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Thursday, August 12, 2004
I wasn't always a bad driver. In fact, once upon a time I was a very good driver. Very polite. Accomodating. Easy-going.
But then I realized that on the cut-throat freeways of Southern California, politeness is not only unnecessary, it puts you at a distinct disadvantage. If you are a nice guy on the road, you will finish last.
Here's what I learned:
Always go as fast as you can.
You can probably go 20 mph faster around corners than it says you can.
Never leave more than three feet of space between you and the next car, or some asshole will cut in.
Never let some asshole cut in. Especially if the asshole is driving an SUV.
Avoid crappy-ass cars. They will go slow.
It's important to take note of your fellow drivers - especially on surface streets - so that you know who is likely to accelerate the fastest. If in doubt, get behind the most expensive car.
Honk first, think later.
Avoid breaking at all costs.
Scoot along the exit lane as far as you can. Some poor sucker will let you in later.
Never let some jerk who's been cruising along the exit lane cut in. Let some other poor sucker do that.
If you do put on your turn signal, wait until a second before you change lanes. If people think you're about to cut over, they will speed up.
Always wave thank you! - It prevents road rage.
But then I realized that on the cut-throat freeways of Southern California, politeness is not only unnecessary, it puts you at a distinct disadvantage. If you are a nice guy on the road, you will finish last.
Here's what I learned:
Always go as fast as you can.
You can probably go 20 mph faster around corners than it says you can.
Never leave more than three feet of space between you and the next car, or some asshole will cut in.
Never let some asshole cut in. Especially if the asshole is driving an SUV.
Avoid crappy-ass cars. They will go slow.
It's important to take note of your fellow drivers - especially on surface streets - so that you know who is likely to accelerate the fastest. If in doubt, get behind the most expensive car.
Honk first, think later.
Avoid breaking at all costs.
Scoot along the exit lane as far as you can. Some poor sucker will let you in later.
Never let some jerk who's been cruising along the exit lane cut in. Let some other poor sucker do that.
If you do put on your turn signal, wait until a second before you change lanes. If people think you're about to cut over, they will speed up.
Always wave thank you! - It prevents road rage.
Friday, August 06, 2004
IF YOU'RE GOING TO BE RIDING MY ASS,
YOU'D BETTER BE PULLING MY HAIR.
The only thing worse than someone cutting you off on the freeway at rush hour is if that someone is in a big-ass truck, and the only thing worse than that is if that big-ass truck has a crass bumper sticker on it that you then have to contemplate for the next forty miles.
There’s nothing like pulling up close to read something, peering at it through your bug-spattered windshield, straining to make out the words through the glare of the sun, and slowly realizing that it’s telling you you’re an idiot.
At first I felt foolish, like I had been trying to pick up a dime that was glued to the floor. Then I was offended. But after some contemplation (and believe me I had plenty of time), I began to look at it somewhat differently. Was it not the driver’s caustic, ironic commentary on the insufferability but ultimate triviality of modern travel in Southern California? Acknowledging the inevitable proximity of another vehicle, she pokes fun at the quiet desperation inherent in those hard-won inches… or whatever. Bitch.
***
Someone in my journalism class is an overachiever. I noticed her right away. Skinny, perky, with chunky, tortured artist glasses. Today she tried to bust into my conversation with a nice kid from D.C. She kept adding irrelevant comments as if we were talking to her, which we weren’t, like, since we were talking about differences between the East Coast and the West Coast, “everybody wanted to go to Duke or Yale.” Even though we weren’t paying attention to her, she continued enumerating expensive elitist schools that “everybody” wanted to go to. Everybody being cute, skinny, white, over-privileged overachievers like her. (Don’t tell me I hate her because I imagine she’s a slightly younger, slightly thinner, slightly more accomplished version of myself. Just because she works for a newspaper and writes stories daily – “which is exhausting but sooooooo rewarding!” – that would be no reason to abhor her on sight, right down to her cute, undernourished little tummy. Somehow seeing someone who is a mirror image of myself – or a more perfect version of me – inspires the deepest rancor in me because I am afraid that other people see me like I see her. Please tell me I have a little more grit than that.)
I’m all about having grit, lately. I don’t want to be one of those writers whose experience consists of angsty college years in an elite liberal arts college, followed by a white collar job with other angsty, pasty, over-educated recent grads, followed by a stint in grad school and a teaching fellowship and a politely received novel about a fictional character’s angsty college years at an elite liberal arts college and subsequent white collar job with other angsty, pasty, over-educated recent grads. Of course the novel will criticize the elite liberal arts college for lacking the nit and grit of everyday experiences that would have given the writer something more interesting to say, but of course the reviewers will be mildly pleased because they all went to the same schools.
***
The secret to making friends is finding the kid to hate. You know that kid, the one everyone in second grade suddenly decided they didn’t like and continued to torment and finally ignore until in her misguided quest for affection she became the school slut and rumor had it that that back injury wasn’t really from volleyball – I heard it happened because she was having sex! The kid to hate is not always an actual person, of course. It can be a company, or a group of people, or a mindset. Ideally you would have something that you like in common, but in practice, it’s much easier if it’s something you hate.
Today it was SoCal residents and their materialistic impulses and general vacancy of thought. Road rage itself could yield a good hour-long conversation, and today it provided plenty of fodder (until the Overachiever tried to break it up). Even so I felt a certain horror of the familiar talking to the nice (Jewish?) boy from D.C. I crave it and yet it repels me. It’s fascinating to find I have something in common with a stranger, but there’s a moment when it comes too close, when it seems to point out the un-uniqueness, the generic nature of my existence.
