The hour badly spent

Sometimes I think you just don’t want to be happy.

A couple of weeks ago, when the weather here was a bit danker and colder, Cherry took me to the junky thrift store by the highway so I could get an actual jacket.

While we looked around we came across an old typewriter. Whenever I see these things I get this vision of myself; I’m chain-smoking at a desk, wearing slacks, a white shirt, suspenders, and a visor that has a piece of paper sticking out of the side. The paper says "Press." I’m clack-clack-clacking at a monstrous Smith-Corona when the boss walks in. The typewriter dings; I whip the paper off the roll and present it to him. "Here’s your exclusive!" Then I sit back down and reach for the fifth of bourbon in my desk.

That typewriter didn’t work. But there was another one!

Cherry saw the crazed old-timey look on my face and bought it for me — a belated birthday gift.

"Your new ROYAL portable combines precision workmanship, found only on the finest office typewriter, with sparkling new features that make it the most modern and durable portable typewriter in the world. It’s truly an office typewriter in portable size."
– (C) 1953 by Royal Typewriter Company, Inc.

Typing is surprisingly quiet. If you strike two letters at once the keys get stuck.

Resting it comfortably on the desk is a simple matter of unscrewing it from brackets on the bottom of the case and hefting the thing out. This is before the Age of Plastic; the cast iron renders it hackerproof. Suck on that, Macbook Air.

The other day I spoke with my Playwriting professor over email. She seemed really laid back:

Because there was a disconnect with the scheduling of the class, the bookstore didn’t order books. I think you can probably get them cheaper through Amazon.com. And I think you can probably get a used copy of The Crucible at The Dusty Bookshelf (I think I may even have seen a copy of Playwriting: Formula to Form there this summer).

We are getting started a bit late, so just bring yourself t class and we’ll start from there!

Sally

Based on that, I assumed my first day of class would be awesome. She did not disappoint.

I trudged up to Nichols 311 and sat down. "Don’t unpack," she cheerfully warned. "We’ll be staying here for the next five minutes, then moving to a better room (It’s debatable whether the Purple Masque Theatre is "better than" anything, but whatever)."

"I know," she sympathized, "if you can find this place in Nichols, you should be able to stay, right?"

No kidding. This is what the lobby looks like:

"Sometimes we get computer nerds in here (the computer science department dominates like fifty floors of this building) and they’re like, ‘Oh no!’"

"And I bet they get the same," she continued. " Theater students, stumbling around confused, with their pink hair."

After five minutes we made our way to the Theatre. The whole time I kept feeling like there was a mosquito somewhere on my left. Judging by the decor, a mosquito explanation is actually more likely than the usual "my glasses are crusted over with blood and mucous." I kept kind of halfway looking over while trying to pay attention to Professor Bailey. Just to get our minds in gear for our homework assignment, she showed a picture and asked us "What would this person say?"

"I never sleep," I whispered at Cherry, who’s also taking the class.* Cherry thinks she’s famous because she has big hair. She did actually recognize the image (I didn’t): La Marquise Casati by Man Ray. If anyone picked this photo, the most suitable dialogue would probably just be lyrics to "Worst Pies in London."

My homework is to write a monologue based on this photo of Patricia Arquette (I only know who it is because it said so on the back):

At last I gave up on ignoring the mosquito and tried to study it for a while.

Oh. It looks like it’s just an oval of light reflected off the oscillating fan. And there’s hardly any blood on my glasses at all.

*Of course we are all TOTALLY psyched about this.

I knew, after our talk, during Friday’s annoyingly poetic thunderstorm, that eventually you would get bored or curious and click on that link (I don’t mind that anyone finds it; it’s right out there in the open on my Facebook profile). Then you would read back and see "how I really felt," how childish and petty I really was, how prostrating and selfish I really was, how arrogant and judgemental I really was, how lonely and bitter and embarrassed I really was, but mostly how drunk I really was.

So I knew you would find The Hour Badly Spent and that you would tear through all those posts, and I thought of how easy it would be to just make them private, but then why did I put them there in the first place? Also: I am extremely lazy, so much so that I can’t even be bothered with extra mouse clicks. Also: it’s not really a big deal anyway. Nobody reads this shit except for a few people to whom I’ve given obnoxious nicknames [ed. note: I’m tired of trying to amuse my readers — all 3 of them — with with creative monikers. We’ll be on a first name basis. Except for Professor Potts and Doctor Dodd, because that sounds like they teach at Hogwarts. And Doctor Hately. She went on and on about how hard she studied for that title, la dee da, and if the rest of us don’t damn well recognize or whatever, she is not afraid to shank us. Then she downed a shot of Vegemite with horseradish and yelled "Huzzah, beehotch!" at Princess Glitter Bunny, which was utterly terrifying but also kind of hot*].

This stupid blog was not meant to be some sort of cudgel. So, about all those verbal swipes; umm, my bad. Skimming back through them, I’m actually terribly embarrassed. They weren’t really about you; they were about me: a tabloidey chronicle of what the f, exactly, I am doing here, because otherwise I’ll forget. And if now, I am sometimes disturbingly quiet, it is not because of you or any you-and-me stuff. I had a pretty bad summer, during which I made a terrible mistake and now I’m a thousand miles away and cannot fix it. I don’t mean to play the mystery man but I also really don’t want to talk about it. However, it’s on my mind a lot, and at times it will make me kind of withdrawn and surly until I can think of a witty declaration of some sort, which will usually come in the form of a Russian reversal ("In Russia, declaration think of YOU!"), because those are cheap and easy. Everybody knows how I feel about cheap and easy.

Anyway. So. Not to be all "the only emperor is the emperor of ice cream" over this but it really is all kind of old. A month in blog time is like two years of reality. I’ve aged TEN YEARS since, you know, back then. Which makes me forty-fucking-six. And not to diminish what happened, either, because we did, in fact, have a good time.

