It would have made sense not to go at that point. As soon as I decided to take the title "suicidal", I became the walking scarlet letter around that joint. But it was my last semester and the last real shindig our class would share. I would be damned if I made it easy on them though, which would explain the thick black eyeliner and Doc Martins with only the small concession of a skirt...also black.
A small group of us went together for old time's sake. It was mostly the original clan from the pre-college wilderness trip and we had mostly not talked for the last two years. Preemptive nostalgia is a powerful thing it turns out.
My well-developed cynicism found validation in the saccharine superlatives of the class council presiding over the fete. About the only thing I found the inner bright-eyed freshman reviving for was the mention of the Power Outage Day. This had occurred spring semester, our first year and was the one thing that brought the 700 or so of us together in memory. Early on a Tuesday morning, one of the main transformers had exploded and wiped out power on the entire campus. Classes for the day canceled. This coincided with the first sunny day warm enough for ultimate Frisbee and optimistic sunbathing on the quad. My boyfriend and I hopped the Metra into the city and found a tattoo parlor to get the navel piercing I had been promising him. Deep dish pizza followed that I can still taste with the adrenaline of flesh newly punctured.
It is a memory deeply marred by retrospect and regret, but I was already distant enough at that last senior banquet to hold it for a moment with the rest of them as a picture of glorious freedom.
Thursday, February 9, 2017
Tuesday, February 7, 2017
Gust...afson
There is so much that's clear in retrospect. First of all, he was my rebound. Problem is, if you don't know about that sort of thing, things can get out of hand. And they did. The stage was set the semester I was on and off again with the original boy, as I spent my off periods with Ross on his nightwatch shifts detailing exactly how stupid I had been and what I had learned about love. We shared coke out of shot glasses (because I was edgy like that), and Ross encouraged me to never go back to the asshole again.
The summer after our freshman year, I finally drew the last line with the first boy and Ross moved front and center. His opening move in this position was to lead me on an elaborate fantasy of a trip never taken over a series of e-mails that covered two weeks. The joke was on me as I took every word literally and then finally became the punchline. One would think that would raise a red flag, but I considered the fault all mine as usual.
The next semester was a debacle of shared midnights as I took the nightwatch job as well. Every shift was a voluntarily shared one for nearly four months. At some point in that sleepless time, we started ending our shifts by walking to nearby parks and cuddling as the sun came up. Arms and bodies, but never mouths or faces. As inexperienced as I was, I knew never to ask what this all meant as that was the quickest way to end the nice moments.
And that ended up being his job. We had clearly encouraged a disregard for boundaries both physically and verbally with frequent jousts of one-up-manship with innuendo. Well, on one of our dawn rendezvous, Ross suggested a masturbation contest. Who could come first. I wouldn't doubt that I started the whole thing, but I also ended it by saying I just wasn't ready for something physical like that. You know, considering my first boyfriend and all. And just like that, the weird and probably unhealthy intimacy was over. We walked back to campus in near silence and we did not share another nightwatch again.
That was near the end of the semester, and we already had new year's plans that involved Ross visiting me in Texas and then a group of us going to the Grand Canyon for the Y2K turnover. The awkwardness persisted as Ross maintained a distant and ironic tone across the 36 hour drive with three others in a small sedan. We drove straight through and then hiked to the river from the North Rim. That dumb story is for another time. Once at the river with our celebratory bonfire and cozy tents, Ross and I retreated for some time to one of the tents while the others ate canned chicken noodle soup around the fire. This was the last scene he touched me. And as he did so, he wondered aloud just what it was that made him want to do so. He just couldn't figure out what was so irresistible about the feel of my body against his. One would think this was the last red flag I needed. One would be hopelessly optimistic.
What it ended up taking was being replaced by Ms. Gustafson on his nightwatch shifts the following semester. I showed up to his first shift with a two-liter of coke for old times' sake and was greeted by her leaning over the desk in a conversational pose I recognized well. He had the grace to blush, but only slightly. I did not make a second attempt after that.
We had also been sharing weekly dinners, which continued in a horrid farce born out of habit. Finally, after a couple tasteless meals, Ross switched into present mode and said we needed to talk. About Gustafson. They were engaged. Things had been developing for some time, but he didn't want to hurt me was the thing. Again, I accepted the mantle of responsibility. I should have known, and I certainly should not have tried to insert myself the previous semester. Because that's apparently what I had done.