***
A life is an odd thing to have. Sometimes it seems to me a possession like any other, perhaps the only one you get for free. But it is a rather willful toy, impossible to hold on to and to manage as neatly as I would like. Try as I might I’m always getting spots on it, always too late with the stain remover, letting it get scuffed and ill-using it. It’s a long-term investment, life. Fortunately or not, it demands that you contemplate how you are going to manage it. Without the prospect of ever throwing it away, you have to constantly handle it with an eye to the future. You only get one, so there’s no fucking up. (Ironically, since you only get one, this is impossible.)
The process of getting older is the process of disillusionment. When you’re young, you think, “It’ll all work out in the end.” When you grow up, you think, “If I’m not careful, there’s a good chance it won’t.” – all the while fearing that it is this very mentality that is depriving you of the derring-do that would have brought you the sought-after success.
Driving up to L.A. always makes make contemplate my mortality. Hurtling down the lane at death-defying speeds, I can’t help but wonder when a second of inattention is going matter.
YOU'D BETTER BE PULLING MY HAIR.
The only thing worse than someone cutting you off on the freeway at rush hour is if that someone is in a big-ass truck, and the only thing worse than that is if that big-ass truck has a crass bumper sticker on it that you then have to contemplate for the next forty miles.
There’s nothing like pulling up close to read something, peering at it through your bug-spattered windshield, straining to make out the words through the glare of the sun, and slowly realizing that it’s telling you you’re an idiot.
At first I felt foolish, like I had been trying to pick up a dime that was glued to the floor. Then I was offended. But after some contemplation (and believe me I had plenty of time), I began to look at it somewhat differently. Was it not the driver’s caustic, ironic commentary on the insufferability but ultimate triviality of modern travel in Southern California? Acknowledging the inevitable proximity of another vehicle, she pokes fun at the quiet desperation inherent in those hard-won inches… or whatever. Bitch.
***
Someone in my journalism class is an overachiever. I noticed her right away. Skinny, perky, with chunky, tortured artist glasses. Today she tried to bust into my conversation with a nice kid from D.C. She kept adding irrelevant comments as if we were talking to her, which we weren’t, like, since we were talking about differences between the East Coast and the West Coast, “everybody wanted to go to Duke or Yale.” Even though we weren’t paying attention to her, she continued enumerating expensive elitist schools that “everybody” wanted to go to. Everybody being cute, skinny, white, over-privileged overachievers like her. (Don’t tell me I hate her because I imagine she’s a slightly younger, slightly thinner, slightly more accomplished version of myself. Just because she works for a newspaper and writes stories daily – “which is exhausting but sooooooo rewarding!” – that would be no reason to abhor her on sight, right down to her cute, undernourished little tummy. Somehow seeing someone who is a mirror image of myself – or a more perfect version of me – inspires the deepest rancor in me because I am afraid that other people see me like I see her. Please tell me I have a little more grit than that.)
I’m all about having grit, lately. I don’t want to be one of those writers whose experience consists of angsty college years in an elite liberal arts college, followed by a white collar job with other angsty, pasty, over-educated recent grads, followed by a stint in grad school and a teaching fellowship and a politely received novel about a fictional character’s angsty college years at an elite liberal arts college and subsequent white collar job with other angsty, pasty, over-educated recent grads. Of course the novel will criticize the elite liberal arts college for lacking the nit and grit of everyday experiences that would have given the writer something more interesting to say, but of course the reviewers will be mildly pleased because they all went to the same schools.
***
The secret to making friends is finding the kid to hate. You know that kid, the one everyone in second grade suddenly decided they didn’t like and continued to torment and finally ignore until in her misguided quest for affection she became the school slut and rumor had it that that back injury wasn’t really from volleyball – I heard it happened because she was having sex! The kid to hate is not always an actual person, of course. It can be a company, or a group of people, or a mindset. Ideally you would have something that you like in common, but in practice, it’s much easier if it’s something you hate.
Today it was SoCal residents and their materialistic impulses and general vacancy of thought. Road rage itself could yield a good hour-long conversation, and today it provided plenty of fodder (until the Overachiever tried to break it up). Even so I felt a certain horror of the familiar talking to the nice (Jewish?) boy from D.C. I crave it and yet it repels me. It’s fascinating to find I have something in common with a stranger, but there’s a moment when it comes too close, when it seems to point out the un-uniqueness, the generic nature of my existence.
***
A life is an odd thing to have. Sometimes it seems to me a possession like any other, perhaps the only one you get for free. But it is a rather willful toy, impossible to hold on to and to manage as neatly as I would like. Try as I might I’m always getting spots on it, always too late with the stain remover, letting it get scuffed and ill-using it. It’s a long-term investment, life. Fortunately or not, it demands that you contemplate how you are going to manage it. Without the prospect of ever throwing it away, you have to constantly handle it with an eye to the future. You only get one, so there’s no fucking up. (Ironically, since you only get one, this is impossible.)
The process of getting older is the process of disillusionment. When you’re young, you think, “It’ll all work out in the end.” When you grow up, you think, “If I’m not careful, there’s a good chance it won’t.” – all the while fearing that it is this very mentality that is depriving you of the derring-do that would have brought you the sought-after success.
Driving up to L.A. always makes make contemplate my mortality. Hurtling down the lane at death-defying speeds, I can’t help but wonder when a second of inattention is going matter.
Thursday, April 08, 2004
Poetry Slam at The Lab
You feel embarrassed for their awkwardness, their jerky moves and ticks on stage, their hesitations and blunders, the shaky voice with which they read, their painfully honest and insecure prose. But I was like them, once upon a time. I once wrote a poem about giving him a blow job and then gave it to him. Oh the spunk I had in my younger days. He looked at me and kind of chuckled, the glint in his eye suggestive of recondite thoughts, if not pity. Somehow I wanted him to know, I wanted to crucify myself on his approval or lack thereof – something about high school brings out the melodramatic, the excruciating yearning for love & acceptance. But there are different ways to bare your soul, the kind that makes people wince and the kind that doesn’t. The former is mostly reserved for self-conscious types, but even the unself-conscious can fall prey. So I sat in the back making snarky comments about how very 17 their poetry was, meanwhile my dry mind looked for a drink. I wanted to be inspired and I was not. I wanted to see people who made me yearn to be entirely alive, not to waste a second not thinking, not breathing, not living. But then again, at least it was something. And something is better than nothing.