It was a good time because you took me to Lawrence in the winter, which was beautiful and white everywhere, and to that party full of Lawrence hipsters — who are much better than Manhattan hipsters because in Lawrence their dresses are smaller. It was a good time because of that morning we laughed together for five straight hours, even though I know you are not that funny and neither am I. It was a good time because we drank way too much and spent nights together and all that other stuff, and perhaps there was just not enough "other stuff" but whatever; you get the point.

Let this be the last of these pretentious livejournal-ish rants of mine. And I’ll try to cool it on the Sonnet 30 references. The Collegian is out! Let’s go make fun of it. And maybe while I’m at it I’ll write more coherently.

*This never actually happened. But it definitely should have because isn’t it awesome? Plus you can totally picture it.

In the process of reviewing Dancing at Lughnasa, I noted that one of the sisters was hot. "Hottest," in fact. I hear the actress’ significant other flew into a rage and and wanted to go all Hulk-smashey on The Hour Badly Spent. Well, where I come from, we distinguish between idly admiring a girl for her looks, complimenting her on a sort of striking beauty which is glaringly obvious to everyone anyway, and actually hitting on her.

These subtle nuances are apparently lost on Kansans. Fine; since I have no way of actually knowing who’s boinking whom, I take back the compliment. Everybody in the theatre department is ugly. And not just ugly, but extremely ultrahideous. And not just extremely ultrahideous, but so miserably appallingly haggard that the mere sight of any of you makes me want to repent of my sins and bathe my eyes in battery acid.

Glad I got that off my chest. So what did you think of Mud, River, Stone? I don’t remember too much of it, because I’m not drunk like I was when I saw the play way back in February, but I remember liking it.

In it, a bunch of richly-storied characters, starting with an annoying NYC black couple (they were from NY, right? I hardly remember), were thrown together at a quaint off-the-beaten-path South Africa hotel. Bells and alarms started going off the moment the couple stepped on stage, because I used to watch Friends, a show that proved there are no black people in New York.

Immediately, Sarah Bradley starts bitching because she can’t charge her iPod or something. Which was awesome. My favorite frenemy - Ama Cyllah’s actress - agreed.

My Hair Thinks Its Famous: What did you think of Sarah?
The Hour Badly Spent:        So persistently snotty. So relentlessly catty. Exactly what I look for in a girl.
My Hair Thinks Its Famous: I know. She acts like that in real life too. Isn’t she hot!
The Hour Badly Spent:        Yes!
[Ed. note: I meant no, because as we just established, everyone’s too fugly].
My Hair Thinks Its Famous: You should get her number.
The Hour Badly Spent:        You kidding? Actresses are scary. And I’m not that drunk yet.

Mr. Blake, an affable Englishman — wait, no, a white African with a British accent — wait, no, leader of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen — translates the spit of the country that raised him into a wise, pithy sort of polish. "There is no telephone, no running water, not even a road. Just perfect martinis," he once said (a note on martinis: they are all perfect). Blake is graceful whether he is being conciliatory or aggressive; in fact, his confrontations often move the plot along when it veers into stagnation.

Left stranded at the hotel as part of a peacekeeping envoy, Simone Frick stammered through her part like a mouse talking her way out of a tiger pit. Her crisp uniform and radiant, hyperblonde hair underscored how out-of-place the character felt. Silly Ms. Frick! When you visit a war zone, you’ve gotta do like I do, and walk up in there like you fucking own the joint. You’d be surprised at how far a pimp roll will take you, literally and metaphorically.

There were other actors too. Whatever. Eventually, cabin fever really sets in. Everyone starts to get kinda livejournalley; going through all their character histories, their oedipal issues, proving how "African" they truly are or something. We are given an education that, however self-indulgent, is also insightful and unromanticized. Then someone shoots someone else, and he pretty much deserves it for taking hostages and being a chronic ass. Oh Mr. Blake, why couldn’t you take me too?

Friday night at Rusty’s Last Chance, Arianna celebrated the hell out of her 21st birthday. Carolyn, Cate, Cherry, Jordan, Marco, Brandon, and Johnny all showed up to toast the occasion.

Johnny was wearing all black, with a black fedora, black leather jacket, and sunglasses. At midnight. Only complete assholes wear their shades indoors. True to form, he kept trying to grope all the single girls.

"I’m sitting over here," said Carolyn. "Don’t let him find me."
"You can’t really hide from him," I warned. He’s got special nightstalkerey powers. That’s why he’s dressed like a vampire. Who will be the next to fall for his hypnotic charm?"

At some point, after Jordan whipped out a camera, Cherry and Arianna started making out. A few seconds later, Cherry remembered the camera was still going and started getting really into it.

I’m pretty sure those two assumed this would be the highlight of everyone’s night. I, for one, still had the fabulosity of the English department - Chris Kennedy, Anne Longmuir, Erica Hateley, Tony Doerr, et al, on my mind; liquor-laced hilarity sans spectacle. Next to that, watching these annoyingly young snerts ham it up for the camera all over each others’ faces was as much fun as seeing your spaniel lick its own crotch. You take one glance and you’re like, "Muffy you are so stupid," then you go back to something more interesting, like the newspaper. Woman beats off burglar with gnome, page 8.

You somehow managed to hail mary right over my trenchant social analyses and hone in on the *other* posts. Those in which I invoke defense mechanisms and feed my delusions of grandeur with alcohol; the posts in which I am pompous, childish, desperate and whiney; petty, self-indulgent, shallow, obnoxious, and worst of all, too prolix (my bad). And in so doing you found that secret thing which unravelled me. Umm, sorry about that whole business, by the way.

And what, exactly, was it? That business?

Yes, there was a party, months ago.

She noticed me. Asked me questions. Got my jokes, even the sly, insiderey one I threw out just to see if anybody was listening. And yes, whatever, I know it was mind-numbingly awful, just like 95% of my "jokes."

Where’d my drink go?
Oh, was that yours, on the table? I finished it off. Forgive me. It was delicious; so sweet, and so cold.
I know what you’re talking about, she said, looking right at me.
Do you now? I tilted my head.

