The hour badly spent

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 However, it’s on my mind a lot, and at times it will make me kind of withdrawn and surly until I can think of a witty declaration of some sort, which will usually come in the form of a Russian reversal ("In Russia, declaration think of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.

The last time we met: one day before I left for Los Angeles. A spring afternoon, in her car. I reached over to hug her bye.

"Don’t try to cop a feel."

I wasn’t. Really. But I probably should have.

This may have been the last time we would ever see each other, and really this was all we had to say to each other?

Really?

When I first met her, it seemed as though I could tell her anything. Anything.

Months later, showing her my favorite movie, she buried her face under a blanket and started crying and we could barely talk about it.

After that, we only spoke to each other in this flat, burnt-out tone. Around her, conversation was weird, alien, like we were really only just gesturing to each other in a dark room. She told me I was always trying to figure her out. And she was right. I just wanted to reach her. Why was it so difficult?

One morning I woke up in her bed. Fully clothed.

I had drunk A LOT the night before and my head felt like someone parked an Oldsmobile inside it.

Right then, I had to go. I hadn’t meant to pass out there in the first place. I needed some water and I needed it to taste like aspirin and I needed to go, and I needed all this very badly. But her hair was also right there in my face. Smelling not like chemicals or cleanliness but like her, fresh and sweet. I couldn’t move. Not yet. Even though I had to go, even though I knew that everything would be spoiled when she woke up, and I knw that this was the best it would ever get, and for the rest of the day I would both just go back to being in pain all the time and talking to her like.

It struck me, that morning, that this feeling of unnamed, dreary, half-hidden pain, illuminated this morning by sunlight and hangover, is actually always there. That it might in fact be the reason this thing between me and her, whatever it is, always feels so difficult.

And if I was ever going to cop a feel, that would have been the moment.

The Poetess tries to peek at my diary journal every time I’m out with her. Thursday night I finally just said what the fuck and handed it over for inspection.

"I won’t judge you for anything I find in here." Not that it’s human nature or anything.

So, as she paged through, I felt the nerves and vessels under my skin getting all twisty. I drummed my fingers on the table. I fidgeted with my beard. I wiggled my leg up and down, insanely fast, like a meth-addled hummingbird. I noticed she was lingering on one page.

"Find something interesting?"

"It’s kind of sad."

The passage under scrutiny: I’m an optical illusion. That’s my secret. Look away and I disappear. Turn off the light and I don’t exist.

Breaking: when no one’s looking, I write reams of angsty, self-indulgent prattle. I’ve also apparently jotted down fragments of Pablo Neruda poetry. And that is definitely the worst of it what was in there (the prattle, not the Pablo). No sordid PILF fantasies (none that I’ve written down, anyway). No shocking gossip. No chronicling private embarrassing habits (I masturbate. A LOT). Am I really so dull that I have nothing to hide? Apparently so.

Therefore, the next night, chain-smoking at a party with Ariana and the usual frenemies, when Limitless Are Leaves asked about taking a peek through the big black book of secrets, I had no objection. And when Brandon, too, wanted to see it, I didn’t mind, although he did sort of seem like he was actually studying it and not just surfing pages.

The party room was so full of Swear Not By The Moon’s laughter that it spilled out through the windows and into the parking lot where the smokers were hanging out. Did she do coke again? No, she’s just always like that. Maybe she’s always high on coke.

I honestly think she is always high. Coke — so I hear, mind you — makes you feel hyper and really important, a perfect party drug. Swear Not By The Moon is a party girl. She’s got the look: annoyingly thin and blonde. She is sometimes fun but she also kind of sneers at you when you talk to her. She powerless to curb her ways. Because of the drugs, you see. Although I’m probably just mad because she never offers me any.

I and Limitless Are Leaves really only came to drink, not to party, so we sort of kept to ourselves and our vodka and let the cool kids do their thing (which, again, may or may not have been coke). It’s a good thing I was really drunk. It’s the only way to deal with certain situations and certain people. Or in my case, all situations and all people. It also somewhat explains why she and I ended up making out on the floor.

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.

I’d been picturing this moment in my mind the second I came here and saw the band: their dark suits, their swing-dancing wingtips, the trumpet and the sax, and every time it runs through my head it goes like this:

"Hey, let’s dance."
"Whatever. I’m leaving.