You feel embarrassed for their awkwardness, their jerky moves and ticks on stage, their hesitations and blunders, the shaky voice with which they read, their painfully honest and insecure prose. But I was like them, once upon a time. I once wrote a poem about giving him a blow job and then gave it to him. Oh the spunk I had in my younger days. He looked at me and kind of chuckled, the glint in his eye suggestive of recondite thoughts, if not pity. Somehow I wanted him to know, I wanted to crucify myself on his approval or lack thereof – something about high school brings out the melodramatic, the excruciating yearning for love & acceptance. But there are different ways to bare your soul, the kind that makes people wince and the kind that doesn’t. The former is mostly reserved for self-conscious types, but even the unself-conscious can fall prey. So I sat in the back making snarky comments about how very 17 their poetry was, meanwhile my dry mind looked for a drink. I wanted to be inspired and I was not. I wanted to see people who made me yearn to be entirely alive, not to waste a second not thinking, not breathing, not living. But then again, at least it was something. And something is better than nothing.
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
Letter to an ex-lover:
I plagiarized a thought of yours today. I hope I sounded smart when I said it, although I remember being annoyed when you first told me. I've been thinking about a few things. I wanted to tell you there’s a plastic supermarket bag full of Easter candy and egg-dying kits on the top shelf of my closet and it’s almost April again. Sometimes things happen like that. I think I’m going to throw it away but I might save the egg-dying kit. I had a chocolate bunny the other day while I was sitting in bed reading, which is something I love to do, sit in bed reading and eating chocolate.
I never liked kissing you, your lips are too thick, but I loved looking into your eyes and not blinking. They had these lashes like a brush of paint, wisping away and curved and delicate, substantial. Remember that boomerang I taped above your bed? Ceci n’est pas un boomerang. I couldn’t decide whether it was deep, but I decided that the phrase evidenced a certain resistance to interpretation that made it though-provoking, at least. I never figured out what I meant.
I think about you more than I should. It makes me happy to think someone knew me. But things come up.
I still expect to see you again, will I still be able to lean my elbow on your shoulder as we walk? Despite everything, I still saw the most stars that night in Texas when we laid on top of the moving van. I’m not mad at you for kissing me anymore, although I don’t know if it was the right thing, if there are right things.
Talking about Nietzche today made me remember how much you knew about things, how infuriating your fluency in current events and how you always talked shit on the court in the most annoying way and still made shots over me, even though you’re two inches shorter than I am, but I didn’t care. You were the umpteenth boyfriend to teach me how to throw a football, and I still didn’t learn.
When we got spicy buffalo wings and you wanted to watch the TV instead of me – did you think I could forget? What exactly I wanted to tell you I’m not sure. I’m still alive and I’ve thought a lot of things. You’ve probably thought about them longer and harder and better than me, you were always like that. And then I would tell you and you would say “yeah” like you were waiting for me to get to the point of my point. The last time I saw you the bus was pulling away and you were watching me leave, and I bought an ice cream and decided to go to Mexico.
I’m not here to thank you, or tell you I miss you. I don’t love you but I’m not indifferent to your absence. When you told me about connection I rolled my eyes inside, but now I steal your words and think of you.
I plagiarized a thought of yours today. I hope I sounded smart when I said it, although I remember being annoyed when you first told me. I've been thinking about a few things. I wanted to tell you there’s a plastic supermarket bag full of Easter candy and egg-dying kits on the top shelf of my closet and it’s almost April again. Sometimes things happen like that. I think I’m going to throw it away but I might save the egg-dying kit. I had a chocolate bunny the other day while I was sitting in bed reading, which is something I love to do, sit in bed reading and eating chocolate.
I never liked kissing you, your lips are too thick, but I loved looking into your eyes and not blinking. They had these lashes like a brush of paint, wisping away and curved and delicate, substantial. Remember that boomerang I taped above your bed? Ceci n’est pas un boomerang. I couldn’t decide whether it was deep, but I decided that the phrase evidenced a certain resistance to interpretation that made it though-provoking, at least. I never figured out what I meant.
I think about you more than I should. It makes me happy to think someone knew me. But things come up.
I still expect to see you again, will I still be able to lean my elbow on your shoulder as we walk? Despite everything, I still saw the most stars that night in Texas when we laid on top of the moving van. I’m not mad at you for kissing me anymore, although I don’t know if it was the right thing, if there are right things.
Talking about Nietzche today made me remember how much you knew about things, how infuriating your fluency in current events and how you always talked shit on the court in the most annoying way and still made shots over me, even though you’re two inches shorter than I am, but I didn’t care. You were the umpteenth boyfriend to teach me how to throw a football, and I still didn’t learn.
When we got spicy buffalo wings and you wanted to watch the TV instead of me – did you think I could forget? What exactly I wanted to tell you I’m not sure. I’m still alive and I’ve thought a lot of things. You’ve probably thought about them longer and harder and better than me, you were always like that. And then I would tell you and you would say “yeah” like you were waiting for me to get to the point of my point. The last time I saw you the bus was pulling away and you were watching me leave, and I bought an ice cream and decided to go to Mexico.
I’m not here to thank you, or tell you I miss you. I don’t love you but I’m not indifferent to your absence. When you told me about connection I rolled my eyes inside, but now I steal your words and think of you.
Monday, February 09, 2004
We sat around talking about what we would do if we won the lottery.
The fucking lottery, man. I’m telling you, if I won, I wouldn’t change a fuckin’ thing. Not a fucking thing. You know? I would get up, go to work, nothing would change. Just that I wouldn’t care anymore.