So yeah, I was weak and lonely and stupid (some things never change). One night there was a conversation. And promises.

And then, another night, she visited. Said all the right things. The sort of things you secretly always wanted someone to say to you? Those. "But how did she know?" I wondered afterward, dazed and smiling idiotically.

We partied in Lawrence one night. She invited me over some more; parties, get-togethers, studying, until by and by she didn’t. Then it was all missed phone calls, all sorts of excuses not to make dates, and then all of nothing.

As time wore on and the thing ran its course, I grew more ashamed angrier and angrier still with myself. I withdrew, even despite your kind efforts. Yours too, Sexy Communist Spy. Again, my bad.

 

In hindsight, this experience has helped me decide on something of great social imprtance which I’ve been mulling over for some time; I will no longer hit on any women under 40.

Except Dessa, of course.

As Madeline and I left Auntie Mae’s we noticed Cherry and her new boyfriend (What, I didn’t mention that?) in the window. In the three seconds it takes for Madeline to hop back in and say hi, I realize that I cannot imagine a circumstance under which Cherry would go three seconds out of her way for me. So I sort of linger outside. Jordan waves me in and I shake my head. Then Cherry waves me in. Then Jordan, again. What for? A moment of awkward, hollow hellos does not appeal to me in the slightest. I don’t budge.

When I woke up the next morning afternoon, the first thing that popped into my head was "You know what would really shake this hangover? A mindfuck. Yep, nothing like a slight mindfuck to remind you that the sky is blue and water is wet, etc."

Ipso-facto, meenie-mo, magico! A message on Facebook: "i missing hanging out with yoooouuuuu."

Oh, why didn’t ya say so earlier? Let’s see; maybe we should get together for a movie or something. How does six weeks ago sound? Does six weeks ago work for you? Super.

Underminer: a friend who, during ordinary conversations, casually backhands you with condescension.

I.
Cherry and I were walking together, talking about Fake Patty’s Day, in which the bars open early and have specials to accomodate students who won’t be in town on St. Patty’s day, because that falls during spring break.

“I don’t know if I can make it at 9 in the morning.”

“Oh come on.“

What I meant by “come on” is “ start early and make the most of the day.” But she thought I was asking her to come with me.

“Are you begging?”

“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”

Well, what I said was, “Actually, I assumed you had your own crowd to run with, so no, I was not asking for your company.”

What I meant was yeah, because what I’d really like to do for a pubcrawl is kill my buzz babysitting a snotty emobot.

II.
At night, after the Spring Swing Dance, before Jimbo’s party. Cate, Arianna, and I are hanging out at Cherry’s house; I was making mindless banter, like I always do, which inspired her to wistfully reminisce over my best qualities.

“I LOVE the way you say something stupid and then laugh at your own dumb joke.”

“Actually Cherry, I was laughing because I knew you were going to point out how dumb it was, because hello, all my jokes are dumb.”

Okay, I get it: you’re just not that into me. I laughed harder.

III.
Jimbo’s party: She introduced me to the girl with the fantastically WASPy voice from Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds. I did not recognize her at first.

“You’ve seen her before. This is Mackenzie, you jerk!”

But later, behind her back, doing her best impression: “Oh hi, I’m Mackenzie! Look how amazing I am! Ha ha ha!” As it happens, after talking with Mackenzie, I found out she really did skew towards amazing, and this uncharacteristic cattiness confirmed it.

IV.
And of course, there was this Underminerey stroke of genius.

Someone really does read this thing! The Sexy Communist Spy recently pointed out the following: “enough weepy Romantic poetry. You didn’t even finish the story about the birthday bash.” Well, of course I bailed on the story when it was about to get boring and weepy. But, by popular demand, here’s the rest of it: I didn’t really revoke Sexy Communist Spy’s roommate’s pimp card. At her own birthday party. What I did do was ride with her to the hospital and sit in a dark lobby while Communist Spy and Hannah took turns trying to calm down the Birthday girl. In the waiting room there was also a football player and a woman with teeny tiny jeans shorts. When Megan was in the room I think I managed to grunt out a conversation, but when it was Hannah, she just kept text-messaging someone(s), leaving me no choice but to stare at that other girl’s legs.

At 4 I left. So that’s the complete story of last night’s party (from three nights ago). Of course, the complete story sort of gives a portrait of this blogger as a nuanced, compassionate drunk with some sort of caring streak. However, notice that if I leave the story half-finished, it makes me look impatient, shallow, and kind of snotty, which is how I really am. Watch:

Yes It’s Cherry: you can’t stop me. you can’t stop me.
Cheeky Hipster: i will CUT you
Yes It’s Cherry: :-) whatever
Yes It’s Cherry: happy monday, cheeky hipster
Cheeky Hipster: happy monday? no such thing.
Yes It’s Cherry: it is.
Yes It’s Cherry: just not today…
Cheeky Hipster: well, maybe next week then.
Yes It’s Cherry: hopefully
Say It With Wit: i’m gonna disappear into the night and reappear at Hale in 15 minutes
Cherry signed off at 10:55:58 PM
Cherry signed on at 10:56:15 PM
Yes It’s Cherry: be damnd
Cheeky Hipster: i forgot how moody you are
Yes It’s Cherry: :-)
Cheeky Hipster: moody/ whuttt
Cheeky Hipster: well, your internet connection. you yourself are a paragon of stoicism and apathy
Yes It’s Cherry: that’s correct
Cheeky Hipster: ….and on that note, time for me to duck out for the night
Yes It’s Cherry: eh
Cheeky Hipster: ttyl
Yes It’s Cherry: ya

Wheee! Leaving early! Wasn’t that fun? Did you notice her nonchalant “eh” at the end? Do you think she was wondering where a man of intrigue like me would be heading at such an hour? Or was she, as usual, just flashing that vast indifference popular pretty girls radiate so well all day long? Which one, eh? I’ll leave it for you to decide, because I’ve got better things to think about.

Poet Bryan Pemberly gave a reading Friday afternoon in Stuni.

