, with the rest of the room reserved for wall-length cabinets labeled “Terminated Employees.” Alphabetized.

Anyway, I sat down and filled out Larry Flynt HR paperwork. HR Lady’s assistant must get bored throughout the day, because I saw a pink rubber eraser doodled on to look like the APC in the movie Aliens, complete with turret on top. I drove it around the desk a couple of times and made sound effects with my mouth before knocking on HR Lady’s doorjamb.

Together, she took me down to the 3rd floor, but it felt more like going into the basement. The elevator lobby had cold, fluorescent lighting and cheap linoleum: the kind of decor in the Offices of the Damned. Meeting us at the double-doors was the guy I would potentially be replacing, Mr. H, a young guy, dressed casually, like everyone else, because it’s casual Friday (which means that I stick out ridiculously like a stiff cock through thin underwear). So I make small talk with him while he photocopies my résumé. I curiously noted that Mr. H carried around a small spiral notepad with notes scribbled furiously over every inch.

I thought I was going to be interviewing with him, so I was fairly confident in getting the job. Two young guys, shooting the shit. I was a shoo-in. But then we walk through the cubicles and I’m ushered into some stuffy office where some Old Dude is reading MAD Magazine. Old Dude ignores me and turns to Mr. H.

“This cartoonist is pretty funny,” Old Dude taps the MAD mag with his index, “She’s probably part of the cartoonists’ guild or whatever.see if we can get her.”

“Sure thing, Old Dude,” scribble, scribble, “This is René.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Old Dude.” I shake his hand, but he doesn’t get up. Old Dude is the kind of person who has never seen a happy day in his life. He has the opposite of a poker face, meaning he communicates through his facial expressions. If he doesn’t like something you say, he’ll roll his eyes. If he’s disappointed in you, he’ll sigh and look down and away. If he can’t understand something you’ve said, he’ll squint, shake his head sharply, cup a hand to an ear and gape his mouth in a silent, “Wha-?” Even if he was capable of smiling, it would be lost beneath the folds of his trumpet player’s cheeks; the ones that hang down the sides of his mouth like a bull dog’s and stripe the sides of his chin with the mandible lines of a ventriloquist dummy.

In order for me to succeed in a personal interview, I have to be able to build a rapport with the interviewer. In this case, I had nothing to work with. Behind Old Dude was a floor to ceiling window and the view of the city. I couldn’t even pull a Keyser Soze.

Whatever ground I had walked on to get me here started to tremble. And then it cracked when they busted out with my résumé. An oppressive, choking silence crashed into the room and a bitter scoff escaped Old Dude’s craw. His eyes scanned down the paper, disgusted. Through the crack in the ground I could see millions of would-be writers beckoning me to join them in the 9th level of Unemployed Writer’s Hell.

I leapt to more stable ground.

“I realize my résumé is not impressive in the least,” I piped up. Old Dude stared at me through his wire-rim glasses with eyes blacker than my heart. “In fact, none of my previous experience is even related to this position.”

“That’s exactly what I was about to ask,” Old Dude started, “Why do you want to make such a big leap?”

I was in the air and I needed to spike my landing. “Customer service is not what I want to be doing for the rest of my life. I want to write. I went to school to be a writer.”

“What did you major in, again?” Old Dude flipped to page 2 of my résumé.

“Creative Writing, non-fiction. Most of the jobs you see there are jobs I took just to pay my way through school.”

“Wow,” Mr. H chimed in, nodding his head in approval.

“How long you been writing?” Old Dude asked.

I wanted to say, “All my life,” but I read Old Dude like the Skyclimbers reader in a 2nd grade class and I knew that he was a man who functioned in a world of absolutes and definitive, quantitative figures, so I said, “10 years.”

“Who have you written for?”

“I’ve mostly done freelance work for Valley Scene Magazine and write restaurant reviews for In the Scene Magazine.”

“Valley Scene Magazine?” Mr. H was scribbling again.

“And I’ve written for Switch Magazine which is a fashion and entertainment glossy that never got off the ground. I interviewed Tatyana Ali for them and now I just have this article taking up space.”

When I said, “Tatyana Ali,” Old Dude gave me his “I don’t understand what you’re saying” expression so I repeated her name for him and said where she was from. I landed on shaky ground, but it bought me time to see my next move. And for the briefest of moments, Old Dude’s eyes gleamed. “Does she say anything interesting?”

“She talks about her upcoming movie, Glory Road.the basketball movie.and her singing career.”

Old Dude’s eyes impaled the back of Mr. H’s skull. “Can we use her?”

“Sure, maybe we could do a sexy spread.” Then to me, “She’s good looking, right?”

“Oh yeah.” I felt vile, selling off Tatyana Ali, who is far and away above the likes of Larry Flynt, just to buy me more time.

Silence filled the room again, but now it felt natural and for a moment I thought the world would stop rumbling. Then Old Dude picked up my résumé again.

“This is an entry level position and you’ll probably have to take a pay cut.” He paused, “How much were you looking to make?” Fuck. Totally unprepared to answer this one. I mean, how much does “pay cut” mean to this guy? I threw out a figure and he rolled his eyes. “Well, you might be able to bump it up to that, depending on how well you write and that’s strictly on a freelance basis, of course.not to be done on company time.” I prepared for another leap. He put the résumé down. “LFP is about adult content and politics. Do you know what’s going on in the world?” I knew that the world was starting to quake something awful since politics has always been my weakest of weak spots. Before I could answer, the ground beneath me gave way. “When was the last time you read the publication?”

I leapt.

Mother fuck. You mean before sitting down in the lobby? I hadn’t read Hustler in God-knows-how-long! And yeah, I know. I could have fucking swung by the convenience store and picked up a copy and boned up, but Larry Flynt Publishing could have meant anything! Like I know every fucking thing they publish. And what am I going to do? Read every fucking variation of “Cum on her face” articles in one night? Right. So, I’m fucking unprepared and the writing devil named Failure looked up at me and sharpened his horns.

“Not since I was a kid,” I confessed. Old Dude gave me his “put a number on it” face. “Not in several years.” Old Dude looked down and away. “With the Internet, I haven’t had to pick up a magazine for adult material.”

“I’m not so much concerned about the adult material as I am about the politics,” he still wasn’t looking at me. “I was hoping you would have commented on that instead.”

I nodded.

“And I would have asked you what you would have done to improve the magazine.but I can’t since you don’t know anything about the magazine.”

I nodded. This time I looked away as the ground crumbled farther and farther out of reach.

“Well, knowing you haven’t read the magazine, I’ll ask you anyway, what would you like to see in the magazine?” I reached out for some weeds dangling from the precipice. Below me, the writing devil named Your Shitty Day Job walked up to Failure and they placed bets.

“Well, uh.what about an article about interesting or new positions.uh, sex positions that might spice up a relationship.you know, things couples can do to bring back the romance after the mystique of a new person wears off. You know, something you might read in Maxim.”

“Are you sure guys want to read about that?” One of the weeds snapped.

“Sure, I think guys ultimately don’t want to be alone and they realize that getting a girl is hard.”

“That’s sounds more like Cosmo to me. Isn’t Maxim more about the cool guy, one night stand?” The other weed snapped and I was in freefall. Old Dude looked to Mr. H for approval.

“I think you’re right, Old Dude,” Mr. H confirmed. With that I watched as anything else I might grab onto–branches, roots, etc.–get sucked right into the cliff face. This was it; I failed on almost every level. Getting up and leaving would have been a nice change of pace. I knew I could do that successfully. But then I guess they decided I had had enough. “But,” Mr. H continued, “We haven’t done that before, so it might work.” He nodded at Old Dude.

In turn, Old Dude reached down from the heavens and carved out an outjutting in the cliff wall and placed me firmly on it. “I’ll tell you what,” he said, “We’ll send you home with some of our magazines. I don’t expect you to read them cover to cover, but come back Monday with 4-5 pitches for articles you would write for us and we’ll go from there.”

“I’ll do that,” I said. Then we stood up and shook hands and I left.

Mr. H gave me his card so that I could contact him with my pitches. Then he asked me for my clips so that he could photocopy them. “You know,” he opened, “You shouldn’t sell yourself short. You have a lot of good multi-tasking experience.” I accepted his patronizing comments gracefully and then got the hell out of Dodge.

On the way home, thinking that if I got the job it would be in spite of myself and just glad that I hadn’t done anything else to ruin my chances, Mr. H called me to tell me that I had left his card behind.

Mother fuck.

That weekend, I scanned through the magazines like I said I would. I looked at the articles and the political cartoons that littered the pages and I couldn’t think of anything on par with what was already there. The political shit I came up with was light-weight, moderate fluff that would have been swallowed up by the vicious left wing articles. How do I compete with “Fuck you, Mr. Cheney!” and do I really have the political gusto to a) write something as compelling and b) spew out enough liberal nonsense to fit in?

No. Times two.

So, after much contemplation and soul searching, I e-mailed Mr. H and told him that I wasn’t interested. I threw myself off the outjutting and joined my fellow unemployed writers below where we wallowed in self-doubt.

There’s another level of Unemployed Writer’s Hell that scares the shit out of me the most, if only because of its reality. It’s packed with would-be writers who are little more than 9-5 grind slaves who just talk about becoming a writer. They constantly bombard their friends with their story ideas and treatments, but when it comes down to it, they just don’t have what it takes to make it. Frighteningly, everyday that passes, it’s looking more and more like home.

I spat curses onto the truth and used them for polish.

I wove a tale of betrayal, explaining how my friend had committed treachery of the most sinister kind: he made advances on a girl I had feelings for, which was a direct violation of an understanding we had come to. He violated all the trust I had given him whenever I bled my heart to ease the pain of unrequited love. He put me between a rock and a fucked up place. By and large, these facts still stand, but I see them differently, now, so many years later.

I reread that story every so often, mainly to remind myself just why I ended the friendship. I’ve come to a new understanding of that story. It’s less about my friend and what he did to me. It’s more about me and who I am.

***

The dating game is a tall man’s world.

By middle school, I could no longer ignore the physical disparity between myself and my objects of desire. Girls that I had pursued just a year ago were now half a head taller than me and consequently pursued taller guys. Years later, even after puberty, I would still only measure in to be slightly taller or on par with most girls around me, which still put me at a disadvantage because of women’s affinity for heels.

I blame the height difference on my race. Growing up as a Filipino boy in mainly white society, all I could think about were white girls. They were everywhere: school, television, movies, in my father’s rants about how non-white races were so ugly–even other Filipinos. This was all well and good in the beginning, but once hormones started to kick in and white counterparts were growing several inches taller than me and beginning to fill out, the visual disparity was becoming too great to ignore. Realizing I couldn’t compete physically with other guys, I’ve always relied on my talents to distinguish myself. I’m an artist. At age eleven I had a wonderful grasp of objects in three dimensional space, lighting, composition, emotional content, what have you. I further tried to distinguish myself by becoming the brooding recalcitrant loner at an age when so many boys were openly drooling over girls they liked. My tactic, maybe unintentionally, was to come out of my introversion just long enough to get the message across to a girl that I liked her. Then I would duck quickly back into my shell and draw rough sketches of the girl and flash weak smiles and puppy dog eyes her way, intimating at the maelstrom just below my calm exterior that could be stilled only by her love. It was all bullshit, of course. I had watched too many movies as a child, mostly romantic comedies from the 80′s, and assumed that modeling my persona after those reticent protagonists would make me more attractive.