Lottery, they’ve done fuckin’ studies, you have a better chance, of, of throwing a dart at the Wall Street Journal and investing in that stock. You’d get a better return, than buying a lottery ticket. I mean, we’re talking one in six hundred million, here: nothing, zero.
You would work?
But I just like the hope. The feeling of going to bed, the night before, and thinking what I’ll do the next morning if I win the lottery.
Yeah, hell yeah I would work, what else would I do?
You know, if I won the lottery I’d involve myself in a million projects, and all of them would fail, like selling greeting cards for twenty dollars a pop. It wouldn’t succeed, it wouldn’t be a business, but I would do it because I wanted to. You know? I’d work for myself, save children, you know, keep busy. Have fun.
I’d fuckin’ get up every morning, go to work, my boss calls me in and yells at me? So what, who cares? You know? I just wouldn’t care. That’s what I would do if I won the lottery.
Everything is seen in red. The waitress has flirty eyes, cute. I stare into my beer, pink froth. Does it matter? Everyone out there is trying to make sense of meaninglessness. This is what it fuckin’ is, here. All art these days is people expressing how hard it is to express anything but the fact that there are no transcendent truths left to be expressed. Only frustrated writers, out of work actors, and real people.
You know what, I think, really: the real trick is to have the mindset, without winning the money. Right? I mean, do you need a million bucks to find satisfaction, peace? It’s training your mind, because at the end of the day, that’s what you have left. And that is within your control.
What? Oh, come on. Come on, don’t give me that.
What, what? I’m telling you, it’s all in your mind.
Ok, ok. Come on. No.
No one’s any help. You gotta win the money, or work your shit job. That’s it. Everyone in here is white. But I like it. I mean, is it bad that I like the place? There’s guys in sweatshirts, beautiful wives. Everyone. Microbrewery. Should I like diversity better? Should I like being the girl who grew up in the white bubble? I saw MTV had a casting call for bicultural young adults. And I thought of like, all my friends. Three of them at least. Is that good enough? Even if they went to school with the girl from Roseanne. Is that good enough?
My friend is convinced you don’t have to make it big.
All you have to fuckin’ do, I’m telling you, all you have to do, is be the fuckin’ guy who makes these, these little fuckin’ metal corner pieces that keep the corners of menus from getting frayed. That’s it. Because most of the people, ninety-nine percent of the people out there doing it, are idiots. And you just have to be the one guy who’s smarter. It doesn’t even have to be original. You just find your niche, you just have to have the balls. The cojones man. I’m telling you, these people that work for themselves – any idiot can work for himself. He’s just the fuckin’ idiot who had the cojones to do it.
And why aren’t you doing it? Why don’t you fucking manufacture the, the, the metal pieces on the corners of menus, for chrissake, you could be rich.
Throw in lots of swear words. Lots of fuckin’ swear words. A self conscious. Look straight at the camera. I can’t move. I can’t nod. My bangs will get in the way. They prescribe my field of vision, I keep putting them behind my ears, gingerly picking them out. Got milk beer froth. Pink.
Because, man. I’m too fuckin’ analytical for that. People give me ideas, they say, hey, I got this great idea for a trendy bar I want to open, what do you think? And I sit there and fuckin’ pick out the holes. Well, that’s a great idea, but did you think about this? And that? And what about this other thing? You know, that’s why I’m not the one out there doing something. But, you know, I’ve got ideas. And you just have to do it. I think I’m gonna start setting up some shit by myself, you know, some stuff I can just knock out on weekends, five-hundred bucks a pop, you know, it’ll just take a couple hours. I’m sick of this shit, you know? I’m not meant for it. Fuckin’ corporations, screwing your ass. My fucking junior analyst is a bartender on weekends. They can’t pay you enough to do this shit man.
The only thing left to show is people getting fucked up and it not meaning anything, but then somehow it’s supposed to mean something.
I’m fucked up at noon. I wonder if the “Barista” noticed I came in twice today. Huh, barista. Caffe mocha latte the first time. Then hot chocolate. Talking about war movies in the corner. I listened, stared at the girl outside. Drove home in the sunset. Golden. Traffic light slow. Golden across the water, sunpath. Got to keep my eye on the. With the birds swimming, the sun setting behind the cliffs, casting pink and golden. Green, get behind the Mercedes. It’s dark when I get home.
You know what? There was this guy I was talking to the other day?
I saw him in a movie. I wasn’t talking to him. I didn’t know him. I almost said it though.
The girl, who was pregnant, you know?
But I don’t know. I don’t know her. It wasn’t me.
And she saw baby flesh coming up in the garbage disposal. In the drains. And then she decided that every house had pipes, so she went home.
I went home, and then. And everything was coming up babies, at a time. You know, it wasn’t a baby, it was a decision, a situation. And at the end of it, I could imagine myself having an abortion, but I couldn’t imagine myself having a baby.
And you know what? I don’t care if you don’t fuckin’ get it. This is art. Man. This is how I see it.
So I saw babies coming up. No. I didn’t. She did. It was in a book I read. I thought I knew her, but she was just some character from a book I read, who ended up in a mental hospital. I thought I knew her.
There. That’s what it means.
The fucking lottery, man. I’m telling you, if I won, I wouldn’t change a fuckin’ thing. Not a fucking thing. You know? I would get up, go to work, nothing would change. Just that I wouldn’t care anymore.
Lottery, they’ve done fuckin’ studies, you have a better chance, of, of throwing a dart at the Wall Street Journal and investing in that stock. You’d get a better return, than buying a lottery ticket. I mean, we’re talking one in six hundred million, here: nothing, zero.
You would work?
But I just like the hope. The feeling of going to bed, the night before, and thinking what I’ll do the next morning if I win the lottery.
Yeah, hell yeah I would work, what else would I do?