But the band’s been at it for an hour, ta-tum tum ta-tum tum, and they are kicking ass, and I’m tapping my feet and swaying my head, and for some reason I got all dressed up tonight; new hairdo, favorite shoes, favorite tie, favorite shirt, and I just can not help myself. It’s now or never. I turn to Madeline and ask her.

"Oh, I have no rhythm." That’s not the point! This is Auntie Mae’s, not Soul Train.

But is this one of those times when I’m supposed to be a man and just go for it? I can never tell. So I make for her hand and she moves them both under her bottom. "No means no." Umm, it’s a dance, not a rape, but point taken.

It is never "one of those times."

She gets up to use the bathroom and while she’s gone a couple of girls walk by, going into a holding pattern right at the empty bench.

"Uh, sorry. Someone’s sitting here."
"That’s okay. I don’t want to sit there anyway." The way she says it makes the word there point at me and stick its tongue out. Saucy! As she walks away, I notice a tramp stamp: a ship’s helm (I guess it’s so the seamen know where to go).

Madeline comes back and the band is still going. The helmsgirl flutters back this way, onto the dance floor, with Jimbo (That guy knows everybody). They are dancing and the song winds down and the band announces their next one:

"This is a song by Duke Ellington. He still has it doesn’t he!" That makes one of us. I turn to Madeline again.

"Should have come here with a different girl." Duly noted.

And fifteen minutes later they start up another number, with that tempo again just right, ta-tum tum, called "Let’s drink wine." I know now if I can’t find someone to dance with me on this one I’ll be a miserable failure, sitting here with a stupid twisty hairdo and a stupid black shirt and stupid jolly-roger vans and stupid polka dot tie. I turn to the curly-haired blonde on the barstool next to me.

"Hi there. My name’s Swingie McJazzhands."
"Hi! I’m Anna."
"Nice to meet you Anna. How are you? This band is great, aren’t they?"
"Yeah, I love it."
"Would you like to dance?"
Oh, I can’t. My friend and I were waiting for someone and now we’ve gotta head out."

True to her word, they skedaddle up the stairs and out the door, presumably to a better, albeit torturously jazzless, party.

Jimbo’s on the floor with that girl again. There is exactly one other person here who I already know, and she is sitting front and center, so what the hell, might as well take another crazy chance and ask her. So I do. A moment later I take her by the hand and we start swinging and grinding like we were born for this night.

Ha ha, just kidding. She shot me down too.

What is it about Thursdays that, by early evening, right as screenwriting class ends, makes me feel hollow, torpid, and dissatisfied?

First thing: one more hour of Spanish this week. It’s actually not so bad - Ms. Diaz is much more simpatica than she seems; but last semester’s god-awful class left a bad taste in my mouth and I’m probably just still just still dry-heaving it.

Second thing: the few people I do know here tend to become scarce all weekend, and there are no new episodes of anything on the tubez, leaving me with nothing to do except write.

Except I can’t, because (third thing) by now I just feel cold and dead inside; no imagination, no oomph, so I end up basically napping from Friday night to Sunday afternoon. Then Sunday night I scramble to finish the homework I put off.

This list is on my mind, halfway through a gin & tonic - extra lime - when the Communist Spy sends me a text.

If you’re not doing anything right now you should join us at Kathouse.

Cigarette in hand, I pound down the drink, dash out the door, and am at the Kathouse in five. I’ve never been here before. The Communist Spy and her cadre of five other girls - Darcy, Leshia, Maureen, Katie, someone else, and a Gentleman who Travels With Katie - are here to see a band. Of the six girls in the group, 9,340 of them have hooked up with someone in the band. The Spy motions for me to take the corner seat, next to her.

"Took you a while."

"I was at Auntie Mae’s."

"You smell like Auntie Mae’s." (In Kansas you can still smoke indoors and Mae’s has a basement, which, aside from the absurdly cheap drinks, is why I like it there).

While I’m waiting for a drink the guitars fire up. It’s funny; all week long, you think to yourself how badly you just need company; the violent jolt of social contact might inspire "emotions," "longing," "happiness," or something. How going day after day with this feeling of isolation makes you feel like a dismal failure; that you should just get out more and be around people.