In the sixth grade, I caught the eye of Rebecca, my very first girlfriend. She was emotionally precocious for an eleven year-old and went after the boys she liked with rigid determination. This was just fine with the boys because it took out a great portion of the uncertainty. One day, during lunch in the sixth grade–during the week proceeding Rebecca’s break up with her boyfriend, Joshua–an emissary from the girls’ lunch table was sent to the boys’ lunch table to fetch me. This was a ritual that had been performed many times before and every boy at the table knew this. Rituals like this bonded us as young men. My friend, Travis, whom I’d always regarded as intellectual competition, gave me smiles and looks of encouragement. My part in this middle school ceremony was simply to sit down and ask Rebecca to be my girlfriend and then we would be a steady couple. I knew this fact reflexively, but doubt clouded my actions and the task turned into a spectacle of cinematic proportions.

In a movie, the frame freezes, allowing the character’s voiceover to explain a few things. Previous to this encounter, every girl I had pursued had rejected me with the cruel honesty that only children possess. In the first grade, when I had drafted a love letter for a cute blonde girl named Angel, asking her to marry me and providing a small dowry of ten cents, she showed the note with crude drawings of stick figures holding hands to her friend and subsequently to the teacher, Ms. Basset. I saw them giggling and pointing in my periphery. In the third grade, my pursuit of a girl named Kelly, a flaxen haired fair skinned beauty, ended quietly when she gave her affections to a taller, white boy named Rich.

In jealous revenge, I punched him in the groin.

The only girls I did attract were two Hispanic girls named Sophia, gaunt and bug-eyed, and Christina, curvy in all the wrong places, and they were hideous by comparison. So while I listened to and accepted the idea that I could be anything I wanted and have anything I wanted if I worked hard enough, it was getting more and more difficult to reconcile that absolute with the reality of my love life.

This was the doubt that sat between Rebecca and me at the girls’ lunch table.

I sent all of the other girls away and I screwed up my nerves. My teeth chattered and my hands sweated uncontrollably. Finally, I forced the question out and gritted my teeth, prepared for disaster, but Rebecca of course said yes. In retrospect, I should have taken Sophia and Christina as my initial girlfriends just so I would have had some prior experience.

Rebecca dumped me the next day–via emissary, no less. It hadn’t come as a surprise. During the whole of our short-lived, one-day relationship I had been tongue tied and awkward and my palms still sweated uncontrollably when we held hands. I had desperately wanted our relationship to mirror the movies, but those spontaneous romantic moments never arose and I didn’t know how to act outside of those cinematic guidelines. Despite that failed relationship, I quickly formed an obsession with Rebecca that stayed with me for years to come, even when we went to different schools and I was involved in other relationships. Rebecca was the mold into which I attempted to fit all other girls. Just let that information ride for now, this story isn’t about her.

After Rebecca, the rejections came quickly and constantly, but I used my mitigated success with Rebecca to convince myself that my shortcomings were not physical. As such, my approach to girls was molting constantly. While I still brooded more consistently than ever, I was also much more open and aggressive with my endeavors. For a time, I cut my brooding out of the formula and attempted to get to know the girls I pursued, but they either turned into friends who became untouchable or simply didn’t care to get to know me. I then tried the route of the secret admirer. For Valentine’s Day I left a teddy bear on the desk of a girl named Nicole, an elfin white girl who sat in front of me in World Geography. After finding out it was a gift from me, she refused to speak to me ever again and gave the bear to some boys who used it for a hackey sack. Another time I wrote a poem for the librarian’s daughter, Daunielle, an emaciated yet cute blonde with braces, who attended a different school, but whom once in a while visited her mother while she worked. According to her mother, Daunielle was so taken by the pm that she immediately requested to meet me. When we finally met, the expression of controlled disappointment that washed over her face was soul breaking to witness.

By high school, I had seemingly gone over the edge with trying to make up for my shortcomings by plying girls with roses, writing them ptry, or slaving over hand drawn portraits, which by now, after having done so many, were remarkable likenesses of them. All of these things I did to no avail, to much frustration, and to much heartache. I had watched the wrong movies as a child. I had been exposed to films like Say Anything and Revenge of the Nerds, or countless other teeny-bopper love stories where the seemingly undesirable guy gets the beautiful and nubile ingénue by making her see beyond his physical appearance to recognize all of the other (more important) qualities. I should have been watching more movies like The Last American Virgin.

While the rejections were numerous, I did manage to eke out relationships where I could during middle school and high school. However, these girls were largely undesirable due to physical drawbacks. One of my girlfriends had a lazy eye, which made her look cross-eyed most of the time. Another girlfriend was on the plump side and was constantly mistaken for a boy by passersby. That’s not to say I wasn’t genuinely attracted to these girls. They sated my white-skinned lust for a time, but I knew that I was settling and it grated on my mind after the mystique of the relationship wore off.

I wanted the girls with perfectly round C-cup breasts with modest areolas and eraser head nipples. I wanted the girls with hourglass shaped torsos with legs long and slender and thighs perfectly sculpted so that they left a tight triangle of space between them and the bottom of her pelvis. I wanted the girls that draped themselves over tall white guys.

***

I met John A. my sophomore year in high school when he welcomed me onto the Mock Trial team. I immediately liked him. He was a tall white guy, a commanding figure, measuring in at 6’4″ and he spoke with a deep rumbling voice that resonated from his barrel chest. I’d say he was an attractive guy. He wasn’t gangly. He wasn’t fat. He was well proportioned. John was also very sure of himself. He radiated the pretentious confidence that comes with exceptional height. For the most part, I played his sidekick: Kato to the Green Hornet.

John was my guide of sorts through crucial stages in my life. For starters, John initiated me into the world of tobacco. Until that very moment, I had been ardently anti-cigarettes. Now, I was exhaling smoke and glancing around to see if anyone else noticed just how cool I looked. The enemy had seduced me and I had no regrets. Initiation rites into the taboo forge friendships in fire.

Years later, John helped me get my first real job and then a promotion at the same company. Together, we discovered the bullshit of middle management. We plotted the downfall of the company and we burned our boss in effigy. In addition to these noteworthy experiences, John and I were also simply good friends. Once we graduated (John one year before me) and subsequently moved out, we were as thick as thieves. Not a night went by that he and I didn’t spend a few good hours neglecting our responsibilities while we played videogames until four in the morning, breaking only occasionally for a cigarette.

What I enjoyed most was that John had a particular philosophy on interpersonal relationships. He always believed in honest dealings. If someone pissed you off, let that person know. If you thought someone was being two-faced, call that person on it. Instead of harboring resentment for people close to you, you would confront them and sort shit out. This was the gospel according to John and I accepted it, but it would take years of practice before I learned to apply it correctly.

In spite of all the good times I’ve had with John, he suffered from fatal qualities: character traits that make people incompatible with me. At first, they were just little insignificant things that irked me; you know, the things people do that bother you, but you forgive them because they’re your friends or they’ve done things for you and you feel like you owe them. John was both: he was a friend I owed.

My friendship with John and our relationship to girls maintains particular relevance to fatal qualities. In regards to girls, John was both a balm to my soul and the source of great anguish. When it came to my so-called love life, John was a pillar of support. In high school, after a gorgeous redhead spurned me, John told me that he would support me if I wanted to punch the girl in the nose. When I was a teenager, this was the support I looked for. When it came to John’s love life, however, I wanted to vomit. At twenty-two, John was still using grade school approaches. If he liked a girl he would make his intentions known by annoying the girl somehow. Most of the time, it was at work. He would unhook her bra in public, put her in headlocks or wristlocks, and sometimes wrestle her to the ground. Absurdly, women flocked to him. After an intimate night with any of these girls, John would come over to my apartment and he would recount the night’s festivities, rife with derogatory commentary on these girls’ physical attributes. It always made for a good laugh over a pack of smokes.

John and I did most of our socializing at work. That meant John’s love life affected mine and in our shared dating pool John was the big fish. My disadvantage was so egregious that it got to the point where John and I would sit around and claim particular girls at work. The claimed were hands off to the other guy until whver claimed her had a chance to make his move. All this really meant was that John observed a courtesy waiting period just long enough for me to get shot down after which the girl asked me to put in a good word for her with John. One girl had gone so far as to threaten me, via a male coworker, with charges of sexual harassment if I didn’t leave her alone. Ironically, John informed me later that week how the same girl pulled him aside to let him know that she wasn’t wearing any panties. Life is grossly unfair. My love life had been relegated to playing the annoying drunk guy in a two man bar con where the good looking sober guy saves the beautiful woman sitting alone by asking, “Is this guy bothering you?”

I hated my place in the dating world.

I hated being the ugly friend.

I hated being jealous of John and seeing him as competition for my happiness.

***

I met Megan M. my junior year in high school. She was a sophomore and I considered her just pretty. The following year I would find this girl outrageously gorgeous. That’s not to say that she suddenly bloomed or anything–she looked largely the same–it’s just that I knew for a fact that, at the time, she had a boyfriend (instant turn-off) and she also carried herself with the aloofness that beautiful girls exude when they don’t want to be bothered by strange boys. Empirically speaking, I was not alone in my opinion of her beauty, considering how other girls openly hated her. Further fueling their rage, Megan was pretty flirty–even when she was in a relationship. When she wanted attention, she knew all the right things to do to get it. And while I benefited from the occasional innuendo and backrub, I also worried about how I would be able to handle her flirtations towards other guys if we ever became an item. I had previously had a flirtatious girlfriend and during that relationship I felt cheated that other guys benefited from her affection without having to invest the time and emotions like I had. Did I want to put myself through that again? I gave the question cursory consideration and let it go. I was getting ahead of myself. After all, I hardly knew her.

The more time I spent with Megan, she treated me less icily and I began to see just how unique she really was. As such, she was highly coveted in many social circles. She loved musicals, performing in them when she could. She had a wonderful voice. She played the piano. She was well read. She didn’t slouch when she sat. She didn’t have to wear makeup to look good. She loved jazz and she played videogames. She could hang with the boys, but still be feminine–ladylike, even. She knew how to react to me when I was being a gentleman, instead of letting my actions go unnoticed or worse: looking at me quizzically and then laughing. She was also short enough so that when she wore heels she wouldn’t tower over me.

I had to have her.

I went way overboard in my pursuit. I should have taken my time and got to know her–I mean, really get to know her: find out her dreams and aspirations, what she hoped to do with her life, what her favorite doll was. But that wasn’t my style.

My high school held an annual renaissance faire. One of the attractions was a marriage booth where a teacher would dictate vague marriage vows and then the happy couple would stand in front of a cheap backdrop and get their picture taken. It’s all in good fun and every person proposed to usually says yes.

Right next to the marriage booth was another attraction: the fencing arena.

Megan was single now so the time was ripe to put my machinations into motion. I grabbed one of my friends and we quickly choreographed a crude sword fighting sequence in private for later use. Then I had him approach Megan to ask her to marry him. As he proposed, I ran up in a huff, telling him how Megan was mine to marry and an impromptu argument ensued, ending in me sulking away dejectedly. While Megan and my friend strolled leisurely, I ran to the booth and told the teacher dictating the vows to ask if anyone objected to their marriage during the ceremony. At which point, I appeared from behind a nearby tree, holding two of the fencing arena’s foils and challenged my friend for Megan’s hand. He accepted and I tossed him his weapon. Our fencing foils were really just spray painted sticks, heavily padded on one end. We were fighting with giant silver q-tips. Our duel was more clubbing than fencing. Nevertheless, my friend and I were locked in mock mortal combat for a handful of intense minutes, drawing a good portion of the student body. At length, I disarmed my friend and plunged my implement of death deep into his belly, smiting him to the earth with all the fury of Judgment Day. A roar of delight arose from the onlookers. Breathless, I dropped to one knee before Megan and uttered a dashing and utterly forgettable declaration of love. We were married a few minutes later.