Dorky English Majors that we are, Cherry and I pulled out our black journals as soon as it began.

“Copycat!”

“Mine’s bigger. And thicker.”

“Mine is better quality.”

Sitting in front of me, the Kansas Poet Laureate chuckled.

“Wait!” I backpedaled. “It’s not what it sounds like.”

Cherry had a birthday this week! Friday night she threw a party and everyone showed up. Obviously, no good could come of this, yet I went anyway. I brought her a 3-foot paper-mache rose, a card, and a bottle of Jack (the bottle was really for me. I need it a lot more than she does). Although a dozen people were already there, I somehow managed to sneak the big-ass rose by everyone and smuggle it into Cherry’s room.

Cherry’s parents were there - three weeks ago they threw a Superbowl party and Cherry took me along, and so that’s when I met them. They appointed me the Bartender and Keeper of Cover Charges. I carried this out dutifully, except for when I stepped out to chain-smoke with the Poetess, leaving Chelsea to watch the money.

I hadn’t seen the Poetess in weeks and she looked great. We went out to the porch, down the steps, to the driveway, out by someone’s Honda, and lit up.

"So earlier this week when I told you I was feeling great? I totally lied."
"Me too! Grand. So what’s got you down?"
She related detailed information of a sensitive personal nature. "So hon, your turn."
And we talked some more, then disappeared back into the party; which, for me, was a haze of cash/liquor exchanges, with an occasional pause for me to dose up on whiskey. The chaperones had left by now. Life was great, until I saw Cherry making out with someone on the coffee table.

If I could have just vanished, just poof! and a cloud of bats and I disappear into the night, I would have done exactly that. Instead I had to actually go gather my coat, and my scarf, and my man-purse, and collect my dignity (which - ironic on so many levels - was inside the man-purse), and this took long enough for Cate to see me.

"What’s going on?"

I led her through the crowd, to the porch, to the side of the house, and told her everything.

A couple of people must have heard us talking. All the right players, in fact. Arianna! Chelsea! A bunch of other people! Thankfully not the Poetess. I didn’t know what to say to them other than "Hi guys." So I leaned into Cate’s ear. "LookIhaftagothanks."

I think Arianna kind of knew.

"Where are ya going?"

"Home."

"You’re leaving?"

"Yeah, I’m leaving."

And I left.

When I got home, I remembered the cash cup. It wasn’t safe back behind that bar. I called Arianna and asked her to get the cup, grab the cash, put it in her purse, and deliver the money to Cherry tomorrow. She was fairly drunk so I stayed on the phone with her.

"Hyper-literate bastard, I’m sorry. I can’t find it."

Perfect.

The assistant manager in me decided to head back and find that fucking money my fucking self, and of course I didn’t find it, but now of course I’m back stuck at this thing, the most god-awful party I’ve been at since I was in grade school, and I can’t look anyone in the eye; the kid who was making out with Cherry is now making out with the rest of the theater department (kids these days!); Jimbo, another geeky English major, is grinding with Cherry, and no matter how many times I snap my fingers and whisper "beetlejuice" that fucking money still won’t show up. When I see Cherry alone for a second I let her know it’s missing and swear I’ll pay her back (yay! a reason to whore myself!). Then I finally grow a pair and dance with the birthday girl herself. She was wearing a slinky black strapless number and she was sporting that hemlock-laced smile I love and fear at the same time. So, yeah, we danced for a little while and then separated.

The next time I went looking for her she was nowhere to be found. Neither was Jimbo. The porch, around the side of the house, the garage, the kitchen, the living room, her room, nada. Then I remembered there was another door in the garage. I opened it and there they were (what did I expect?), standing together and talking. OhSorry! I said, slamming the door, maybe a little too fast. "Hyper-literate bastard, wait!" said Cherry. I opened it again and she was fumbling through her coat. "Wish I had my cigarettes," she was mumbing. "Iknowwheretheyare!!" I shut the door again, took a breath, dashed off to the living room, grabbed her swank, shiny, fully stocked cigarette case, returned to the yard, handed her one, and put the case in her pocket.

I held the lighter in front of her.

She hates that. She likes to light them herself. She moved to grab it from me, but I have the reflexes of a meth-addled ninja tabbycat. Plus, she’s pretty drunk. I lit it for her.

"I kind of hate you right now," she said.
"Aw shucks, I know you don’t mean that."
Small talk ensues. A minute later:

"Gimme the lighter. I wanna re-light it.
"Don’t be such a baby."
Jimbo and I both laughed at Cherry. Then he went inside.

"So, are you having fun?"
"It’s your party. Are you having fun?"
"I guess." It’s complicated.
It’s pitch black except for the smokes. Nevertheless, I’m pretty sure we’re both looking at each other.
"You seemed like you didn’t wanna talk to us yesterday."
Pardon?
"Me, Cate, and Arianna thought you didn’t wanna talk to us at the play."
Umm, hello, I’ve been lonely, depressed, and ashamed for a few weeks. Errr, I mean:
"I got the opposite impression. That you didn’t wanna talk to me. I mean, I know you were busy with Mud-River-Stone, but you just never called me back or gave me a text."
I continued. "And I missed ya, a lot, but last night I really didn’t know what to say."

"Listen, I was hoping that, after the party dies down, maybe I could - stay? Spend the night? With you."
"Yeah, sure," she said. "A few other people are crashing here, so no problem."
I didn’t mean it in the sense of "crashing here," but whatever.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

We went in and danced some more. A few hours later, Liz, a drunken emo townie, went ape shit over I-don’t-know-what and refused to let anyone drive her home. The girls went outside to talk her down. Negotiations lasted about an hour and killed the party. Finally, Drunken Emo Townie came back inside; Cherry’s little sister agreed to walk with her to the car. It was 6am. I was out on the porch, chain-smoking, when they walked by me. Not wanting them to get dragged off and raped, I asked quickly:

"Want me to walk with you guys?"
"Yeah," mouthed Jasmine.