But then on Thursday night you find yourself in a big dark room, resenting the three-dollar cover charge, the band working the crowd with skill and confidence sharply reminding you that you’re about 3,000 years old, the dizzying pockets of sparse lamp light, the watered-down drinks, the throng of blondes fenced around the barkeep like tube-topped Vikings laying siege to the coast. And the barmaids who ignore you. All of it just grates inexplicably on your nerves. You can fake it for a while; ten, maybe fifteen minutes, before you have no choice but to slink away, find the exit, and disappear into Friday morning.

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.

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’ll never be one to get up and dance
but I like to watch.
And if you look closely, you might
see me sitting here
swaying to
the same tune as you.

And if you could
meet my lingering glance
halfway
with your own eyes

And if you
could follow
the tip of my smile, like a faded trail on a crinkled map

And if you could feel the tug of my heart, invisible, lovely
like the tides

And if you see my lips, locked up tightly, and if you could read between them

You might
discover me so
by these faint
indirections.

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!"

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.

My delicate shell of mean-spirited, drunken snark has now come into the crosshairs of not ONE but TWO proficient googlebastards. I don’t mind the Cranky Editrix peeking here every now and then; my frequent deviations from AP style drive her away after mere seconds of reading; she shouts, shakes her fists at the screen, foams at the mouth, then returns to Facebook and all is well. Plus, she’s repeatedly demonstrated an unfortunate tendency to miss the point, so I’m not worried about what she reads.

But now the Communist Spy has discovered this laughably self-indulgent blog and read about certain things I feel but don’t say. Suddenly, there’s some person out there, not quite a stranger, staring directly into my id, perusing all my emo secrets. Just when I had decided I was intensely depressed and should avoid other people for a while! Life is grand!

My best defense from prying eyes was to make my shit so boring that any normal reader would click away after a few seconds just to avoid gagging. But Communists like to read, apparently! And they’re determined to know stuff! How do I feel about this new development? I think I need a drink!

The way I see it, 3 options:

1. Abandon this dusty corner of the blogosphere and start over at Wordpress.
2. Just don’t post any more embarassing livejournalley rants. But who am I kidding? Isin’t that why I fired up this blog in the first place? And did I honestly think it would never be discovered?
3. Go with the flow, continue blogging as if nothing ever happened, and nervously avoid eye contact whenever I see her on campus (like I don’t already do that anyway).

I think I kind of like it here, so I’m gonna stick around and see where door #3 takes us (probably the same dark ungodly place to which doors 1 & 2 lead). Loyal reader, just remember to comment often and, for fuck’s sake, bring the liquor or bring the funny!

 

 

“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?

 

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.

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.

I saw you today at work, in the hallway, for about ten seconds.
You were trying to heave a cart up some stairs.
I was about to call out to you, go up to you, say hi, something.
But you looked busy, so I thought better of it.

In hindsight, that was sort of silly of me. What was I afraid of? How did I convince myself that I hiked all the way to Derby just for the food?

I can’t thank you enough for the friendship you’ve shown me this semester. Truth be told, I was pretty lonely before that night we went to the movies (Superbad?) together. And I was really taken aback the first time you waited for me after class. And the time after that. And the time after that. Funny how it works; gestures of kindness so small, and at the same time, so large.

If we were talking face to face, this would be the point where I meaningfully look away, into the window, then turn back and say something profound. The true meaning of Shakespeare or whatever. All I can come up with is this:

I like you. There. I said it.

Was it really that hard to say? And I’m not saying this to put the moves on you. I can see that you’ve got a full plate and I don’t intend to add yet another mess.

Although, rehearsing this moment in my mind, all sorts of scenes played out.

Like, we’d be out walking somewhere on campus.
"Wait," I’d say, suddenly overcome with emotion.
Then I’d take your hand. Your mouth would screw up with a perplexed expression.
I lean in to kiss you. You pull away, eyes cast down. Now everything’s awkward. We don’t say anything after that.

So poignant, so cinematic. I know.

These past weeks, I’d been waiting for the perfect moment to tell you; finally I realized there is no such thing. And then I realized there is such a thing, and this, right now, is it. There. I said it.