Of course, nothing positive came of this. While she was involved in theatrics, Megan was just as down to earth as most girls when it came to feats of romance and she probably thought that this was not the kind of stunt a guy should pull on a girl he hardly knew. In our wedding Polaroid, Megan’s face is flush with embarrassment. She started dating someone she met in one of her musicals some time later and my pursuit came to a halt.

***

The beginning of my senior year of high school, I gave Rebecca (with whom I still kept in touch) a call to shoot the shit and catch up. That very week she had broken up with her fiancé and she was doing her best to adjust. She sounded very strong and like she was coping well, but I offered to go visit her just the same. I had every intention of just being a friendly shoulder to cry on.

I picked Rebecca up from her home and we decided to pass the night at a local coffee shop called JavaBooks, one of many clones that served as non-alcoholic bars for the underage. I was at particular ease that night and we talked in such a way that we had been unable to before. I really listened to her instead of waiting for an opportunity to regurgitate some corny line. We talked about old times and what different mutual friends were up to then. We discussed our physical and emotional scars and we laughed about our initial relationship together. For the first time, I realized how refreshing it was to be able to sit down with an attractive girl and just be myself, free of any romantic advances. I said as much to Rebecca who fell silent.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.

“I’m thinking,” Rebecca slowly began, “that I would like tonight to be an official date.” She paused a moment. “And I’m thinking that I would like to go on more of them with you.”

I don’t exactly recall my reply, but I know I was happy. We quit the coffeehouse and went for a moonlit drive. We ended up on a dark street and took the opportunity for some stargazing.

“Are you any good with constellations?” she asked, sitting with me on the trunk of my car.

“Not really,” I confessed, “I think I can point out Orion and that’s it.”

“I see him.”

“Where?”

“There.” Rebecca pointed into the sky and I inched closer to her and pressed my cheek against hers.

“Okay, this never works,” I stated lightly.

“He’s over there!” Rebecca poked at the sky.

“All I see is your finger!” I exclaimed and we started giggling. In a movie, a kitschy soundtrack with long breathy notes or a quick tempo in a major key usually accompanies scenes like this. Despite that missing element, this was what I had hoped to achieve with Rebecca so many years before: the movie in my mind.

I was very much in love for those few months that Rebecca and I dated casually. She had hinted that she was falling in love with me by things that she would slip into conversations. She would say things like, “You’ve made me happier than I’ve ever been in my whole life” or “You remind me of my father.” When I would ask her if that was a good thing, she would reply, “He’s the first man I fell in love with.” Things were getting emotionally intense so we decided to get together to discuss dating seriously. But before that discussion took place, Rebecca decided for both of us that it was best to stay friends. She called me and told me that she didn’t have time for a relationship: serious or casual. She was involved in several activities at her school and she left me with the hope that we might get back together after some of these events were over months down the line.

I was taken aback. Just days before we had been discussing marriage–not getting married, just how we would be as a husband or a wife in the future. Now, any illusions that that future might have been together were dispelled. The blow winded me, but didn’t knock me down. In a movie, this is the part where boy loses girl and I was prepared to get girl back. I made sure that we would still meet on the day that the now unnecessary talk would have taken place. I even reconfirmed two days prior to the engagement. The night of, I went all out to change her mind. I got dressed to the nines. I bought a modest bouquet of flowers. I planned a romantic picnic under the stars on lake front property. I had become a modern day Orpheus and each detail was another string in my lyre, another verse to sing and another hope to lead my love out from the underworld.

The traffic there was horrendous. When I finally rang her doorbell, her older brother answered the door and told me that Rebecca was out on a date with some guy from her school. Like Orpheus, I left Rebecca’s home without my love, drenched in failure. At the time, I was too pissed to consider the emotional turmoil that a person enters after leaving a relationship as Rebecca had done when she broke up with her fiancé. At the time, I had no concept of being a transition person.

But I was learning very quickly.

I was angry and confused and slowly slipping into depression. It wasn’t until a short time later that I could put a face to the guy from her school. Some friends told me that Rebecca was dating seriously my friend Travis, my intellectual competitor whom I had known since the fourth grade and who intimately knew about my feelings for Rebecca. I could still see his pudgy face looking up at me from the boys’ lunch table. In disbelief I immediately called him.

“Hello?”

“Travis, is it true that you’re going out with Rebecca?”

There was a pregnant pause on the other end of the line and then he asked, “Are you pissed?”

There was a pregnant pause on my end and then I threw the receiver back in its cradle.

The betrayal I felt was profound.

***

For the most part, I was in a world of shit. My brooding now had emotional foundation and my dressing in all black was now apropos and not just tragically hip. I turned my attentions back to Megan, but she was already well acquainted with the Transition Person Trap and could smell my musk of rejection. For a time, she politely entertained my advances, but when she started to show Renéwed interest in one of her former boyfriends, Megan treated me very coldly. When they started dating again, our relationship degraded to the point where she would do her best not to talk to me. This was of course awkward, considering that we were both on the Mock Trial team.

My depression subsided into frustration and I just swore off girls. Specifically, I killed off my feelings for Megan. If she wanted to treat me that way then I would spit it right back at her. Things were strictly professional between us for two solid months. Then one day, at the conclusion of a Mock Trial meeting, Megan asked me to stay behind. I expected she needed clarification on something or some other mundane concern. Instead, she embraced me good-bye. That modicum of physical affection was so strange it took me a moment to comprehend what she was doing. It was a simple act, but we both understood the gravity of that gesture.

Later, one of the Mock Trial coaches and my personal friend, Jim, asked me if I could “go for her.” Ah, Jim…a friend by every sense of the word. He stood at about six feet tall and had the girth of an ancient red oak. Jim was one of those big teddy bear types who was always concerned about the people in his life, so of course we discussed Megan on a regular basis. Admittedly, Megan’s hug had dripped a few drops of oil onto the rusted shut floodgates of my affection, but she still had a boyfriend and I wasn’t going to get in between that. I said as much to Jim who gave me a knowing look.

“She ds have a boyfriend, right?” I asked.

“Don’t say anything, but they broke up last Thursday.”

The world was suddenly full of delicious possibilities.

With Megan, I was cautious to say the least. So cautious was I that I phrased my proposal for our first date in such a way that it could be construed as a date or a friendly outing in case her interest in me was my imagination. Furthermore, I made a conscious decision not to brood or play the tortured soul. Instead, I chose to present a more upbeat persona, smiling and laughing more. I didn’t want to bring her down. On the evening of our date, we went to my house and watched a movie then went out to get something to eat, fairly run of the mill as far as dates go. To be completely accurate, however, the smell of her hair, the way she fit under my arm, the contours of her body against mine all added up to make the average evening dazzling. At the end of the night, when I walked Megan to her door, I had a moment of conflict, which I shared with her.

“A very long time ago,” I began, “I promised myself that I would never feel anything for you again. Now I don’t know what to think.” In a movie, characters are always spouting off with awkward outbursts of honesty. I don’t recall what she said to allay my fears. I do remember that she gave me a heartfelt hug and that was enough. I was just happy to have her in my life in a romantic capacity. I quickly asked her out on another date. This time it was for my eighteenth birthday.

We arrived at the restaurant early so Megan and I stood on the balcony and watched the sun set and the city lights come up. Then we adjourned inside to sit by the open fireplace for small talk. After dinner, we went outside again to sit in front of the lighted fire pits and drink mocha cappuccinos under a full moon while I read her ptry. At the end of the night I drove her home, feeling a little more than buzzed on how magical the evening was. I could tell she felt the same way by the languid gaze she fixed on my face, which I caught out of the corner of my eye. I knew then that it was time to go in for the kill. At Megan’s doorstep I pulled out a quarter and asked if she was a gambling woman. She was game.

“I bet you this quarter that I can kiss you without touching you.”

“Okay.”

“Close your eyes.”

She closed them and with strength I have never since experienced I fought back earth-shaking anxiety and kissed her.

Then I gave her the quarter.

Gimmicky, but effective.

Now as far as I could tell, things were going well, but young people are so easily distracted. Introduce Mike. I don’t know much about Mike so I’ll do my best to be fair when I write about him. He was around six feet tall. He played sports, a wrestler, I believe. I don’t think he was an honors student like Megan and myself were and it was also rumored that he was a heavy pot smoker. He had curly blond hair and fair skin, but he had a grotesque gap between his two front teeth. I wouldn’t be surprised if he whistled when he smiled on a windy day. Initially, other than those meager facts, all I knew was that Megan had a thing for him as well and therefore didn’t want an exclusive relationship quite yet. Maybe he had a rapier wit or an astounding wisdom, but coincidentally he was very tall and many girls were attracted to him…coincidentally. Still, I was confident in my abilities and discounted her infatuation with Mike as a fabricated attraction created when there is an object of many desires and one is in the position to have the object even if there is no initial personal desire for said object. Besides, the Mock Trial team would be going away to Sacramento for a week to compete in state competitions and I figured that that would give Megan and me ample opportunity to be alone.

A few days before leaving for Sacramento, I received a phone call.

“Hello?”

“Hi, René?”

“Who is this?”

“This is Rebecca.”

Oh.my.God. Old flames never call until you’ve forgotten about them. We talked and I laid it out for her. I told her just how fucked it was that she break up with me, handing me the line that she was too busy for a relationship and no more than a week later start dating my friend–MY FRIEND–of all people! I made her cry. Nothing douses the conflagration of a jilted lover’s rage better than a woman’s tears. She told me how her relationship with Travis had turned out to be a big mistake and just how sorry she was for hurting me. She asked to see me, so we scheduled a time to go for some coffee one chilly Spring evening.

Reprise JavaBooks. We sat on one of the worn comfortable couches off to the side and talked. I told her about my success with the Mock Trial team and how we were going up north. I told her about my personal success in the competition and how I had been awarded an internship with the Public Defender’s Office. I told her about Megan and how I was crazy about her. Rebecca expressed her excitement for my success on all accounts. Of course, as most conversations between old flames on good terms go, small talk turned into flirting. After a bit of sensual rough housing, we found ourselves in an awkward situation. In a movie, the camera maintains a tight shot of two profiles no more than an inch away from each other, breath pressing on each other’s lips, a pin prick for the inflating tension only a kiss away.

“Are you going to kiss me?” she asked.

Dazed, I replied, “I don’t know, am I going to kiss you?”

Pause, “What about Megan?”

Young people are so easily distracted.

I pushed her off my lap and stood up. Rebecca went to the restroom while I collected myself. When she came out again I stormed outside to my car. I couldn’t articulate what I felt. I had wanted Rebecca for six years. No matter how young I was back in the sixth grade, those feelings had been carried and compounded with each day and here I was getting green lights from her. On the other hand, I had Megan: a girl that other guys can only hope to have in their lives. Furthermore, my feelings for Megan were built on a more solid, more mature foundation.

“What’s wrong?” Rebecca asked when we finally got into my car and out of the cold. I did my best to tell her what I was feeling. “I’m so sorry, René. All I do is hurt you. What can I do to make it up to you?”

What could she do to make it up to me? Her cadence in delivery, the tone of her voice, and the inflection of every word all amounted to the same assurances of a genie asking me to make a wish.

“Let me make love to you.” Megan be damned.