You know, if I won the lottery I’d involve myself in a million projects, and all of them would fail, like selling greeting cards for twenty dollars a pop. It wouldn’t succeed, it wouldn’t be a business, but I would do it because I wanted to. You know? I’d work for myself, save children, you know, keep busy. Have fun.
I’d fuckin’ get up every morning, go to work, my boss calls me in and yells at me? So what, who cares? You know? I just wouldn’t care. That’s what I would do if I won the lottery.
Everything is seen in red. The waitress has flirty eyes, cute. I stare into my beer, pink froth. Does it matter? Everyone out there is trying to make sense of meaninglessness. This is what it fuckin’ is, here. All art these days is people expressing how hard it is to express anything but the fact that there are no transcendent truths left to be expressed. Only frustrated writers, out of work actors, and real people.
You know what, I think, really: the real trick is to have the mindset, without winning the money. Right? I mean, do you need a million bucks to find satisfaction, peace? It’s training your mind, because at the end of the day, that’s what you have left. And that is within your control.
What? Oh, come on. Come on, don’t give me that.
What, what? I’m telling you, it’s all in your mind.
Ok, ok. Come on. No.
No one’s any help. You gotta win the money, or work your shit job. That’s it. Everyone in here is white. But I like it. I mean, is it bad that I like the place? There’s guys in sweatshirts, beautiful wives. Everyone. Microbrewery. Should I like diversity better? Should I like being the girl who grew up in the white bubble? I saw MTV had a casting call for bicultural young adults. And I thought of like, all my friends. Three of them at least. Is that good enough? Even if they went to school with the girl from Roseanne. Is that good enough?
My friend is convinced you don’t have to make it big.
All you have to fuckin’ do, I’m telling you, all you have to do, is be the fuckin’ guy who makes these, these little fuckin’ metal corner pieces that keep the corners of menus from getting frayed. That’s it. Because most of the people, ninety-nine percent of the people out there doing it, are idiots. And you just have to be the one guy who’s smarter. It doesn’t even have to be original. You just find your niche, you just have to have the balls. The cojones man. I’m telling you, these people that work for themselves – any idiot can work for himself. He’s just the fuckin’ idiot who had the cojones to do it.
And why aren’t you doing it? Why don’t you fucking manufacture the, the, the metal pieces on the corners of menus, for chrissake, you could be rich.
Throw in lots of swear words. Lots of fuckin’ swear words. A self conscious. Look straight at the camera. I can’t move. I can’t nod. My bangs will get in the way. They prescribe my field of vision, I keep putting them behind my ears, gingerly picking them out. Got milk beer froth. Pink.
Because, man. I’m too fuckin’ analytical for that. People give me ideas, they say, hey, I got this great idea for a trendy bar I want to open, what do you think? And I sit there and fuckin’ pick out the holes. Well, that’s a great idea, but did you think about this? And that? And what about this other thing? You know, that’s why I’m not the one out there doing something. But, you know, I’ve got ideas. And you just have to do it. I think I’m gonna start setting up some shit by myself, you know, some stuff I can just knock out on weekends, five-hundred bucks a pop, you know, it’ll just take a couple hours. I’m sick of this shit, you know? I’m not meant for it. Fuckin’ corporations, screwing your ass. My fucking junior analyst is a bartender on weekends. They can’t pay you enough to do this shit man.
The only thing left to show is people getting fucked up and it not meaning anything, but then somehow it’s supposed to mean something.
I’m fucked up at noon. I wonder if the “Barista” noticed I came in twice today. Huh, barista. Caffe mocha latte the first time. Then hot chocolate. Talking about war movies in the corner. I listened, stared at the girl outside. Drove home in the sunset. Golden. Traffic light slow. Golden across the water, sunpath. Got to keep my eye on the. With the birds swimming, the sun setting behind the cliffs, casting pink and golden. Green, get behind the Mercedes. It’s dark when I get home.
You know what? There was this guy I was talking to the other day?
I saw him in a movie. I wasn’t talking to him. I didn’t know him. I almost said it though.
The girl, who was pregnant, you know?
But I don’t know. I don’t know her. It wasn’t me.
And she saw baby flesh coming up in the garbage disposal. In the drains. And then she decided that every house had pipes, so she went home.
I went home, and then. And everything was coming up babies, at a time. You know, it wasn’t a baby, it was a decision, a situation. And at the end of it, I could imagine myself having an abortion, but I couldn’t imagine myself having a baby.
And you know what? I don’t care if you don’t fuckin’ get it. This is art. Man. This is how I see it.
So I saw babies coming up. No. I didn’t. She did. It was in a book I read. I thought I knew her, but she was just some character from a book I read, who ended up in a mental hospital. I thought I knew her.
There. That’s what it means.
Everything will be fine if I just remember I don’t love him. If I can just keep that one thing straight. It’s when my wanting to love him overrides my not loving him, that’s when things get messed up, and I can’t remember what’s true or how I feel about anything.
I realized a long time ago that in order to be able to understand anything you have to be telling yourself the truth. Because if you’re lying about one thing, one central thing, then you can’t see the truth of anything, because nothing makes sense from within that perspective. If I say it is true that I love him, then it is not true that I should feel bad after we talk, it is not true that I should resent him, not true that I fantasize about winning arguments I never win all the time, not true I cry when I get off the phone just so I can be happy next time he calls. Better to say I like him. Better yet that I “appreciate” him. He has some “great qualities.” That is true. Objectively, he has some great qualities. And everything makes sense again.