The end of the story is almost tawdry. My senior year, I roomed with the girl. Not strictly by my own choice, but still. Being so close to their wedding date, there were more than a few interrupted intimacies and I can still remember them all. I think the worst part is that I came to agree with Ross in all the unstated assessment of myself and this girl. She was simpler yet still sharp. She was beautiful and affectionate and did not need overbearing reassurance. And she loved him entirely. The choice made itself.
The summer after our freshman year, I finally drew the last line with the first boy and Ross moved front and center. His opening move in this position was to lead me on an elaborate fantasy of a trip never taken over a series of e-mails that covered two weeks. The joke was on me as I took every word literally and then finally became the punchline. One would think that would raise a red flag, but I considered the fault all mine as usual.
The next semester was a debacle of shared midnights as I took the nightwatch job as well. Every shift was a voluntarily shared one for nearly four months. At some point in that sleepless time, we started ending our shifts by walking to nearby parks and cuddling as the sun came up. Arms and bodies, but never mouths or faces. As inexperienced as I was, I knew never to ask what this all meant as that was the quickest way to end the nice moments.
And that ended up being his job. We had clearly encouraged a disregard for boundaries both physically and verbally with frequent jousts of one-up-manship with innuendo. Well, on one of our dawn rendezvous, Ross suggested a masturbation contest. Who could come first. I wouldn't doubt that I started the whole thing, but I also ended it by saying I just wasn't ready for something physical like that. You know, considering my first boyfriend and all. And just like that, the weird and probably unhealthy intimacy was over. We walked back to campus in near silence and we did not share another nightwatch again.
That was near the end of the semester, and we already had new year's plans that involved Ross visiting me in Texas and then a group of us going to the Grand Canyon for the Y2K turnover. The awkwardness persisted as Ross maintained a distant and ironic tone across the 36 hour drive with three others in a small sedan. We drove straight through and then hiked to the river from the North Rim. That dumb story is for another time. Once at the river with our celebratory bonfire and cozy tents, Ross and I retreated for some time to one of the tents while the others ate canned chicken noodle soup around the fire. This was the last scene he touched me. And as he did so, he wondered aloud just what it was that made him want to do so. He just couldn't figure out what was so irresistible about the feel of my body against his. One would think this was the last red flag I needed. One would be hopelessly optimistic.
What it ended up taking was being replaced by Ms. Gustafson on his nightwatch shifts the following semester. I showed up to his first shift with a two-liter of coke for old times' sake and was greeted by her leaning over the desk in a conversational pose I recognized well. He had the grace to blush, but only slightly. I did not make a second attempt after that.
We had also been sharing weekly dinners, which continued in a horrid farce born out of habit. Finally, after a couple tasteless meals, Ross switched into present mode and said we needed to talk. About Gustafson. They were engaged. Things had been developing for some time, but he didn't want to hurt me was the thing. Again, I accepted the mantle of responsibility. I should have known, and I certainly should not have tried to insert myself the previous semester. Because that's apparently what I had done.
The end of the story is almost tawdry. My senior year, I roomed with the girl. Not strictly by my own choice, but still. Being so close to their wedding date, there were more than a few interrupted intimacies and I can still remember them all. I think the worst part is that I came to agree with Ross in all the unstated assessment of myself and this girl. She was simpler yet still sharp. She was beautiful and affectionate and did not need overbearing reassurance. And she loved him entirely. The choice made itself.
Thursday, February 2, 2017
Bad Idea
If you were born in the 80's, you can pretty much say your whole childhood was a bad idea. We grew up ferile, learning the ways of the pack from each other. As you can imagine, this was not always pretty. Sometimes the pack decided that someone was too wimpy or too needy and they were cut off with a violence that still makes me reel as I approach middle age.
My own pack was made up of about ten kids, with me and two others as the youngest all the way up to my brother who was ancient at the time (six years older). In the early years, I was not aware of the boys and girls of it all. Not until Ryan decided enough was enough and tackled me in his front yard in front of one of the older boys and kissed me hard on the mouth. We had been best friends for half of our lives (two whole years!), but I stomped away from the scene with an indignation I only wish I could muster these days. From that day forward, Kristen was my only best friend.
Every day, Kristen and I would meet up either at one of our houses or on the Trady Track (the forest path that ran the diameter of our circular street), and we would improvise the reality of the day. Quite frequently this would involve torturing Ryan. He was simply too easy with his turtle collection to be crayoned on or sent on slow motion prison breaks and his never-ending gullibility. I have learned that I have this myself in spades, but Ryan was on a level all his own. It took Kristen and I an hour one day, but we eventually convinced poor Ryan that the two of us were our own evil twins in town for a visit. The poor kid was almost in tears when he finally broke under our relentless insistence. Good clean fun.