My demand was out there, floating in the vacuum of the momentary silence in my car. I look back now and wonder what could have possessed me to be so bold. Perhaps I wanted vengeance or retribution for the hell Rebecca put me through. And what better way to get my aggressions out on an old flame that charred me to the bone than by fucking her silly? Maybe I asked because of all this conditioning by society, stating that a guy of my age and means should be out there getting laid more often. I should throw caution to the wind and forget these romantic notions of love and committed relationships and just be a play’a’! Maybe I was just curious. I was not prepared to hear what I did.

“Okay,” Rebecca replied simply and she began to undress, “If it makes you happy.”

If it made me happy? The words pinched something inside. I was already happy. I had Megan waiting for me back home. I wasn’t about to cheapen what I had already started with her for a few minutes of something that I could easily achieve with my own hand. Rejecting Rebecca’s offer only hinted at how deep my feelings for Megan ran. Instead, we had a meaningful talk and afterwards we drove back to her home and I walked her to her door. The cold outside was numbing.

“Will you at least kiss me goodnight?” Rebecca asked innocently, turning to face me at the top of her driveway. I looked at her and I was at once disarmed. The expression on her face in the dim glow of the amber street light was a plea; the way the tips of her eyebrows slanted ever so slightly up to her forehead, the almost imperceptible tightening of her lips, her intent gaze battered down every defense I assembled.

Just one friendly kiss goodnight.

That was all.

I could live with that.

It would not be betraying Megan.

I had been strong enough for one evening.

I cupped her cheek into my right palm and drew her close with my other hand. When I could feel the warmth of her breath I closed my eyes and kissed her gently. I could feel the soft short hairs around her mouth against my thinly parted lips. I kissed her gently again, but held it longer. Then with the tips of her lips, Rebecca urged my mouth open and devoured me. Surprised, I inhaled deeply through my nose, which heightened Rebecca’s excitement. She redoubled her efforts, voraciously teasing my tongue with hers and exploring my body with her hands. Saliva was slowly slipping into the cracks of our lips and we continually shifted the angles of our heads to seal the breaches. What had started out as a friendly kiss was turning into an oral ravishing. This was the most earth moving, mind-blowing kiss I had ever had and it rocked me to my ts. It was Rebecca’s way of adding an exclamation point to one of the greatest missed opportunities any man can have in his life. When she finally released me we were breathless and the brisk weather was no longer biting, but refreshing.

“Call me if you change your mind,” she said. Then she slipped inside without another word, a silent ending to my romance with Rebecca and an inauspicious beginning to my now unencumbered pursuit of Megan.

Unfortunately, Sacramento was not the romantic getaway that I thought it was going to be. Mike was also on the Mock Trial team and he flew up with us. As it turned out, Megan spent most of her time with Mike for the four-day duration. When the team toured the capitol building, Megan and Mike were never more than an arm’s length apart. When the team walked the streets downtown, if I was able to catch Megan alone and walk beside her, she would inconspicuously slow or quicken her pace in order to walk with Mike. Back in the hotel, the two of them would disappear for hours. I spent most of my time reading Dante’s Inferno in my room alone. Jealousy turned my stomach while I tried to remain focused for the competition.

During that time I spent my nights with John, who joined the team as an alumnus coach after we took County, and he counseled me as best he could on the issue of Megan. He was very sympathetic to my needs and while he proposed I keep going for Megan, by the end of the trip I was a beaten man. My team had lost its first round, which meant we didn’t have a shot at going to national competition. I had a particularly poor performance my final round and I felt as if I had let the team down. Moreover, Megan was as distant as ever. I was so disgusted with everything about the trip that I walked back to the hotel after the last round rather than travel with the team. Later that night, I got drunk with Jim in a nightclub on the top floor of the Hyatt Regency, where the team stayed. I was still dressed in my suit so I wasn’t bounced at the door and I had the look of a man broken by life so I wasn’t carded at the bar. Just the same, I ducked out onto the balcony while Jim bought us cigars and a glass of brandy to share.

The night was pleasantly cool and a few patrons had gathered outside to bask in the inviting weather. Jim returned shortly and we lit our cigars, dipping their tips into the brandy for accent. We let a few minutes pass in silence, smoke curling all around us, before Jim spoke.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked.

“I’m losing her,” I replied. I drew long and hard on my cigar, then dropped my jaw and pushed the smoke out with my tongue, allowing the wispy tendrils to engulf my face.

“She doesn’t know what she wants right now.”

“Oh, it’s quite obvious what she wants, Jim.”

“You don’t know that,” Jim pleaded. There was a hint of hope in his voice.

I was oblivious to hope.

“Jim, I see the way the she looks at him. I see the way she smiles and talks to him,” I paused for a moment, dully feeling the pain of accepting reality, “She never talks to me, I mean never really talks to me. I never know how she feels, but when she’s with him…chatterbox.”

“Well, that’s mainly because she doesn’t know what to say.” Most of the time, I supported myself with Jim’s insights. As he was my personal friend, he was also Megan’s, so I could always count on him to bring me insider information. That night, however, none of it mattered.

“And would you care to hazard a guess as to where she is right now?” I continued, “She’s probably with him somewhere.”

“Well, apparently Megan and Mike spent a long time alone together in his room, but all they did was talk.” Some insights were better left unseen.

I glared incredulously at Jim.

“Thanks, Jim, I really wanted to know that.” Jim chuckled, but through my mind, brief flashes of Megan and Mike together burst here and there. In between those bursts were thoughts of jumping off the balcony. I just wanted to give up…on everything. I was so tired. I single-handedly carried the Mock Trial team victoriously to Sacramento and now I was carrying the team ignominiously defeated back home. All the while, my personal feelings and emotions had to be squashed down and become second priority and now I was simply drained. Giving up was the easy answer.

“I’m going to bow out,” I suddenly declared.

“What?” Jim asked, aghast.

“I have to. She doesn’t want me.” I took a sip of the brandy, preparing myself to counter whatever pep talk Jim might be able to improvise to dissuade me.

“Well, you gotta do what you gotta do,” Jim began.

“And I have to do this,” I retorted quickly, hoping to show my determination.

Then Jim said something completely unexpected and it hit me squarely in the jaw. “You love her.” He spoke cleanly and evenly. He didn’t even look at me.

“What are you talking about? I don’t love her.” I drank again.

“You love her,” Jim repeated more persuasively, “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be hurting the way you are.” He finished with a knowing puff of his cigar. I drew myself to my full height, ready to refute the accusation with plenty of evidence to the contrary…but nothing came. I could only think about Megan and what she brought to my life. I thought about the scent of her hair and the way the corners of her mouth creased whenever she smiled. I thought of the way she would look up at me when she was being coy. I thought of the way she would take me into her arms when we embraced at the end of the night. I thought of all the things that I normally took for granted and realized that I would truly be saddened if I lost those things: the superficialities of love.

I looked sternly at Jim for a very long time, then away at the horizon and sighed a conceding sigh.

“All right, all right…so I love her.”

Still, I had just competed in Mock Trial and therefore hyper-practical. Leaving the nightclub, I was acutely aware that unrequited love was far worse than unrequited infatuation. That being so, I was resolute as ever in my decision to quit my pursuit of Megan. I invited her back to my room where I told her that I wouldn’t pursue her any longer. Megan made her protestations and tears were shed, but in the end I had made up my mind: I would give up. Megan fell asleep in my arms and I was never more in love.

Once we were back in Southern California I resolved to just be her friend. I tried, but she wouldn’t have it. In reality, I guess I wouldn’t either. When we went out as friends, the night ended intimately. I realized I couldn’t just lie down for this one. I was a driven man and Mike became my f, once again.

Each day was a battle of carefully calculated words and actions to undermine Mike’s standing. The details aren’t important, but understand that it took planning and assertiveness and a special meticulous care that only clock makers know. From all observations, I was sure to win the race. Friends were congratulating me and telling me how Megan and I made a better-looking couple anyway. Two days after her birthday, after I had gone to great lengths to leave tokens of my affection on her desk in each class whereas Mike did nothing for her, Megan dropped the weight of the world on me.

“We need to talk.”

As it turned out, Mike had played the one card I had refused to. He had acted the part of the tortured soul during one of his and Megan’s private moments, no doubt claiming his life forfeit if Megan did not save him from the abyss with her complete, undiminished and unshared love. I’m filling in the gaps here with my own speculations, but what I was able to piece together amounted to the same. Megan still cared for me, sure, but she also cared for Mike and my life didn’t appear to be in any immediate danger. I was outraged by Mike’s underhanded maneuver, but to protect Megan’s reputation, I kept this knowledge to myself. I didn’t want her to go though the gossip about her dating a nutcase. As such, I played the part of the fool who was a silent martyr to love.

I understood then that all the bullshit I was fed in school about being able to have and be anything I wanted if I only worked hard enough really was just bullshit. The reason it was bullshit was because it was a guarantee and there are no guarantees when other people are involved. You can never know when someone might come in and ruin all of your hard work.

I did my best to keep the dike from breaking. I hung onto the hope that Megan was only placating the situation with Mike, that it would end quickly and that she would be in my arms again in no time. Then I hung onto the hope that there was hope. Then there was nothing. I had nothing left inside me. Life became a nightmarish event to get over with. Mostly, I remember sleeping, sometimes sixteen hours a day. Sleep was my vacation, my alcohol, my drug of choice.

Atrociously, I wanted Megan to be just as miserable. If I could see that she hated the situation as much as I did then I could be strong and bear it. Unfortunately, I never saw that.

One day from across the hall I saw Megan walking around with her hair up in a way that I particularly liked. She sported her green hooded sweater jacket and some blue jeans. It was during the break between second and third period and the sun was shining warmly. When the light hit Megan’s face just right, she was as radiant as the dawn. Then Mike walked up and said something to her. It was something she obviously liked, because she stood on her tipts, threw her arms around his neck, and gave him a kiss. Then she smiled contentedly.

In a movie, the camera zooms up violently from far away into a tight shot of the protagonist’s face as realization dawns on him. I was alone in this. I was more alone than even I could have possibly imagined. Even if Megan was hurting over losing me, she still had Mike to console her and from all appearances it didn’t look like the situation was particularly distressing to her. I couldn’t confide in our friends, because I was preventing any shameful gossip from spreading about Megan. In our friends’ eyes Mike was the winner and I was the loser. Even if I could have told our friends the truth, I don’t believe that they could have really understood the depths of my hell. Besides, as a teenager, frivolous and fleeting failed relationships dramatized as life-altering tragedies were rampant and I’m sure that my feelings would have been marginalized accordingly. I understood that nobody ever gives credit to the emotional description of relationships and especially not from a brooding teenage jilted lover. Then how could I expect my friends to understand my point of view until they suffered such a deep depression that they no longer measure their lives in years or days or hours, but in breaths? I measured my life so, because the idea of living even an hour longer was too painful. Too many things reminded me of her. And it wasn’t as if I could get away from any of it, especially when we went to the same school and had the same friends.

“René, did you hear that Megan and Mike are…”

“I feel so sorry for you, René. I heard that Megan and Mike are…”

“Hey man, I can’t believe you’re taking things so well. You know, since Megan and Mike are…”

“Out of twenty…okay, here’s your change, sir. Pull up to the next window…oh, and by the way, did you hear that Megan and Mike are…”

In choosing Mike, Megan may have saved his life, but she killed me instead. And though I tried to distract myself with studies and extracurricular activities, I allowed myself to become obsessed with the thought of her. I spelled her name out compulsively over and over again in the margins whenever I took notes. During passing periods, I would take detours to my next class through routes that would afford me a glimpse of the back of her head. Then one night, by chance, she had left her green hooded sweater jacket at my home and I clutched it whenever I went to sleep, drunk in the smell of her.