On Saturday afternoon at 2 p.m. I decided I wanted to drive to Arizona. I decided, there is nothing I would rather do on a gorgeous sunny day than drive six hours to see my puppy and my boy for one day, and then drive back. I had been thinking about it since I woke up, but I had to let it percolate. I thought about it while I was surfing, I thought about it while I had coffee with Roo, only half listening to him, and wondering if I could make it in under six. If I left right now, I would be there at eight. We could have dinner together, I could play with the puppy. I went to work and printed out directions, mentally packed my bag so it wouldn’t take as long when I got home. Can I do this? Can I just drive out uninvited and show up in Arizona? It’s either incredibly romantic or incredibly pathetic. Anyway I’m just going to see the puppy. I miss the puppy. The puppy (not V) always “misses me.” I always tell V I “miss the puppy” too. I can’t wait to see the puppy. And the puppy can’t wait to see me. He is surely in love with me (the puppy). And I am driving to Arizona on a whim to say hello to my puppy, because the puppy will without a doubt be happy to see me. The puppy won’t think it’s slightly sad or wish he could be doing work, or not be at home.
But I have to make sure it’s ok. I call his friend:
“B, convince me that it’s a bad idea to drive to Arizona right now!”
“Right now?”
“Right now. Convince me not to do it. Tell me it’s a horrible idea. The worst idea you’ve ever heard. I’m an idiot for contemplating it. What do you think?”
“Well, it is kind of a long drive.”
“….You’re right, it is.”
“I mean, you should come if you want! It’d be great to have you. But, you know, you’ll be really tired when you get here.”
“No no, you’re right. I shouldn’t come. It’s a long drive. It’s stupid of me. Are you sure I shouldn’t though?”
“Well no, I mean, you should if you want to…I’m just telling you it’s a long drive.”
“Ok, no no, you’re right. It’s too long. I should forget about it.”
But I don’t. I drive home. It’s 3 p.m. If I were going, I would just be packing right now. But it’s a long drive. It’s stupid. He probably wouldn’t even want to see me. You know what I’m afraid of? I’m afraid of this: my ex-boyfriend lived a long ways from his then girlfriend. He was up at school, she was six hours away in New York. But one day he borrowed a car from a friend, drove the crazy distance for no goddamn reason other than wanting to see her, showed up at her door, and she looks at him and starts crying.
That’s the problem with long distance.
4 p.m. I call up my friend in New York. Jen, I want to go to Arizona. Why didn’t I go? It’s too late now. It’s too long of a drive. I’m being stupid. If I left now I would get there at ten. I really want to go. I suddenly have an overwhelming desire to feel the silkiness of puppy ears between my fingers (and to rub his tummy, and curl around him), to watch him flop down on the floor and go to sleep (and kiss him goodnight, hello, good morning), let him sit in my lap, even though his weight is approaching mine (sit next to him, one leg sprawled over his, before we go to bed), and have him wake me up in the morning.
It’s almost dark now. If I left now I would get there at eleven. Still before bedtime. If I’d left before I would have only had four hours left.
Instead I walk on the beach alone at sunset. I feel like I’m in the middle of the earth, walking in a land that is enclosed, infinite, crashing. Everything seems eloquent, frozen in a climax of kinesis. The roll of the waves on the beach, the curve of the rocks in the sand, the crinkled power of the cliffs. The sun droops behind Catalina, retracts its glance from the crests of the waves, makes pastel fireworks of the spare clouds. If I left now, I could still make it by midnight. Or I could have had only two, maybe three hours to go. I stare at something bobbing in the water, walk back down the beach in somebody else’s footprints.
I go home and stare at the wall. Finally the phone rings.
“I miss you,” he says, now. “Why aren’t you here?”
If I left now I could be there by one. Seriously. I’ll pack my bags. Say the word and I’ll come.
“Haha! Yes! Come!”
“Ok, I’m packing my things.”
“Baby, it’s a long drive…”
“Ok, you’re right, you’re right.”
* * *
I wake up feeling like shit, hung over from drenching myself in regret. But I remember that he could have driven out as well.
***
The day before yesterday I’m desperate to be anywhere near him, yesterday I’m weeping uncontrollably because we are so different. Today all is well. The puppy is too big to hide in the closet now. And he thanks me for the help with his paper. Maybe he loves me. Maybe I love him. These things are true. I go to bed happy.
I realized a long time ago that in order to be able to understand anything you have to be telling yourself the truth. Because if you’re lying about one thing, one central thing, then you can’t see the truth of anything, because nothing makes sense from within that perspective. If I say it is true that I love him, then it is not true that I should feel bad after we talk, it is not true that I should resent him, not true that I fantasize about winning arguments I never win all the time, not true I cry when I get off the phone just so I can be happy next time he calls. Better to say I like him. Better yet that I “appreciate” him. He has some “great qualities.” That is true. Objectively, he has some great qualities. And everything makes sense again.
On Saturday afternoon at 2 p.m. I decided I wanted to drive to Arizona. I decided, there is nothing I would rather do on a gorgeous sunny day than drive six hours to see my puppy and my boy for one day, and then drive back. I had been thinking about it since I woke up, but I had to let it percolate. I thought about it while I was surfing, I thought about it while I had coffee with Roo, only half listening to him, and wondering if I could make it in under six. If I left right now, I would be there at eight. We could have dinner together, I could play with the puppy. I went to work and printed out directions, mentally packed my bag so it wouldn’t take as long when I got home. Can I do this? Can I just drive out uninvited and show up in Arizona? It’s either incredibly romantic or incredibly pathetic. Anyway I’m just going to see the puppy. I miss the puppy. The puppy (not V) always “misses me.” I always tell V I “miss the puppy” too. I can’t wait to see the puppy. And the puppy can’t wait to see me. He is surely in love with me (the puppy). And I am driving to Arizona on a whim to say hello to my puppy, because the puppy will without a doubt be happy to see me. The puppy won’t think it’s slightly sad or wish he could be doing work, or not be at home.
But I have to make sure it’s ok. I call his friend:
“B, convince me that it’s a bad idea to drive to Arizona right now!”
“Right now?”