We made it up the street a little ways, to the Townie’s car. Although she’s still drunk, she patently refuses to give up the keys or the driver’s seat. In the end we relented and let her almost kill us swerving up Sunset Avenue (doesn’t this defeat the purpose of coming with her?). But we made it to wherever she wanted to go, and she headed inside and sent us on our merry way. Yay! Everyone’s still alive! Now I get to trudge back to campus in this 20-degree dawn. I am not dressed for a 20-degree dawn. Also: since I’m not from this town I have no idea where the fuck I am. Jasmine led the way, up the street, down the street, across the park, a left on Anderson, back to Sunset, up again, to the left, and presto, Cherry’s casa. The sun is fully up and Cherry is probably completely knocked out, so I bid Jasmine good day and go back home, completely cockblocked by that fucking Townie. C’est la vie.

I talked to Cherry again at noon. Hi how are you did you like the party thanks for the rose I might be too busy to see you the rest of the weekend but I hope you had a good time don’t worry we got the money.

"You got the money?"
"Yeah. Earlier, I grabbed the cash cup and I hid it."

Relief.

This morning snow was falling. On my way out the door I realized I’d gone through the entire pack of Parliaments I bought last night at eleven. How the hell did that happen? Whatever. Last time it snowed I fell 352 times. My Aqua Ducks(TM), comfy, springy, and waterproof as they are, offer about as much traction as a surfboard, so I find myself slipping on snowflakes wherever I go. Fun fun fun! The night of that last snow, Cherry and I went sledding in the street on that hill by her house. Today I don’t feel like sledding so much.

Speak of the devil: I bumped into her on my way to class this morning.

"It’s so cold," she said, grimacing. Button up, I say. For a moment it occurs to me that she is overworked and stressed, fraught with the piling-on of test week and increasing tension for the play she’s in (tonight is opening night).

"I think I’m gonna head inside." She can shortcut through the library and warm up on her way to class. Or maybe this is just an excuse to scamper off the other way.

Yeah, with all that on your plate, I can see how it might be hard to call someone back. If you’re an asshole.

She about-faces through the doors and I go my own way to class.

Thing is, I know I’m gonna see the play tonight. It’s inevitable, like a midterm or an execution. But since I absolutely refuse to go alone I called up Heather. And OF COURSE she can’t go with me. Surprise; she’s sick and overworked. So I’ll be alone for the evening. Should I still see the play?  The crushing certainty of it, the unspoken expectations to guess at - should I linger afterward and say hi? And after that - will she ditch me for a drama party? Will she call? Like hell. I’m not going. There is homework; math, Spanish, physics; an essay to type up, a book to read (ALWAYS a book to read!). And after that? Two-dollar bloody marys. Again. So I guess that’s that. Definitely not going. Another night of self-imposed exile.

So…seven PM. I’m resigned to finish up my homework and head out for drinks. Surprise! Cate calls! You coming to Cherry’s play? Super! Wanna meet us there? Grand! Yeah, I guess there was no avoiding it after all.

Although I got there without much time for small talk, it took her and Arianna about 10 minutes to notice I wasn’t my ordinary self (probably because I wasn’t cracking so many dick jokes). Big whoop, since I’ve pretty much been drifting through strangers in crowds for two weeks and never really worried about being "on." Cate seemed different too. Kind of nervous, kind of withdrawn, kind of unhappy. What’s up with that? During intermission, I beckon her to the empty seat on my right so she can let me in on The Secret, in third person. "Saturday night Cate and Brandon got really drunk and had sex."

I know I was supposed to act surprised - she had kind of been hoping Brandon’s BEST FRIEND - JOOOOSH! - would make a move, for the past FOREVER. But if anyone needed some sex it was her, and at least now I see why she’s been out of touch.

She’s afraid her big crush will never look at her again. Not that she’ll remember what I say, but I let her know that she should probably go talk to Josh right away, like RIGHT NOW, like YESTERDAY, because if too much time passes he’ll get bitter or something, and that’s no good.

Later we went outside to enjoy my last sample of Fine Tobacco Product. There is much more to Cate than I realized. She’s curious about what’s up with me, but I sort of still hate everybody and I’m not quite ready to sing. Don’t get me wrong; I want to, but what exactly would I say? Consider it deflected.

The play, by the way, was really something else. I loved it. The writer tied each character’s background to a relationship with Africa, showing a canny, realistic understanding of African social norms and their recent disruption against the backdrop of myriad civil wars (right, what would I know?). And OF COURSE I couldn’t take my eyes off Cherry the whole time she was on stage. After it was over I hugged her and told her she was terrific, that I really liked the play. And I meant it. So after I got home, I figured FUCK IT! and went out for drinks again anyway, and after that things started looking up, because when I was done, it was Friday.

I never thanked you
for taking so long
to call me back.

A moment too soon and I never would have discovered

this book of poetry and the soothing noise crowds crowds make in small spaces
this dimly lit table, this ashtray, my first cigarette in two days
the clink of glasses in the hands of this barmaid,
who forgot my name as soon as I pronounced it
    but will remember what I came here for:
    this two-dollar bloody mary.

To think! With you, I might never have found out!
Or worse: I would have had to share.

Just lie, she once told me.

"That’s what acting’s all about." She would know. She’s been in theater productions here three semesters straight.

Of course, she’s not telling me much of anything these days. She’s inexplicably ignored my texts, ignored my calls, and ignored me. I like to think that at my core is a boundless zenlike patience, but one can only take so much shit before you just say fuck it and realize ya gotta move on.

So I did.

Well, I took the first step.

I spent about 37 hours a day refreshing Facebook to see if I had messages. From her. Or from you. Or from everyone else. Thirty-seven hours! Not mathematically possible, you say? Fuck off; nobody likes a math geek. At any rate, I was spending way too much time on that thing. I had become a parody of myself, desperate for hollow virtual attention, dishing out hollow virtual wisecracks like some sort of minstrel persona.  What did I expect, really? Recognition of my Wit and Genius? Any "conversation" was generally of the "let’s repeat an inside joke" variety. Meaningless. So I dumped Facebook and went quietly into the night.