To stay sane, I turned to my craft. I gathered numerous photographs of Megan at many angles and constructed my own portrait of her. I was completely focused on this project. All of my thought and energy was bent towards this one thing. It would be my legacy, my magnum opus. The process took me a good month, I believe, not because the drawing was so grand, but because I had to draw it when I could. My home life was not so good and I would have to draw late at night by flashlight or, when the batteries died, by moonlight lest my father find me awake to give him one more reason to attack me. When my father finally kicked me out of the house, the first thing I asked my mother to smuggle out for me was this piece of paper. In the most troubled time of my life, this drawing was all I needed to sustain me. I later gave Megan this portrait, nicely framed and presented proudly on the wall of her room.

To conclude my senior year, Megan and I were Romeo and Juliet (not respectively) and Mike was Tybalt. The casting was awkward at best and infuriating at worst. Rehearsals were torture beyond description. Romeo would deliver his lines from beneath the balcony with the candid sincerity of truth and Juliet would be gazing and winking at someone in the wings. I couldn’t even have her in my fantasies. Still, it was nice kissing Megan and confessing my undying love to her and most of all, killing her boyfriend on a nightly basis; however, I would have preferred the real thing.

Then I graduated and moved away with no means to visit Megan: no car and no job for fare. And even if I could find some way to see her, she would always be preoccupied with Mike. I was in a very lonely, angry place and I needed something to brace me up.

Re-enter John A. John’s brand of support came in the form of attacking my enemies. Not to say that Megan was an enemy, but it helped ease the pain by attacking her, nonetheless. John sat through countless nights simply listening to me vent. Afterwards, he would insert his own opinions about Megan and about Mike and about them together. What’s more, he really knew how to echo my sentiments. I would say something like, “I can’t believe she’s with Mike.” John would say, “Megan’s a whore.” I would say, “I really felt led on.” John would say, “Megan’s a cock tease.” For once, I had an ally. Moreover, this was an ally who genuinely disliked Megan. If at any time I tried to compliment or defend Megan, John was quick to squash my positive comments down. I didn’t care. It made me feel better. It made me feel right in being angry.

It was during these dark hours that I learned the ways of truth in interpersonal relationships that John supposedly practiced. Lessons learned, I waged war on Megan. I told her how much I hated her and how unfair I thought the situation was. I attempted to sabotage her friendships. I took back the portrait I gave her. My contempt for Megan was so overwhelming that every good thing I associated with her darkened under its looming shadow. Once again, the stalwart friend, John was there every step of the way. He was a tireless soldier in my offensives and I always considered us a united front: Operation Burning Rage.

As time passed and old wounds scarred, I started to distance myself from that blind hatred. I reviewed my actions and realized just how stupid I was and that I still cared for Megan. I couldn’t leave things the way they were. She was no longer with Mike so I figured it was time to at least patch things up. I called Megan and invited her out to shoot some pool. I expected a lengthy rebuff, but she agreed rather quickly. I was elated and I shared the good news with John. I don’t recall his response, but I’m sure it was supportive. For all his Megan bashing, he was glad that I was happy. Then a mutual friend, Sean, called me and invited me to his eighteenth birthday get together.

I kept the invite to myself even though Sean had entrusted to me the responsibility of informing John. I knew Megan was going to be at Sean’s and I really didn’t need any competition to distract Megan, especially at this very fragile rebuilding stage. In truth, I was a little ashamed at thinking of John in this manner, but I was taking no chances. In various run-ins between Megan and John before that point, I noticed that John did not exhibit any of the things he said about Megan when he and I were alone. In fact, he would often accept hugs from her and speak casually to her with me looking on in incredulity. John’s motives were suspect, so I left him uninvited. Unfortunately, at the end of the workday I let slip the information about the party and John promptly invited himself.

When I got to Sean’s place, I found John smoking out front with Megan. I kept my cool about it, made my hellos to everyone else, and went inside. We all chitchatted for a while until we decided to go out to eat. At the restaurant, Megan sat next to Sean and showed him much attention, both physical and conversational. That was fine. I discounted Sean as harmless. It was his birthday, after all, and I had a date with Megan in a few days. Besides, Megan was a flirt. I began to get annoyed, though, when John would invite Megan out for a smoke. When I would inevitably join them they would finish before me, having had head starts, and go back inside. Then I would watch with clenched teeth as John would throw his arm around Megan and she would reciprocate. At the very least I expected John to stay and keep me company while I finished my cigarette.

After dinner we headed back to Sean’s place. Having nothing to do, someone suggested a card game. Megan volunteered to go get some cards and she asked for company. Megan had barely enough time to punctuate her question before John was on his feet. When they returned we all headed to the backyard to play some card game that I can’t remember the name of. I do remember, however, that Megan and John sat nearly shoulder to shoulder. I was knocked out early so I passed time by standing up and smoking and eyeballing Megan and John flirt. John had his hat off and rested on his knee. His feet were up on a patio table or a stool or something. Megan, having considerably shorter legs, couldn’t reach the table or stool and instead rested her legs on John’s legs. I sat down across from Megan and John. In one swift move John took this opportunity to drop his hand and rest it on Megan’s upper inner thigh with me looking on in silent horror. In that moment I knew I had no right to be jealous, but I was jealous nonetheless.

As I watched this unfold, John looked at me…and he took his time…he let his eyes drag slowly across the length of Megan’s leg, which was in possession of his hand…down across the distance of the cold cement…up my frozen body to my face…a face that was so deluged by a myriad of conflicting and confusing emotions that it did not know how to express itself except in a face so stoic that it was alien…dead into my eyes. In those eyes he found my entire history with Megan: all the suffering, all the pining, all the love and hate, every single tortured night that I would dream about her…pronouncing itself as rage. John stared at the lethal beast behind those eyes…and he grinned.

This guy–this fucking guy–my friend…in whom I confided every emotion I had felt for Megan, had his hand exploring an area not known to many men, with his mind no doubt racing with wicked fantasies and his pulse no doubt pounding with the anxiety of wondering just how far he could get…was grinning at me, ear to ear. These were not the actions of someone who carried a deep-seated dislike for Megan. This was the smile of a murderer who knew he could get away with it. I think subconsciously John knew that he could slander Megan behind her back with all the malice in the world and that she would remain as affectionate to him as ever. Again, I was the fool. I bought into John’s “honesty propaganda” and had actually told Megan that I hated her and here was John, reserving his harsh criticism and reaping all the rewards.

Life is grossly unfair.

I let John know my displeasure, without making a big scene, by sarcastically gesturing a “way to go” to him. I’m not sure what prompted John to respond to it, but he quickly looked away and withdrew his hand. To make it seem like the movement was nonchalant and motivated by something mundane, John used the same hand to pick up his cap and place it on his head. I drew another cigarette and perched it on my lip, virtually contracting myself to the engagement for a few minutes longer, but I really wanted to leave. The thought crossed my mind as each new cigarette burned to the filter, yet I couldn’t bring myself to go. I knew that there was a limit to what John would do with Megan, but that limit existed only so long as I was there to enforce it. Besides, I had to know what else would happen and I knew that my imagination would drive me insane if I didn’t finish out the night. So with endurance that I will never be able to fully relate, I stayed and smoked cigarette after cigarette until my tongue burned and my throat was raw. I had to control my murderous rage through repetition. My life or John’s life or both depended on it. I experienced the night, but absorbed nothing. I concentrated on smoking: the only lifeline I had as I dangled over the brink of madness. And with each butt that I tossed over Sean’s fence we were all one cigarette closer to a very bloody evening.

At length, the engagement ended and I had four cigarettes to spare. We all said our good-byes and I, physically and emotionally exhausted, tried to slip past Megan at the door unnoticed. She pulled me aside and I gave her a half-hearted hug, then made my way into the dark street to my car. John caught up to me and the first thing he asked me was, “Are you okay?”

This was a major thin ice situation. By saying “yes” I would have effectively said that what happened was okay with me. On the other hand, a “no” would have meant a confrontation that I wasn’t prepared for. I said, “No.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Alright, but I need to get a drink, I’m dying.” So we went to an ATM to get some cash. While at the ATM John said, “René, I want you to know that I wasn’t hitting on her.”

I looked up at him and simply replied, “Okay.” Then we went to an all night Ralph’s and got some water. We sat on the benches out front and rehashed the evening. I told John how I felt. John’s defense was that I claimed so many women that he felt locked out from being able to make any kind of move on them. I explained to him that I had liked Megan first and he said that he had liked her ever since he met her and he met her before me. He even tried to redirect the blame onto the nature of the beast, explaining to me how Megan and he were two “highly sexual people” and therefore he couldn’t help himself. I drank my beverage and listened to his excuses, but they didn’t hold water. The only thing I took away from that conversation was that if I had done the same thing to his ex-girlfriend, Jazmine, that he would have been pissed. With that I felt we had come to an understanding: you do not make advances on someone for whom your friend has feelings, especially if they have history together.

So while I didn’t necessarily forgive John, I let it slide. I allowed for the ambiguity of the terms and limitations of our friendship and to smooth things out, I invited him back to my place to play videogames until dawn.

As for my date with Megan, we just shot some pool, got some fast food, and then I took her home. It might as well not have happened at all.

Flash forward.

Megan was gone. She was up at Berkeley going to college and for the most part, things were patched up between us. Months passed with no communication, then one day I gave Megan a call. Phone calls turned into personal Internet correspondence. It was nothing romantic, but it was something. Online chatting then turned back into phone calls when I proposed that we write a play together, considering she was an avid writer. From that point on our long distance phone calls would last as long as the batteries in my cordless. We worked diligently on the play and at length we had most of it done by February when it was time for Megan to come back home to watch her younger sister compete in Mock Trial. Clawing my way back into Megan’s life was not easy. It took determination, perseverance, investment and good old-fashioned luck to break through, so understand that the previous paragraph belies the wherewithal with which I worked.

Flash back for a just a moment.

When Megan came home in December I went to go visit her the first chance I had. She expressed to me that she had put on a few pounds and was feeling unattractive. I disagreed, but can anyone really reason with a woman who thinks she’s fat?

Flash forward again.

So when Megan came down to watch her sister compete, I was a bit concerned over a few things. I shared these concerns with John a few days before Megan’s arrival. I told John that Megan had put on a few pounds and to do me a favor and not make fun of her. John nearly swallowed his tobacco dip when he heard that.

“I hope she got fat!” he howled gleefully. I explained that she had not gotten fat, but that she was feeling fat. I then went on to ask another favor of him.

“John,” I said gravely, “do me a favor and don’t hit on her. I don’t think I could stand that again.”

Again, John nearly swallowed the tobacco in his mouth, “When have I ever done that?!”

I was about to refresh his memory, but decided against it, “Look, if you don’t remember, I’d rather leave it at that. Just promise me you won’t.”

“I don’t remember doing that, but alright.”

The Mock Trial competition was long and boring and when it was over Megan invited me out to dinner. We went to a pretty classy place where her friends played jazz and we delighted ourselves with some fine music and a few laughs. When we left we found that we still had time to get to Jim’s–who was still coaching Mock Trial one final year–for a get together with some of the guys. Walking through the parking lot of Jim’s complex was a short wonderful time. Megan and I had more laughs in that lot than in the whole time knowing each other.