One day, a family with two pack-worthy kids moved in to the house down the hill. It was quickly determined that the older boy was not good material, but the girl showed promise and she was only slightly younger than Kristen and I. Everyone knows that girl power is exponential, and we had begun to suffer in our pack authority as the older boys approached puberty. So we latched onto this Stacy with a vengeance. She was mousy and had a little whine to her voice, but she had energy and seemed ready to bend to our ambitious wills.
At first, the trio showed promise. The older boys seemed to recognize and respect the threat we had suddenly become, and the potential they (but not we) could see on the horizon. Stacy and Kristen were already sprouting tiny breasts, but we weren't entirely sure what that would mean. A year in, it started to become clear. One of the older boys began to emerge as something I would now call desirable, although in those tender years it had no words, just a small fluttering. And he began to choose Stacy. Obviously, the only conclusion for Kristen and I to draw was that she was clearly a slut. Probably because her mom abused her and she would do anything for the extra attention. Well this simply could not stand. We were the leaders of our pack subset and we would decide how the spoils were divied.
It seemed so reasonable at the time, but is still something that wakes me with shame from time to time. The resolution Kristen and I arrived at was to deliver a note to Stacy's house (if memory serves me, we handed it to her terrifying mom) that essentially said, "We do not have time for your drama and cannot be your friends anymore." All over a boy who ended up fat and wasteful like the rest of the disappointed and disillusioned males of East Texas. Turns out, spite and jealousy don't have to be taught though. Maybe we picked up the subconscious cues from our elders, but mostly I think we took the initiative in hating the weaker among us simply because we could.
My own pack was made up of about ten kids, with me and two others as the youngest all the way up to my brother who was ancient at the time (six years older). In the early years, I was not aware of the boys and girls of it all. Not until Ryan decided enough was enough and tackled me in his front yard in front of one of the older boys and kissed me hard on the mouth. We had been best friends for half of our lives (two whole years!), but I stomped away from the scene with an indignation I only wish I could muster these days. From that day forward, Kristen was my only best friend.
Every day, Kristen and I would meet up either at one of our houses or on the Trady Track (the forest path that ran the diameter of our circular street), and we would improvise the reality of the day. Quite frequently this would involve torturing Ryan. He was simply too easy with his turtle collection to be crayoned on or sent on slow motion prison breaks and his never-ending gullibility. I have learned that I have this myself in spades, but Ryan was on a level all his own. It took Kristen and I an hour one day, but we eventually convinced poor Ryan that the two of us were our own evil twins in town for a visit. The poor kid was almost in tears when he finally broke under our relentless insistence. Good clean fun.
One day, a family with two pack-worthy kids moved in to the house down the hill. It was quickly determined that the older boy was not good material, but the girl showed promise and she was only slightly younger than Kristen and I. Everyone knows that girl power is exponential, and we had begun to suffer in our pack authority as the older boys approached puberty. So we latched onto this Stacy with a vengeance. She was mousy and had a little whine to her voice, but she had energy and seemed ready to bend to our ambitious wills.
At first, the trio showed promise. The older boys seemed to recognize and respect the threat we had suddenly become, and the potential they (but not we) could see on the horizon. Stacy and Kristen were already sprouting tiny breasts, but we weren't entirely sure what that would mean. A year in, it started to become clear. One of the older boys began to emerge as something I would now call desirable, although in those tender years it had no words, just a small fluttering. And he began to choose Stacy. Obviously, the only conclusion for Kristen and I to draw was that she was clearly a slut. Probably because her mom abused her and she would do anything for the extra attention. Well this simply could not stand. We were the leaders of our pack subset and we would decide how the spoils were divied.
It seemed so reasonable at the time, but is still something that wakes me with shame from time to time. The resolution Kristen and I arrived at was to deliver a note to Stacy's house (if memory serves me, we handed it to her terrifying mom) that essentially said, "We do not have time for your drama and cannot be your friends anymore." All over a boy who ended up fat and wasteful like the rest of the disappointed and disillusioned males of East Texas. Turns out, spite and jealousy don't have to be taught though. Maybe we picked up the subconscious cues from our elders, but mostly I think we took the initiative in hating the weaker among us simply because we could.
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