Last night I got a text from Cate, of all people. "Are you okay."

I suppose, at this point, I should have been grateful for the scrap of human contact extended here. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but seriously: a text message?

What else was I supposed to say?

"Never better!"

I know you cringed the instant I whipped out the envelope, even if you tried not to show it.
Well, you can un-cringe. This is not that kind of letter.

I wasn’t sure what to make of the whole "relationship" talk. I walked away with more questions than I started with. Why did she assume I wanted a relationship? Did I give off that vibe (probably tried too hard to impress Mr. Goins)? Did I secretly want a relationship and was just too afraid to say it? Is she avoiding me? If so, why? What gives: a minute ago I had no questions. Now questions are multiplying like goblins. Time to put a stop to this, for my own peace of mind.

I know you don’t want a "relationship." But what does that even mean? I have no idea. It’s just a word. I imagine the only reason it came up is because of a conversation like this:

Cate:         You know, he likes you a lot, but he tries to hide it.
Cherry:       I know. Who does he think he’s fooling? It’s kinda creepy. Men are dumb.
Arianna:      Just watch; I bet you $5 that any day now he’ll hand you some sappy letter, full of tender feelings and shit. Ha ha!
Cate:         You’re on. Hey Cherry, can I get some of those nachos?
Cherry:       Get your own fucking nachos, bitch.
Cate:         One o’ these days….
                (chorus)

Or not. Maybe you don’t sit around and discuss me with anyone. What do I know? (Everything I know can fit in a teaspoon).

Here is what’s in that teaspoon: I am lonely and fairly shy. I’ve sat around for a long time feeling ashamed of those facts, like they were some sort of crime. I think this guilty feeling has prevented me from honestly articulating my needs to myself or to anyone else, blah blah blah.

Thing is, I know it’s not a crime. To be shy and lonely is the most natural thing in the world. It’s perfectly human. It’s also perfectly human that I like you. You’re fun, smart, cute (cute is the new hot), and stylish. What’s not to like? (That’s a rhetorical question). It doesn’t make me some emotional parasite, IN NEED OF A "RELATIONSHIP." It just is what it is.  

So this is what I really want: I would like to see you more than I have been. I am not going to ask to marry you or go steady or whatever it is emo kids do in Kansas. I’m not going to suck up time you don’t want to give. I don’t mind if you’re with other people, too. I just like you, and I like your company. The most natural thing in the world. I don’t know what you wanna call that, but there it is. Simple as that.

I would also like to know if you feel anything like that too. Possibly, you’d like to visit me and are kind of shy. On the other hand, probably not. Maybe you’re tired of these "talks." Maybe you’ll despise me for writing a long and earnest letter, redeemed only by the mention of fucking nachos. I just didn’t know how else to reach you, so I took a chance, and here it is; that’s all.

And if you don’t feel anything, and if you have no desire to see more or less of me than what we are doing, that is no crime, but I would really like to know. No rush, of course. The beauty of getting a letter is you can take all the time you need to reply.

If you could transmute silk into music, it would sound like the violin.

What I like about classical music: I can listen to it even when I’m not listening. With, say, rock or rap, I need to tune it out to gather my thoughts. But with violins, it’s different.

This is a blessing.

The Modigliani string quartet, four men, black shoes, black suits, black hair, and white ties; all of them, all at once, suck in their breath, lean back, like throwing a punch, and with a flourish, strike the fist note.

Violins playing is like looking at the world through a waterfall.

Tonight, this is a curse.

My mind wanders. I think of you, what you told me last week. "I don’t want a relationship." What does that mean?

The artists sway with their rhythm. One melody swings around, piggybacking another. Distilling one long note into the emotion of a lover’s voice. Pure and so frail, just like life.

Did I want a "relationship?" What made you think I did?

The sound of the music, now like an oak tree, full and sonorous. Low, like a hungry animal.
Now as high as a songbird in the morning. Dainty and light, like petals.

And why not a relationship? Are you too lazy? Too selfish? Are you seeing someone else?

Sometimes the one on the left likes to put his ear all the way up to the violin, like it’s whispering secrets to him.
For the faster bits, his hand moves frantically, like a sewing machine, like he’s slicing meat.

So hungry.

Is it me? Am I not worth the space on the bed? The jabbing interruption, occasionally, of my voice in the room? The hours in the morning with me and only me? The hand, lost inside mine, when we sit together in the dark?

And sometimes, he leans into the violin’s neck, all the way up to the scroll at the tip, as though he might fall off the end of the note.

 

“i know its not really any of my business, and you probably dont care how i feel, but…if you were to hook up with cherry, id probably be really upset. id like to think im a cool person with no hang-ups, and im not really into her, but truthfully it would just piss me off. maybe im just hallucinating, anyway, and she isnt into you, and you arent into her, but. yuk. i cant really say why the idea of you two together wigs me out so much, but it really really does. so i figured id tell you and maybe youll care and maybe you wont, and maybe it doesnt matter anyway.”

-Madeline

And so began Thursday.

There ought to be a word that conveys the sense of “fuckittyfuckfuckfuck,” but - as in mathematical parlance - to the nth degree. Perhaps something like “I want to crawl under a rock somewhere, let maggots pick at my worthless husk, and then in 500 years when I wake up all this will have blown over, even though I’ll look like hell.” Too prolix, no?

Obviously, she’s suspected for weeks. I spent all day turning this dilemma around in my head. Tell the truth, piss her off, watch her walk away. Would she ever come back? Why would she say that I don’t care? How could she even think that? And wouldn’t I have to, like, make it up to her? But how? And what sort of relationship would that be, centered around a debt? Madeline’s been nothing but fantastic to me and now who knows what’s gonna happen? So many questions.