Anyway, my whole point is just thank you for being terrific. I suppose I was bound to feel this way. You’re terrific, I’m thankful, ipso facto, silly crush. So it goes. That is all.

So that’s why you disappeared in such a hurry.

What am I to make of this?

This girl, this rancid whore, was in my Shakespeare class. I found her to be kind, well-read, intelligent, and pretty dorky (the character of any single person is manifold and complex). Toward the end of the term, we sat next to each other in class, because we - along with a heavily tattooed lesbian - decided to perform a scene out of "As You Like It" for extra credit. In addition, this fostered a healthy informal discussion of our assignments and of Shakespeare in general. This acquaintanceship only grew and grew, until finally, exam day came (I studied with the lesbian).

Then, exam day went. At the end, I knew I had done well.

Then, we got our exams back. The professor announced that a few people had gotten A’s. I was certain I was one of them.

And I was! 92%! Smugly, I peeked over at hers.

96?

What the fuck? What am I to make of this?

Four points! She beat me! By FOUR fucking points? I re-read my short answers, my essays. I had gotten my facts right. My prose was subtle, gently ironic. I knew for a fact hers was too prolix. Four points!? Mind you, of course, that I wasn’t looking at this as a contest, but as sweet as she is, she’s also a Type A studyholic and mopping the floor with her would have been a symbolic triumph for chain-smoking slackers everywhere. And now I had failed them all. What are they to make of this?

Apparently she thought the same way; after we shared our scores, she said something to the effect of "in your face," which I actually found kinda cute.

Nevertheless, I let her walk a few steps ahead and then unloaded 3 rounds into her back.

I felt kind of bad, seeing her twitching and moaning in pain like that, her blood expanding into the fresh white snow around her, like she had laid down to rest on a giant maxipad. With wings. So I shot her again, in the head, and she stopped moving. Then I took all the cash out of her purse. But to be honest, it wasn’t much money, and I still sort of felt bad about the whole thing, even after using her crisp fives and tens to buy cigarettes and Snapple at the gas station.

Obviously, however, I couldn’t bust a cap in our unresolved sexual tension, because now that she’s made a full recovery she feels strongly enough to click in a few places and send me a photo of a heart-shaped chocolate candy.

What am I to make of this? If I were, in fact, as close to her as you fear, I would have probably told her that I HATE chocolate. The best way to make me lose weight would be to make me live in a Godiva store. The cloying aroma of chocolates sweet and bitter would always spur me on to do something else. To AVOID chocolate, you see. Something like scrape out my gums with a red-hot poker. Make out with a hobo. Swan jump off of a gorge and dash my brains against the rocks below. You know, fun stuff. Ahh, chocolate.

So there it is; this chocolate she has sent to me and about 19 of her other Facebook friends, many of them women who are probably also crazy for me. Surely, however, she was thinking only of me and wanted to disguise her passion by slipping it in with all those other nobodies. What am I to make of all this? Since when did overachievers have friends?

The lesbian got a 97, and believe me, her days are fucking numbered too.

Respectfully: on a serious note, I think you’re misreading the point of this site.

If this were eHarmony or adultfriendfinder, giving chocolate with little hearts would be cause for concern. Of course, I suppose if I were on eHarmony or adultfriendfinder in the first place, that would be cause for concern in itself. But I’m not on those sites, you see. I’m on the eff-bee.

The mood here is not "nice shoes, wanna fuck." It’s more of an idle, friendly merrymaking, but for people who can read (total facial, MySpace!). Some of the interaction borders on flirty, but it’s more or less what-you-see-is-what-you-get, i.e. not a whole lot of sexually charged subtext, so please don’t read too much into it.

People.
Are.
Just.
Being.
Friendly.

It’s not like someone actually went to the effort of thinking up an amusing, clever, sexy pickup line. She just clicked a few places and sent a picture of some chocolate. From the looks of it, she sent the same thing to like 19 of her other closest Facebook friends too. At the same time! Teh internetz lets you do things in mass like that. No big deal. People do it constantly. They’re just being friendly! If you hadn’t pointed it out, I wouldn’t have noticed it for a week, because sometimes I’m not so friendly. Sometimes I’m stabby.

"Sometimes people get cut. That’s life." There, I quoted a LiLo movie; now I’m going to go somewhere to re-evaluate my alcoholism.