“Right now. Convince me not to do it. Tell me it’s a horrible idea. The worst idea you’ve ever heard. I’m an idiot for contemplating it. What do you think?”
“Well, it is kind of a long drive.”
“….You’re right, it is.”
“I mean, you should come if you want! It’d be great to have you. But, you know, you’ll be really tired when you get here.”
“No no, you’re right. I shouldn’t come. It’s a long drive. It’s stupid of me. Are you sure I shouldn’t though?”
“Well no, I mean, you should if you want to…I’m just telling you it’s a long drive.”
“Ok, no no, you’re right. It’s too long. I should forget about it.”
But I don’t. I drive home. It’s 3 p.m. If I were going, I would just be packing right now. But it’s a long drive. It’s stupid. He probably wouldn’t even want to see me. You know what I’m afraid of? I’m afraid of this: my ex-boyfriend lived a long ways from his then girlfriend. He was up at school, she was six hours away in New York. But one day he borrowed a car from a friend, drove the crazy distance for no goddamn reason other than wanting to see her, showed up at her door, and she looks at him and starts crying.
That’s the problem with long distance.
4 p.m. I call up my friend in New York. Jen, I want to go to Arizona. Why didn’t I go? It’s too late now. It’s too long of a drive. I’m being stupid. If I left now I would get there at ten. I really want to go. I suddenly have an overwhelming desire to feel the silkiness of puppy ears between my fingers (and to rub his tummy, and curl around him), to watch him flop down on the floor and go to sleep (and kiss him goodnight, hello, good morning), let him sit in my lap, even though his weight is approaching mine (sit next to him, one leg sprawled over his, before we go to bed), and have him wake me up in the morning.
It’s almost dark now. If I left now I would get there at eleven. Still before bedtime. If I’d left before I would have only had four hours left.
Instead I walk on the beach alone at sunset. I feel like I’m in the middle of the earth, walking in a land that is enclosed, infinite, crashing. Everything seems eloquent, frozen in a climax of kinesis. The roll of the waves on the beach, the curve of the rocks in the sand, the crinkled power of the cliffs. The sun droops behind Catalina, retracts its glance from the crests of the waves, makes pastel fireworks of the spare clouds. If I left now, I could still make it by midnight. Or I could have had only two, maybe three hours to go. I stare at something bobbing in the water, walk back down the beach in somebody else’s footprints.
I go home and stare at the wall. Finally the phone rings.
“I miss you,” he says, now. “Why aren’t you here?”
If I left now I could be there by one. Seriously. I’ll pack my bags. Say the word and I’ll come.
“Haha! Yes! Come!”
“Ok, I’m packing my things.”
“Baby, it’s a long drive…”
“Ok, you’re right, you’re right.”
* * *
I wake up feeling like shit, hung over from drenching myself in regret. But I remember that he could have driven out as well.
***
The day before yesterday I’m desperate to be anywhere near him, yesterday I’m weeping uncontrollably because we are so different. Today all is well. The puppy is too big to hide in the closet now. And he thanks me for the help with his paper. Maybe he loves me. Maybe I love him. These things are true. I go to bed happy.
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
Interesing Fact: The human eye can read the length of about two alphabets - 52 characters - and still find its way to the next line. If the line's much longer, the eye loses its place.
I always wondered why billboards used such large font.
Friday, January 30, 2004
Life is so fucking heartbreaking sometimes.
I just had dinner with my friend Roo. Roo is your typical investment banker type. I might even say yuppie, shh, don’t tell him. Went to a private school, got a college degree from a decent institution, worked at a respected New York investment banking firm, the whole nine yards. But of course, if that were the whole nine yards, I wouldn’t be friends with him. Because he also used to go to Amsterdam for the weekend, has partied in Morocco, and is not white. Which makes him somewhat interesting. He’s the type of guy you can bullshit with. You might never talk about anything, but you always have something to say. Well, he does, at least. But he’s so unexpectedly interesting that I don’t mind letting him entertain me.
I met Roo at work. I don’t even remember how. Did he introduce himself? I think we got to chatting one time when he was smoking outside. Anyway, we had our ‘love of surfing’ in common, so we always had some bullshit to chat about (you know how surfers can talk for hours about a single wave. I like to think that’s one part of surfing I can do pretty well). He used to come hide in my cube when his boss was looking for him, shit like that. We started going surfing together on weekends.
And everything was fine until I had a disastrous realization: I am not attracted to this guy. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great thing when you can have that perfectly platonic friendship. I achieved it once before. And everything is zipping along just fine until I realize it. And then I start thinking about it. And wondering. Why does he like me? Does he not find me hot? Why am I not attracted to him? Is he really that bad looking? (And invariably, he’s not.) Not that I want to be attracted to him. These are just things that idly cross my mind when I have nothing better to do than destroy platonic relationships that are by all counts pretty dandy.
Directly after this thought occurred to me, I had a dream that I hooked up with him. Which was rather horrifying, of course. Why am I such a sicko? Why do I have to insert my insecure, romantic yearnings into every goddamn relationship? It’s kind of like dreaming that you hooked up with your father (which I did, by the way, last night. I am not on speaking terms with my subconscious right now). I think I don’t know how to interact with men as friends because when I get to know them they’ve only ever been objects of desire.
Anyway, so he mentions getting a drink. I, good girlfriend that I am, ignore the offer. But a couple of days later, despite (or perhaps to spite) myself, I’m like so, how ‘bout that drink. Why do I do this? I make the “right” decision, not getting myself into a sketchy situation, and then I feel bad for being such an egotist to think he must like me that I invite him myself even though I am extremely uncomfortable with the situation for reasons I will later kick myself for not paying more attention to. It is not the first time this has happened. So he’s like, I’d rather just get some beers and chill at my place. But, you know, if you want to go to a bar, that’s cool too.