Alternately, lie. Keep my friend (for now, because obvs she’ll find out before long if this keeps up). So I turned this thing around all day, this sword of Damocles, sitting in my head and in my gut, wondering what to do about it? Where to put it? Who to tell? What to say? I thought about this all damn day long. Chain smoking. Physics class. Reading the Times. Eating. Waiting for Cherry to call. Screenwriting class. Another cigarrete. And another.

 

It snowed that morning. I saw Cherry outside the Stuni, and we talked for a moment before her phone rang again (it was her mom). The snow was really coming down; the wind stabbed and jabbed at our faces, our fingers, any exposed skin it could find, stinging and snipping like a juiced-up prizefighter. She got off the phone and I walked with her to class; we shared schedules; she’s got classes and rehearsal all day long and so I probably won’t be seeing her later; I wanted to tell her about Madeline, but what, really, would I be telling her? So when we reach Bluemont I just hugged her goodbye and headed off to physics. My cig went out and on the way as I fingered through my pockets, juggling papers and quarters and gum and keys and coughdrops and a comb and my ID and STILL NO LIGHTER! So I did it again and then again and then I remembered I handed it to Cherry, and when exactly was I going to see her again?

I was afraid that mentioning this to Cherry would, like, pressure her to give this thing more thought than she’s willing to, which will naturally send her running for the hills. So, is that what it’s come to? Am I supposed to be stuck in this no-man’s land, a streets paved with eggshells, a hazy, dimly lit Hell of Not Knowing? And is this not my own doing? My own timidity, my reluctance to just take charge, manhandle that girl, get up and dance with her and take what I want without apology, albeit in a loving and respectful manner? Niceguyism rears its ugly head once again.

A girl like that, a girl who can do that thing with her lips and her eyes when she smiles, a girl like that is a wicked wicked creature. Being with her is like getting up to dance by the bonfire right after downing a bottle of moonshine, because the fire is so fun and so beautiful and so dangerous at the same time, and while you’re dancing you feel so buyant and alive but also terrified, because that fire could rage out of control and swallow you whenever it wants to, or you could make a single stupid misstep and fall right in at any moment, and you were in fact terrified from the moment you got up to dance but that was really part of the dance too all along, and now its heat is so soothing and so menacing and you can’t stop the dance, even though you know you’re in mortal danger, because you’re drunk and you NEED THAT HEAT like you’ve never needed anything else in your life.

That is Cherry.

At 10:30 that night I stepped outside for (yet another) cig and made that dreaded phone call to Cherry - dreaded, of course, because who wants to be bothered with this shit? I told her what I was thinking about doing (reveal) and asked her what she thought I should do: deny deny deny, adding "Isn’t that what you do anyway?" Excellent point.

At that point, that I hadn’t spoken to Madeline all day probably told her all she needed to know. Nevertheless, I took a stab a the denying thing:

"It is totally your business, and OF COURSE I care A LOT about how you feel, and IT MATTERS. Me and Cherry: not happening.

Having said that, it seems to me that you must have some sort of feelings, either for her or for me. And of course, I can see why you’d be after me; after all, with the right haircut, I’m quite dashing; I’ve been drinking beer for a couple years and have developed an impressive gut - THE MARK of a bon vivant, a man who knows what the ladies like; I’m quite good at certain video games, which no doubt you find irresistable; all in all, with my whole nerdy loser schtick, I pretty much have to fight the ladies off of me. On the other hand, Cherry’s kinda cute too, I guess. Whatever."

Although I was more or less talking out of my ass like I always do, was I on to something? Why else would something like this affect her so? I asked her and she said yes, maybe she does have a thing for me, which I suppose explains it, but not really, because to whatever extent that it’s true, it’s pretty clear that she has no intention of DOING anything with me; she’s had sooo many chances - way more than anybody else in this forlorn town, and she’s also got so many options anyway so what the hell makes me special all of a sudden? I doubt being with her would satisfy her in any way; just the same, there’s no way she’s losing any sleep over not being with me. Bottom line: if she thought I was getting together with ANYBODY ELSE in the world except Cherry, she would not have sent me that message at all.

Not that I feel any better about it. Lying like that was the shittiest, most cynical thing I could have possibly done, and I did it did it anyway; now I have to go back and tell her that not only did I "betray" her but I lied about it, and obviously I lied because I didn’t want to lose her but that does not mitigate the cowardly shittiness of what I did. And what does it say about what I have with Cherry that I have to keep it quiet or else fear that she’d just vanish into the night? I hate just thinking about it, but when I look back I have to ask myself, what, precisely, am I getting out of this? Happiness? Passion? Misery? Hell? Is there even a difference?

 

 

Two things that ruin a fresh snowfall:

1. In cold weather, condensation clings to my nose hairs. I walk around feeling like I’m dripping snot. I hate that.

2. Ennui. What’s with that?

Manhattan’s temperature dropped about five thousand degrees overnight. AND it’s windy. In the morning there were itty bitty snowflakes zipping around like gnats. Then it really started coming down. Oh mother nature, why not ease into this with a nice, steady decline? It would feel like using lube before getting intimate - something we can all appreciate.

Scrambling to adjust to the change in weather, at once a refreshing crisp-white and a bland blah-white, we begin to feel disconnected from everything else. The day feels fragmented and broken. The heart feels split in two (zerrissenheit, baby!).

So today, despite the hustle and bustle of finally getting ready to attend classes (confidential to FPS; kinda pissed that the creative writing professors seem to be blowing me off), I just felt sort of like giving up and taking a nap.

Even the Collegian was lame today. And not even in a vibrant, forceful, offensive kind of way. It was more of the same old shitty headlines ("Union Holocaust display educates visitors," "Students are asked to donate in blood drive," and the op-ed’s "Historical events should not be disregarded, forgotten" - which misrepresented the article - which was more half-assed irrelevant finger-wagging, just like "Media spotlight should focus on relevant issues"). At least Eric Davis shows he’s still on the cusp of culture; "MySpace, Facebook users must use caution when dealing with potential online predators." Confidential to Eric: if you’re going to phone in vacuous drivel of the "no shit" variety, would it kill you to take like THREE SECONDS and jazz up your headline? Just throw me a friggin’ bone, know what I mean? Also, according to Allison Voris, a rape occurred somewhere, by someone. Thanks for the heads up Allison! Kthxbai!!!1!!1!!!