When we entered Jim’s place, I was visibly elated. It didn’t last long. We all stepped out to smoke on Jim’s patio and John was sitting on a patio chair. Megan took this opportunity to sit on John’s knee. I looked on this situation as I would look on the beginning of a roller coaster that I wasn’t prepared to ride, but it would be too late because the ride had started and the carts were clicking and clacking ever upward to the peak painted against nothing but sky. I would see that peak ahead of me and know that beyond its summit was a whirlwind of screaming and confusion and a world turned upside down and inside out, but I would laugh it off because it was supposed to be a ride and it was supposed to be fun. So I too tried to laugh it off at Jim’s while that peak and its inevitable drop came ever nearer. To convince myself that I was there to have fun, I made light of the situation and sat on John’s other knee. The laughter that ensued was shorter lived than I would have liked.

Click!

Clack!

The temperature was dropping so we adjourned inside. We all felt down and muttered to each other about how disappointed we were that the Mock Trial team for Jim’s last year would not be going to state competitions. So to bolster everyone’s mood (all of us being guys), Megan flashed us her bra. It’s amazing the silencing effect that a pair of tits can have on men.

Click!

Clack!

Moments later John was on the couch, dipping his tobacco, talking about his English class and a pm he had read called the Goblin Market. He explained its premise and when he got to the implicit lesbian scene I realized that he was not speaking to everyone, but to Megan. Somewhere around this time, Jim exited to his patio again to rehearse his farewell speech to the Mock Trial team. John went on to describe the lesbian scene to Megan in great detail.

Click!

Clack!

At last, Megan made her way over to the couch on which John was sitting and sat on the opposite end. In the best flirty expression he could muster, John slowly lifted his bare feet off the floor and onto Megan’s lap. She smiled coyly back at him and picked up one of his gigantic feet and began to massage it.

Click!

“Well, this is my lucky day!” John exclaimed in between spitting into a cup.

Clack!

Then he began to groan in physical euphoria.

My world became a whirlwind of screaming and confusion and I found that the drop on the other side of the peak was so steep that it did not slope and worse yet, it did not end. The room became a funhouse hall of mirrors. Everything I looked at became bizarre and twisted. I could focus on nothing, but the carnal act before me. The idle conversation from those around me became muted tones echoing down some long and winding tunnel. I could hear nothing clearly but the animalistic sounds emanating from John’s tobacco filled mouth. And I had to think to myself, who was John in Megan’s life? As far as I knew, they didn’t communicate very much if at all during her absence. Who was John in Megan’s life to deserve such pampering? I had literally hacked a new path to Megan through a war torn history and a distance of five hundred miles just to be her friend and I don’t think it crossed her mind once to treat me with the same attention. In the warped reality of that room Beauty rewarded the Undeserving and for Her troubles She would be slandered once Her services were no longer required. In a movie, this is where the jealous lover takes a machete and hacks everyone into fun sized pieces, and as much as I wanted the situation to be cinematic fiction–unreachable and therefore no harm to me–the reality was tangible and oppressive and I had to escape. I grabbed my cigarettes and fled to the patio.

The betrayal I felt was profound.

“Jim,” I choked, “I promise you I won’t bother you, I just need to be here right now.”

“You’re not bothering me,” he replied, putting his speech away, “Do you want to talk?”

“Just let me get a few cigarettes inside me.” With trembling hands I quickly lit a stick and sucked it down hard. After a moment of blinding pain in my chest, I exhaled a stream of smoke that would make dragons proud. There was a beat of silence while the effects kicked in. “Do you see this?” I finally asked.

“Yeah,” Jim replied, looking off.

“What is he doing?” I asked incredulously.

“I don’t know.” Jim shook his head slightly.

I chain-smoked, once again measuring time with each cigarette.

“The worst thing is,” I said, “he’s going to expect to shake my hand at the end of the evening.”

“Are you going to?” Jim asked, interested.

“I…don’t know,” I took a deep drag, “I don’t know if I can be his friend anymore.”

John came out a good time later to join us. Upon seeing the scattered pile of cigarettes just beyond Jim’s patio John asked, “You going for a new record, René?”

“Yeah,” I replied, “something like that.”

“Well, gentlemen,” John stood up, “my feet are getting cold, so I’m going back inside.”

Jim turned back to me and muttered, “Sure, why don’t you go get another foot massage.”

I gave Jim a sideways look and chuckled. I had thought the exact same thing.

The night was drawing to a close and my ability to be pleasant in the face of hostility had been spent. I knocked on the screen door with the back of my hand, a cigarette still firmly pinched between my fingers, and asked Megan if she could take me home. She mercifully agreed. On my way out, John stood by the door and extended his hand.

I shook it.

After asking me “What’s wrong?” about thirty times, Megan finally got me home where I promptly proceeded to get plastered. I don’t usually drink alcohol. I use it. Alcohol gets me to my forgetting place. The following morning, groggy and hung over, I found that I had pissed on the floor of my bathroom.

***

I knew I had to be very clear on my point of view and it took me a couple of days to be completely sure of how I felt. I stayed very distant from everyone until I could sort things out in my head, however, I made it a point to stay away from John. If he called asking me to spend some time with him, I either begrudgingly shared a quick meal with him or made up an excuse not to go. Then I started screening my phone calls. I needed time to think, undistracted. If I was going to end the friendship with him, my reasons had to be solid. I was going to cut from the bone and there was no margin for equivocation.

The facts as they stood were, I was hurt and someone had to be held accountable. It came down between John and Megan. Scenarios implicating Megan fell apart when I considered that there were no rules of engagement established between us. She was free to do as she pleased. Therefore, the blame had to fall completely on John.

I decided that the event, in and of itself, did not warrant my ending the friendship with John, but the context surrounding the event certainly tipped the scales. First and foremost, I felt John betrayed me. John betrayed the understanding that we had come to after Sean’s birthday. John betrayed the agreement we had come to in my car, days before the incident. If nothing else, I felt John betrayed our friendship by making advances on the flame responsible for my burns. I will allow that Megan was a willing and initiating party to the event, however, there were a variety of responses that John could have chosen with which to react. I didn’t think that it would have been unreasonable to expect John not to put his feet in Megan’s lap.

Secondly, I would have resented John forever. I wouldn’t be able to help it. Days after the incident, before any decisions had been made, when I looked at John all I could see was the betrayal. As it was, I was already having horrible dreams about John and Megan sharing the close quarters of a bathtub. I would never forget this. I would relive the night every time I saw him. Why would I want to continue the friendship? What would be the point? There had to be consequences to John’s actions. What he was doing was wrong, if not to me then to Megan. He was backstabbing her repeatedly and with impunity. If she was blind to it then so be it. I was not.

Lastly, though I couldn’t prove it, I felt John had intentions toward Megan. I am positive beyond reasonable doubt that if he had been given the opportunity for more, that John would have taken it. If John had slept with Megan, then my decision to end the friendship would have been clear. In my mind, intentions and actions are the same thing. Friendship is based on opportunities taken to prove loyalty, not lack of opportunity to prove disloyalty. These were the arguments I steeled myself with in order to prosecute John’s actions.

It wasn’t long after Jim’s farewell to the Mock Trial team that John started trying to piece together the reasons for my silence. In my blind undirected rage I had vented to some mutual friends and I have no doubt that the fruits of my ire were picked off the grapevine. He was understandably upset and he prepared his defense.

Though John and I never spoke in person during this time, his explanations were distilled to me through mutual friends.

“This is the kind of relationship [John] always had with Megan.”

I took that to mean that John had always behaved physically and flirtatiously with Megan ever since he’d known her. Well, I’m not sure how Megan and John behaved together while I wasn’t around, but to the best of my knowledge things like what happened at Jim’s apartment never happened throughout the time I was wooing Megan. What’s more, John was already two years out of high school and as far as I knew, he didn’t exactly hang out with Megan, much less communicate with her while she was away at college. So the idea that John had any kind of relationship with Megan worth noting is pretty shaky.

“[John] had a few beers in [him].”

This was the least persuasive defense that came my way. It was particularly weak because it effectively placed the responsibility on the alcohol. That is to say, if John had not been drinking that night, his actions would have and should have been deemed inappropriate. It is also important to note that John had an exceptional tolerance for alcohol. He once drank thirteen beers in the course of one New Year’s Eve’s party and complained about not feeling buzzed. Even if John had been inebriated, it didn’t excuse anything in my mind. When people are drunk, they do things they wouldn’t normally do. Some people say things they shouldn’t say. Some people drive over pedestrians. Being drunk ds not assuage their infractions.

“It was all her. [John] didn’t do anything. There was no interest on [his] part.”

While I will allow that Megan did assert herself, it’s not as though John didn’t initiate the foot massage by placing his feet in Megan’s lap. I didn’t have enough evidence to prove interest at the time, but this defense also felt weak because it–like the others before–relied on an outside force as foundation. Thus, each defense was made fragile. I simply had to attack the outside force and it was only a matter of time before evidence proving interest surfaced.

What I was looking for was accountability. I wanted John to say that he did nothing wrong regardless of any outside forces. I wouldn’t have been able to argue against that. You can’t argue differences of opinion. I think this was the explanation John was trying to get to if indeed he had made the arguments that came my way. In retrospect, I truly believe that John had no intent to hurt me and that he was simply too distracted with pleasing himself to realize that hurting me was implicit in his actions. For my part, I couldn’t be friends with someone who can’t grasp that they’re hurting me. That was the bottom line, unabridged and unabashed. I saw it discernibly now and I passed judgment with a clear conscience.

I want to say that some time after my drunken stupor I made the final decision to end my friendship with John. In truth, I don’t think there was a specific moment. I just ended communication and got used to not seeing him. I took it one day at a time until he was phased out. I also want to say that I ended my relationship with John solely because he betrayed understandings we had come to. Looking back, John was guilty of something far worse: he was a mirror reflecting everything I hated about myself. I hated the fact that I would have to work infinitely harder than him when it came to women. I hated being insecure about girls that I was deeply passionate over being attracted to my close friends. I hated knowing that deep down I hated my friend for being a hypocrite.

I ended the friendship to break the mirror.

***

The road to separation was always uphill and not always clear.

I missed John terribly. Since leaving my parents’ home, John had been the single person I spent time with most. I could always count on him to come over in a pinch. Removing John from the equation of my day was like quitting smoking. I suddenly found an overwhelming amount of free time alone.

The one thing notably missing was John’s laugh. He had a low guttural laugh that infected me whenever I heard it. And when John was wracked with laughter, a childlike expression engulfed his face, always impressing me with John’s ability to derive so much enjoyment out of the most infinitesimal things. I missed that: just being able to sit down with John and have a good laugh. There were plenty of times that I paced around my apartment, receiver in hand, wanting to get those moments back, but in time, those temptations faded. In time, I no longer needed John to complete me. I learned to be whole by accepting my reality, rather than fighting against it. I embraced my second place in the dating world and found room for the wreckage of friendship with John. I absorbed the pain and inner turmoil and incorporated them into my being. Thus, I did my best to keep my falling out with John between he and myself, but it was an impossible task.

The quickly widening rift between John and I swallowed our mutual friends the following summer. Understanding both of our obstinate characters, everyone knew that John and I would never be caught dead near one another and for a while it was I who had been invited to all of the get togethers and hang outs. At times it felt as though my problems with John had been contained. Whenever the question, “So, how’s John?” would come my way, I would glance it off with, “We don’t hang out anymore,” and leave it at that. I knew of course that they would eventually make contact with John and I expected our friends to be faced with a tough decision: whom do they invite? It was residual social fallout and it blanketed everything in my life.