Like I said, kinda lame. But sadly, not lame enough to evoke a more heady, vigorous thrashing. You know, the kind where you grab it by the balls, twist as far as you can, and giggle. Maybe some other time, eh? 

Cherry’s sick. Do you (just who am I writing to, anyway?) think that has anything to do with my blah mood? Like, we’re bonded on some deep, metaphysical level whereby I intuitively feel her discomfort? Or that maybe, like everything else in the universe, her sickness is really just all about me?

I hate worrying about these “feelings” thingies. I am a simple man, and these things are all murky and complicated.

Perhaps it’s the secrecy element of the whole sitch.

When Cherry and I are alone, it’s like being in our own corner of the world, a warm fuzzy bubble of awesome. Leaving the bubble is the most depressing thing in the world. There is you Inside the bubble, and there is you Leaving the bubble, and never the twain shall meet. But outside of the bubble, you feel alone and disconnected wherever you are. Keeping a secret like this "screws with your sense of reality. It makes you, in a sense, split right down the middle. It cracks you in two. [Strawberry Saroyan]"

I guess the fresh snow just reminds me of my own complicit silence in the whole affair. Le sigh.

Cherry had literally been dancing all night. It must have been what, 2? Half past 2? She got up from her laptop, with iTunes wide open, dumbly dragged herself to the radio, to the light switch, fumbling with them both til they shut off. She shuffled to her room, baby steps, and disappeared. Chelsea and I looked at each other. She went to go check on Cherry. -Is she out? -Yeah, Chelsea said, gathering her coat and shoes, heading out the door. We exchanged "nice meeting you"-s, then she left and I doubled back to Cherry’s room to check on her myself, and she was on her bed, on her back, totally out of it, catatonic and listless, eyeballs slender white slits through nearly-closed lids, legs slanted off the bed; there she was, the only time I had ever seen her look anything other than absolutely glamorous - I’m thinking of that look she flashed me hours ago, that thing she does when she smiles, with her eyes and with her lips, like tossing sex at me over her shoulder; I will never forget that look as long as I live - anyhoo I picked up her legs and swung them on to the bed, holding her for a moment to make sure she was still breathing, just asleep and not in danger - not that she drank that much but still, I was relieved at the way her stomach pleasantly rose and fell under my hands; for a second I fixate on the hole in her pants (this is her favorite pair), she showed it to me yesterday: a nickel-sized triangle an inch below the knee, then I snap out of it and spread some blankets over her, three or four layers, and I put an extra blanket over her feet (every time she climbs into bed with me her feet are freezing, so I warmly rub mine against her soles while we snuggle and fondle each other), and I look back at her face - the face I couldn’t stop looking at all night long - and her hair, always exploding and falling around her like a burst of fireworks, I take her glasses off, put them on her nightstand, and I kiss her face and whisper "night" into her ear - she won’t remember any of this tomorrow - and I go back to the living room for her coat and her laptop, place it on her other bed, thinking for a moment how nice it would be to get nekkid and crawl into bed right behind her, thinking about the space I can never stop kissing, that space where her neck and shoulders meet, so smooth and sweet like a candy bar, but then what if she wakes up dazed, disoriented, and hung over? She will definitely have one hell of a hangover, all that Jose Cuervo. So I think better of it, don’t want to intrude on her personal space, but before I go, I fidget a pen out of my bag and write on the palm of her left hand: "Call me <3," then I turn the lights off and head out the door.

She’ll wake up in a few hours with a headache, and she’ll call me, or maybe she’ll go to the bathroom and see what’s on her hand after she flicks on the light, then she’ll call me. I’m lighting a cigarette and crunching through last week’s snow. It got cold fast! It was fifty degrees today, but it dropped as soon as night fell, now it’s really chilly, about twenty; I’m passing through a parking lot, and there are four guys standing next to a car under a lamp, one of them - kind of a poindexter - drunkenly trying to goad the others into a fight, but they’re not biting, I overhear. Yes, she’ll call me; the back door to Marlatt swings open, backlighting three girls, all drunk and wobbly, dressed to kill, a boy hugging the back of one of them; I wave Hi as they inch their way out, swaying like cats’ tails against that door. Tomorrow I’ll see her again! She’ll call me first thing in the morning.

The imprint of her head on the pillow
Her scent in the sheets
Along with, possibly, a few long curly hairs
And her puffy black coat.

Later, with a smile, I realized -
she’d be back.

For the coat.

So I hooked up with C. the other night and it was fan-tass-tic.

A moment of frisson occured early on during the night, when I noticed the scars on her wrist. Left one. All covered in silicon bracelets, but not really. These weren’t small scars. They were long, jagged, and recent - still healing, actually. My fingers went over them sometimes while we spooned. I was dying to know.

I knew she’d hate me forever if I asked her about them, but I was dying to know, so I did. She shut down for a minute, and I could tell that this was REALLY BAD, so I quickly changed the subject.

Nevertheless, questions linger. I’ve been around suicidal girls, and I don’t quite feel that vibe from her.

How is it that a girl like that could kill herself? A girl SO CLEARLY lovely and amazing; a girl with such large, intense eyes, such smooth, sweet-smelling skin and interesting hair - especially the mischievous lock that streams up like a drinking fountain - a girl so beautiful - how could a girl like that kill herself? A girl so full of stories and unpretentious style; a girl so intelligent, so thoughtful, so individualistic that she is respected by everyone she meets, friend and antagonist alike - a girl whose very smile is so full of passion I could go through a hundred lovers hoping for someone to smile at me the way she did that night - in short, a gem of a woman; how could a girl like that kill herself?

Who stopped her? Who found her, naked, bloody, crying and shivering, and saved her life? Could she have really ever felt so alone? One day this might become a case of "but she always looked so happy." And that would be utterly tragic.