If John was feeling abandoned by me it was more than made up for by the loyalty of our friends. My phone began to ring less and less and then not at all. When I would catch up with my friends I would hear of some past get together I hadn’t known about and then ask why I hadn’t been invited. My friends would pass the buck, saying things like, “Oh, [blank] was supposed to call you. He didn’t call you?” or “Well, I don’t want you to think that I’ve chosen John over you, but it wasn’t my party, so I didn’t feel right just inviting anybody.”

At first, I was hurt. Most of these people had been former Mock Trial teammates and we had shared life-altering experiences. We had cut our teeth together in the trenches and at one time they had referred to me as Oh captain, My captain! Now I was nobody.

After the initial shock of having been passed over yet again, I developed a morbid fascination in observing these people whenever they tried to rationalize their actions in leaving me uninvited. I enjoyed watching them squirm and their eyes dance about and their gaze always dodging mine, falling somewhere over my shoulders. It was all very insulting, but I chose not to get hurt. Instead, I viewed the rift as a great cleansing plague that thinned out my herd of friendships, leaving only the strong behind. Beyond that, I was through with judging people. I only sought to understand why people did what they did. The understanding I came to was that in large social engagements people view John as more fun to be around than me. At younger ages it’s on this fun factor that people base friendships.

That left me alone…again.

Moreover, Megan was down for the summer and spent time with these people on a weekly basis, which meant she spent time with John, oblivious or unconcerned as to why I was absent each night at the gathering. The worst had come to pass. Everything I had worked for to bridge the gap between Megan and myself had been destroyed and in my social circle I had become the square. I learned to speak bitter fluently. If there had ever been an opportunity that by some stroke of luck Megan spent time with me I would show my gratitude with snide remarks and sardonic comments. I knew I had deserved better. Instead, I had returned to my lonely place and serious doubt sank in as to the righteousness of my decision. It wasn’t until the following summer that my doubts were relieved.

As far as I was told, John would occasionally ask Megan out to dinner. Just the two of them. This was very uncharacteristic of John as I knew him, but still wasn’t enough to prove interest on his part. But then there were other details here and there–little slips of John’s tongue that came out during parties, hinting at John’s desire to break the platonic bonds. However, when Megan began postponing their dinner engagements farther and farther back, John slowly ended communication. This culminated, as I was told, in John not even speaking to Megan one of the last nights she was still in town for the summer and the last night that he would be seeing her for a long time. While I didn’t witness any of these events, I have it on good authority that these things happened the way that I have related them now. That being the case, I was more than relieved to find these things out. I had been floating in a morass of uncertainty until that point and it was wonderful to discover the true nature of John’s actions.

***

In a movie, where the story continues beyond the scope of the film, there’s usually a short montage of scenes showing the individual characters and what they’re doing now. Megan went back to Berkeley for school and we continued our friendship where I proceeded to fall in love with her all over again. When she came down for the following summer we did everything that lovers did, but Megan refused to call me her boyfriend or us a couple. At the end of summer, she decided for both of us that a long distance relationship would be unfair and we returned to simply being friends. When she flew back down for a film project in L.A., Megan started dating a guy who lived there and their relationship continued even after she returned to Berkeley and he stayed in Los Angeles.

I gave up on women completely and they moved in together sometime later.

I saw Rebecca one night at a local pool hall. I hadn’t even noticed that she walked in. I had had a job interview earlier that day and I was dressed smartly. Rebecca exclaimed my name in surprise, commented on how good I looked and gave me a hug. At the end of the night, I gave her my numbers, expecting her not to call. I wasn’t disappointed.

As for Jim, he died…just as my friendship with John was guttering out. We all hoped it was quick: a seizure on the floor of his bathroom after a shower. He was six years older than me. I was particularly bereft losing the only person who would have been my ally when it came to standing up to John and standing up for myself.

John and I finally exchanged our views with one another almost two years after the falling out. It was very civil and there was no ill will. Leaving that discussion, I discovered that I was not as complete as I had imagined. When I had cut John out of my life, I didn’t realize that it would be impossible to root him out without ripping up other vital areas. In fact, there were plenty of holes in my life after that; I had just learned to live with them. One of the greatest voids is the place in my life where John used to be and, try as I might, it will never be refilled. He had been a friend, a mentor, a coworker, a confidante, and if nothing else, a friendly ear to talk to and a companion on slow nights. Letting go of John was one of the toughest decisions I have ever had to make in my life.

Be thankful you never come to those crossroads in yours.

***

I’m sitting at my desk, hunched over the classifieds, smoking a cigarette and listening to jazz. I’m sitting at my desk, hunched over the classifieds, because I need a different job. I’ve been working at Macy’s selling men’s clothes for about a year now and I’ve measured enough inseams to last a life term in prison. I’m sitting at my desk, hunched over the classifieds, and if I had not done this countless times before, I would not be truly reading them. Over the years, I had become a professional job hunter – moving from odd job to odd job – well versed in the tricks and traps of the prospective employer. Without the proper experience, it is all too easy for the unwary seeker to fall through the palm fronds into the spiked pit beneath by responding to seemingly innocuous ads. For instance:

Recep. (Receptionist: if you’re a guy, don’t apply), Exp. (Experienced: we only want people who have been doing this for ten years and have no ambition to promote), Presentable (no fat women, also, depending on how presentable you are, we may waive the experience criterion), Multi-tasking (able to do your job and your boss’ job while getting him coffee and doing his laundry), Friendly (will take shit from people, but mostly from your boss), Self-motivated (forget about training), PC literate (not that you’ll be using a PC much as a receptionist, but this requirement will replace an education requirement nicely), Detail oriented (will be sure to punch in and out on the hour so that we don’t pay you more than we have to), Flexible (weekends), EOE (Equal Opportunity Employer: we put this here because our lawyer said we had to, not because we really do it). It honestly takes talent to write these things. Not only is the truth paraphrased into euphemism heaven, but it’s also done so in less than fifteen words.

Alas, nothing for me again so off to the salt mines I go.

While working the job, all I can think about is how shitty it is. By my estimation, while I bag some grouchy woman’s clothes, which are a poor attempt at a sense of style for her son, I’ve concluded that retail ranks near the bottom in the great hierarchy of customer-service jobs, second only to phone customer-service, which I’ve also worked, I might add. What makes these jobs so onerous is the sheer powerlessness in the face of customers. When I worked for directory assistance – a job I got myself fired from by coming to work in full drag regalia because I hated the bullshit dress code imposed upon me after being promoted to a trainer – there wasn’t much I could do if someone wanted to call and yell at me for no reason, considering the penalty for hanging up on a “customer” was to lose my job. Retail only offered marginally more opportunities for retaliation. If ever I had to deal with a rude customer who was paying with a credit card or, even better, applying for store credit, I would commit to memory useful information like credit card numbers and expiration dates or, in the case of store credit, social security numbers. Sure, I never went through with my identity theft schemes, but it was comforting to know that I could have.

This is the kind of secret comfort that waiters – another job I’ve worked – enjoy and that restaurant goers fear. In the back of every diner’s mind is the fear of food sabotage and they know that the only thing that is keeping their food safe during the journey from the kitchen to their table is the mood of their waiter. Sure, customers may delude themselves into thinking they have the power because they control the tip, but what is threatening a waiter’s tip when compared to the possibility of a certain amount of spit or mucous or urine or semen being passed into their clam chowder? Fantasies like this make jobs tolerable.

At long last, when I thought my mettle would give way to homicide, a Macy’s coworker who also worked at the Riverside Credit Union told me they were hiring tellers. Goodbye haggling customers who get angry at me over the price of our clothes, thinking I have some say over it. So long male customers twice my age who ask me to put outfits together for them, thinking that I have my finger on the pulse of fashion. Farewell idiotic customers who think that “50% off plus an additional 50%” equals 100% off and therefore think I should sell the designer brand leather coat “found” on that sales rack of ties for free.

Enjoy Christmas without me. I’m sure you’ll get by.

This was my opportunity to escape. My friend tells me to mention her during the interview process as having referred me. Referred applicants get extra consideration. So I call their job-line and go through the rigmarole of talking to the recorded voice as it asks me questions about availability and qualifications. I leave my name and number and wait for a call back. Some lady from human resources calls me a few days later and we follow up with more of the same. Apparently, I was applying for a “member service position,” not a teller position. Technically, they’re the same, but some corporate suit in charge of keeping turnover low renamed the teller position to make the peons feel better about their crappy job. Regardless of the job title, this lady wanted to scrutinize my qualifications by having me rate them on a scale from one to ten. Now, I had been a year out of the hiring game, so I was a bit rusty. My best bet was to play it safe. If she asked me about something I really couldn’t fake then I rated myself low, but I never said I had no experience in one particular field. That’s the kiss of death, let me tell you. Three was the lowest I gave myself on anything, even if I had only heard of it in passing conversation.

“How do you rate yourself in open heart surgery?”

“Three, baby!”

Seriously, it wasn’t that absurd, but she did ask me about things that I felt were very unrelated to the position, like the use of Word or PowerPoint or other software. I doubted very much that I’d be drafting memos or making spreadsheet presentations as a teller. In the end it seemed that all went well and I was confident in my interview. She said someone would be in touch, but in the business world, that phrase is used by employers more as a way of ending conversation – like the way people sign letters with “love” – and doesn’t quite have any real meaning. So, I expected little.

I was pleasantly surprised to be called back for a personal interview. A few days later I showed up to the credit union dressed to the nines. My hair could have used some cutting, but there was no time. I felt it didn’t matter, really. My personal interview skills are unmatched.

After filling out an application I was escorted into an office where I could speak to the human resources manager, Dana. She was a small Caucasian woman, early thirties, brown hair, professional. Dana had the careworn marks around her eyes and mouth that told me she was accustomed to smiling. Moreover, she was very friendly and a good listener. She made very good eye contact and made the appropriate listening sounds. I felt at ease talking with her. A few minutes into the conversation I mentioned to Dana that my friend had referred me. Dana said to me that what’s interesting is that referrals get priority over non-referred applicants, but in my case it was unnecessary because I was top pick regardless. I wanted to grin and pump my fist, but I kept my cool and nodded as if I expected no less and yet balanced it out with a humble, “Well that’s good to hear,” followed with a boyish smile.

Dana then took a moment to review my résumé. After which she says to me – get this – “Your résumé is perfect for us! Your year of customer-service fits perfectly with our branch needs and your year of call center experience is perfect for our call center. I wish I could duplicate you and hire you for both positions.” You can imagine the expectation that built up inside me. Dana continued, “And your year as a trainer is great for either position, because both require a lot of explaining to the customers.” I told Dana that I would be willing to help Riverside Credit Union in any capacity, but I would prefer the call center because it catered better to my school schedule. She jotted down some notes and we talked about my future and other irrelevant personal details. The conversation wandered casually here and there and I once again felt very at ease. Then Dana did something that I thought was very uncharacteristic of someone in charge of hiring. She started talking about a future trainer position that I would be well suited for and would be available to me after I graduated. I hadn’t even landed the entry-level position and she’s talking about management. Outlook was good so far. Keep talking.

After schmoozing a bit longer, Dana said to me, “You know, let me go get the other managers together. You have an impressive résumé and your entire presentation is great. I want to get you moving right along.” Then she stepped out of her office. Now my back was to the door, but I was on my game that day, let me tell you. I kept my eye on the window facing the door so that I would know when Dana came back in by her reflection in the window. The moment she opened the door I stood up. I thought this would earn me brownie points, but I had no idea it would have the effect it did. Dana was stunned and her mouth fell agape.

“No one has ever done that for me!” she gasped in orgasmic delight, “I want to hire you right now!” Then she caught herself and composed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be saying that. I’ll have to do some background checks and a credit check since you’ll be handling large amounts of money.” She asked me if I thought there were going to be any complications. My cross dressing stint flashed across my mind for a moment, but I planned to circumvent that problem by having my friend pose as my ex-manager from that business. Tricky devil, no? As far as my credit went, my report was pretty solid. So, with renewed confidence, I was escorted to talk to Bill, an older gentleman with curly salt and pepper hair neatly coiffed on his head, finely manicured on his lip, and unkempt on his chest as it came bursting through the unbuttoned V of his company polo shirt. Joining us would be some lady who I’ll call Alice, because I honestly can’t remember her name. Alice was held up so I engaged in small talk with Bill to pass the time.

In a situation like this, the best thing to do is to pull a Keyser Soze: draw upon all the shit in the interviewer’s office as stuff to talk about. You’d be surprised at how much personal shit with which a person will decorate his or her office. We talked about Bill’s family and rock climbing and other meaningless crap until Alice got there. Ah, but Bill was good. This man has a perpetual poker face. He showed polite interest in carrying a conversation, but he didn’t fall all over himself to talk to me. Very hard to read, this one. So when Alice got there, I found her a little more agreeable. Alice was a petite woman with very short hair; the bulk of it piled on the top of her head. She had a round face that went well with the chubbiness of her body, but which contrasted with the slender neck that separated the two. I made polite conversation with her. She was impressed that I had worked with the Public Defender’s Office straight out of high school as she had done the same. Already we had something to share. A mistake on her part. Never fall in love with a mark.

The questions these two asked were very similar to Dana’s. They did ask a few questions that I had to finagle, such as, “How many days of work did you miss in the last year?” This one is always tough because you can never tell what a person thinks is too high. I took a stab in the dark and said five. This was the only time I saw Bill crack. He looked at Alice and let out a controlled laugh while he spoke.

“You’re quite a dedicated employee then. If you get a job here we’ll actually force you to take a week off. It’s just company policy.” I suddenly felt that I was losing credibility so I had to make my story believable. I told them that my number was so low because I wasn’t scheduled very often. They bought it, nodding their heads in understanding. When it comes to a job interview, one must be flexible like the bamboo. They went on with cursory crap and stressed customer-service and what not, but then they got tricky with me and asked about what I thought was more needless personal shit.

“What are your long term goals and what are your short term goals?” I was stumped. There was an immediate traffic jam of thoughts in my head. What the hell was he getting at? Long term, I wanted to finish college, write a movie, and build a house. Short term was to go home and take a shit. What did this have to do with anything? So I just stared at him like an idiot and asked him to rephrase the question.

“What are you looking for in the next few months in regards to the credit union?”

Ah, a little clearer. This I could bullshit through. I told him how I wanted to learn the ins and outs of being in member service and other crap that managers like to hear. Then he cut me off.

“What I’m trying to get at without coming out and saying it is: if we offer the position to you, how long will you be with us?”

Finally, the truth. You see, this is exactly what I’m talking about! There is so much bullshit in the workplace it makes me want to vomit. I explained to Bill that should I get the position I would not actively look for another job. This seemed to allay any fears Alice or Bill had. They relaxed in their seats and gave each other approving looks.

“Well,” Bill said, “you definitely know how to carry yourself in a professional environment. We’ll be in touch.” I was then escorted back to Dana. She told me that I would hear from her in a few days. She called me back and I was to interview with the call center folks. That interview went just as well. They asked the same crap questions and I replied with the same well-rehearsed answers. I was told that I would receive a decision by the end of the week.

You know how they say, “good things come in small packages?” That isn’t true when it comes to mail. As if in reply to my standard answers during the interviews I received the standard impersonal rejection letter – thin, weightless; black letters printed severely on a stark white background. Even the rejection letters bullshit you. “While your skills were impressive, others scored higher than you in their interview.” What?! How is that possible? I can only imagine Dana’s reaction to that person if his or her interview was better than mine. I even called her in the vain hope that this was some kind of clerical mistake. Nope, they just found someone they liked better.

“Good luck, René.”

God, I hate it when interviewers say that. How about, “Sorry I got your hopes up?” That would have been more fitting. Here’s my favorite part: a couple of weeks later, they took out an ad in the paper, hiring for the exact same position. They supposedly keep résumés on file for two years, but did they call me? Of course not. “Top of the list?” “Wish I could duplicate you and hire both of you?” No, these words mean nothing. So just to see what would happen, I faxed in my résumé again. This time I didn’t even get a pre-screening call back. I just got a rejection letter. In the span of two weeks I was no longer impressive.

***

I’m sitting at my desk, hunched over the classifieds, smoking a cigarette and listening to jazz, realizing once again how limited my choices are and just why I keep getting stuck with jobs I hate. Staring at all these shades of black and grey trapped in little rectangles, I have to wonder why a college degree is so important for a lot of these positions. Don’t get me wrong; I see the logic in looking for someone who’s put in their time to learn how to be a lawyer or a CPA or whatever, but what about these crappy middle management positions? From experience, middle management is more about diplomacy than anything else. Why the hell do I need a college degree for that? Yeah, you can make the arguments that we live in a credential society and having a college degree means that you have a modicum of all the necessary skills to be a supervisor. Supposedly, you learned time allocation skill, conflict management, and gained maturity, but this only begs the question, “How deluded have employers become?” Have they forgotten what it was like in college? Time allocation? The only time allocation any college student really learns is how to eke out that much more sleep before heading to class after an all night drinking/blazing binge. Conflict management? Not even close, unless they mean asking for that thirteenth extension on your paper due last quarter. Maturity? Between classes and trying to get laid, is there really any time for maturity? I think your average McDonald’s order taker learns these skills much more fully than any college student ever will. It’s places like the food industry or retail jobs where you learn time allocation (jumping from customer to customer), conflict management (keeping managers’ egos intact while kissing up to customers without going insane), and maturity (you get a “real world” perspective on life).

***

It’s a sobering thought that in our adult lives we will be spending a third of almost every day in the workplace and it’s a tragedy that the job situation has come to this: working jobs made hellacious by humanity; pounding the pavement, looking for jobs and getting the bullshit run-around; or getting a non-service position and dealing with inter-office politics. One can only hope that things will improve with a college degree. As the salespeople on television say, “a college degree can make your life complete,” but in truth it’s working grunt jobs and the pursuit of grunt jobs that are the most necessary in anyone’s life. It’s working customer-service positions where you learn that there are great evils in the universe and you are powerless to stop them.

Of course, what made things even worse was that the Early Braker was also a Late Mover. A Late Mover is the kind of driver who doesn’t move until the car in front of him/her has moved five car lengths ahead. This also allows for cars in other lanes to swoop in. So, basically, with Early Braking and Late Moving, I basically didn’t move for half an hour. Sure, we idled forward a good 2 feet, but that doesn’t count.

Now, I appreciate that everyone thinks they’re a good driver and I appreciate that 90% of those people are incorrect, but I fall in the top 10% definitely. See, I understand the dynamics of the road. I understand the intimate relationship a driver must have with the car in front of him/her and with the car behind. It boils down to trust. Do you trust the driver in front of you not to brake too early and do you trust the driver behind you not to brake too late. More importantly, if you can’t trust those drivers are you skilled enough to compensate for their shortcomings? I can and that’s why I rock as a driver. I can be in the minds of everyone around me at the same time, which allows me to spot dumbass driving and Road Rage flare-ups, thereby avoiding accidents through minor adjustments in car positioning.

Sure, I still get pissed off once in a while and fantasize about bashing that SL 500 into the median, dragging its wreckage of corrugated metal and broken glass across the center divider a good quarter mile, but those moments are few and far between. In fact, I think I am approaching Zen, if there is a Zen for heavy traffic. I’ve outgrown the impulse to constantly lane change in an attempt to shave off a minute from my hour commute. Instead, I just merge into the lane that I know I’ll need to be in twenty miles down the road and just queue. I realize, I’m not a unique snowflake. I’m the all seeing, all dancing crap of the universe. I’m part of a team. When the team wins, I win. So I crawl along with the rest of them.

What impresses me (and what I’m still very far from becoming) are the Zen Masters of driving in heavy traffic. These are the guys who realize that traffic is not something to fight or overcome. Traffic is the world telling us to slow down and enjoy the brotherhood of our fellow man in what’s left of our already short lives. The Zen Masters never brake. They just let their car idle along the freeway. Sure, I hate being behind them just as much as the next guy, but without them, no one would ever be able to change lanes in heavy traffic without pulling some kind of dick move.

There is one upside to heavy traffic on the freeway. It forces you to conform. Yes, occasionally, you’ll get a Fast and the Furious wannabe stirring the pot, but traffic always gets them in the end. When you resign yourself to traffic and let it cradle you in its warm, secure embrace, you slowly learn to appreciate the languid pace. Furthermore, being a good driver in heavy traffic has different criteria and is less difficult to achieve, whereas most people cannot handle being a good driver on side streets. In heavy traffic, to be a good driver, you just go with the flow. Brake and accelerate when you should. Let people into your lane at natural intervals. Merge into other lanes safely. Courtesy wave. Courtesy wave. It’s not that hard, but even if you fuck it up, people can still compensate for you. Besides, it’s not like your shitty driving is really slowing us down much.

But on side streets, shitty drivers abound! And their lack of driving ability seriously impacts your commute. If you’re going to drive the side streets, pay fucking attention to the lights, especially if you’re leading everyone. If you’re not Johnny-on-the-Spot when that light turns green, your late move will fuck over the guy ten cars back. Hitting a light adds like another five minutes to the drive. It’s fucking bullshit! So maximize the lights.

See, traffic is really just a microcosm of society at its worst and driving in traffic is like playing No Limit Texas Hold’em. Poker is all about lying in wait to make your move, just like switching lanes in heavy traffic. In poker, when you have a good hand or you’re bluffing, sometimes you give that away with what’s called a “tell.” Your face twitches. You breathe heavier. Whatever. Same with driving. If you use your blinker in heavy traffic, ain’t no way anyone’s gonna let you into their lane, because that’s a tell. You’ll have to wait until a Mack truck comes along that’s too slow to block you out. Same thing goes for looking over the shoulder or excessively checking the sideview mirror. That’s like checking your cards over and over again. That’s weak play that tells other players you’re not sure how good your hand is. No. You must always know the strength of your hand and the length of your car. You take a peek into your sideview mirror. In that instant, if your car can physically fit in the gap you see, YOU GO FOR IT!

When I pull that kind of dick lane change and the guy behind me has to come to a screeching halt, I like to yell into the rearview mirror, “BOOM! I’m here now, bitch! Deal with it!”

In poker, you also have “false tells.” So let’s say you’re sitting on a royal flush but you want to make it seem like you’re bluffing, you go ahead and raise egregiously or whatever. Same with driving. Let’s say traffic is light and flowing but the guy in front of you in the fast lane won’t go above 65. You give him a false tell to make him speed up. You signal like you’re gonna change lanes. He’ll instinctively speed up because he doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction of passing him and thinking he’s slow. When he guns it, you cut your blinker and stay in the lane. That’s a false tell in action.

I know it may seem ridiculous to take all of these facets of driving into consideration just to get from point A to point B, but when people talk about “bad drivers” this is what it’s all about. Most people have the motor skills to operate a car, but not the mental faculty for the driving mind game. And that prevents those people from negotiating the road with other people effectively and safely. That’s why I hope those people die.