Do they realize how sketchy that sounds? I opt for the bar for two reasons. One, how could I possibly explain to my boyfriend why I was platonically over at some guy’s house drinking beer late at night? Even if the dude thinks I’m the ugliest ho on the planet, it’s still an unnecessary risk. The second reason is that I have learned to trust my better, if shamelessly egotistical judgment.
The ostensible reason we go to the bar is so that Roo can tell me how he got his heart ripped out by some ruthless woman. That’s a pretty clear indication that it’s not me he’s fretting about, right? (Or am I hopelessly naïve and it’s a cover to put me off my guard while convincing me that he’s a sensitive and sought-after man – WHAT?? I am going crazy. I Must stop thinking about how I am Not Attracted to this guy. Since when did I become so cynical? Honestly, all he wants is a friend to talk to. And he does know I have a boyfriend, right? And even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t date him. Because I am Not Attracted to him.)
So we get to the bar. Chit chat about this and that. He’s hilarious. It’s weird, because he doesn’t look like a hilarious guy. He’s so…nondescript. He looks like someone who would be boring, but in fact he’s not! So he entertains me with stories of his past exploits in Marrakech and work and other bullshit. And finally I ask him, so, tell me why all women are heartless bitches.
And he tells me this story. Of this girl. Whom he was really close to. How at first she used to come into his office just to chat, and he was like whatever. She used to come in all the time for no reason at all. And then one day, his officemate was like dude, you’re so clueless, aren’t you? She likes you. Don’t you see the way she looks at you? So he starts to notice her, to pay attention to her, to talk to her. And he realizes that she is really cool. Not just really cool, really fucking cool. And he starts to like her. And he tells her, look, I’m really starting to like you, really, as more than a friend. And she comes back with, well, you know, I’m not really into dating right now… because I dated all through college and I felt like I was always looking for something serious, and now I just want to chill out and have fun.
So he doesn’t talk to her for like two months. He avoids her. He ignores her e-mails. He runs the other way when he smells her perfume. Because he likes her that much. But they start talking again, inevitably. He tells her he’s quitting. She freaks out, rushes to plan a goodbye luncheon, goodbye happy hour. And she asks, who do you want to come to lunch, and he says, you. Just you. So they go to lunch. He tells her he’s going to cook the best Chilean sea bass she’s ever had. That weekend she’s over at his place for dinner. He can tell she’s nervous, wondering what he’s going to pull. So he thinks you know what, this is a young girl, a really intelligent, but naïve young girl, and you know what, I am not going to try anything. So he doesn’t. He cooks her the best Chilean sea bass she’s ever had. And then the best lobster with risotto. And soon she’s coming over every weekend, getting drunk, hanging out. If they spent any more time together they would be living together. And he really starts to like her.
There’s only one problem: he’s not attracted to her. I have to say, I’ve seen this girl. And she is definitely Not not attractive. But Roo has this thing with lower backs. He thinks it’s the most unattractive part on a woman’s body. And one day, when he was picking her up at the airport, she leaned over to pick up her bags and he thought he’d just take a look and – no no no, just not attractive. But in every other way, she’s perfect. I could have married this girl, he tells me. She made me feel…whole, you know?
– Is my smooth-talking investment banker friend really saying this? –
FUck you – fuck you and your condescending smile (he sees the look on my face). But I can’t help it. It is so unbearably wonderful to hear a man say something like this about a woman, to hear him unabashedly admit to reinventing the cliché of love into something that has meaning in his world. You don’t hear that much, ever, except in movies, which only makes you want to hunker down and prepare for the worst.
So they hang out. They eat together. They talk about everything. They talk about their children together. She says she’s never met anyone like him. Anyone can see that they just have this ‘connection.’ He takes her to his Christmas party and people are asking how long they’ve been married. And she plays along. And then she goes to Florida for New Years and stops calling him when she gets back.
Now she’s hanging out with different people, asking other people to do stuff, avoiding him. Weeks later she wants to hang out. He says no. No way. Not even to the Crab Shack? Well, ok. Fine. But only because I’ve missed you like crazy and I can’t live without you. (He thought.)
They’re in the car on the way to the restaurant. And she mentions, like, casually, oh yeah, I was dating this guy for the time we weren’t talking. I mean, nothing happened, we just went to dinner a couple times. Really, it was nothing.
And Roo’s looking out the window. Wishing he were anywhere but in that car going to some stupid fucking restaurant with a girl he’s in love with and whom he has been working like crazy just to get the time of day from, and she’s “not looking for anything serious,” so she goes and hooks up with this total dork, this total tool – it’s just indescribable, inexplicable, inexcusable. Somehow he gets through the miserable night. And the next day he e-mails her and says he never wants to talk to her again.
Maybe it’s because she’s 22, he’s 30, I tell him. You have to accept that about her, that’s who she is at this age. Even if you have this great connection, she’s not ready to settle down, she doesn’t know what she’s about, she doesn’t know enough to know she’s being completely irresponsible with your heart.
Although, from my perspective, I have to say the signals were clear. If a woman says she doesn’t want to ruin the friendship, that’s Signal Number One that she wants to be Friends. And if she’s saying she doesn’t want to date seriously right now, it probably means she doesn’t want to date you. And it probably means she’ll wait for some asshole to come along that she can’t say no to, and break your heart. I know. I’ve done it. I’m sure I’m not the only one.
But still, they were talking about their kids, for chrissake. If that isn’t a mixed signal I don’t know what is.
He keeps going over the events, again and again. And when he talks about her, his face lights up. I’ve never met someone who completed me so well, he says. Who grounded me, made me feel like I had a place to stay wherever she was.
And it strikes me – he is in love with her. When have I last spoken with someone who is really, truly in love? It’s like this mystical, rarely sighted phenomenon, in whose presence you feel humbled, and against which all other, lesser forms of love seem unnecessary, foolish.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he was fooling himself. After all, it’s different once you actually get into the relationship. Who knows? I mean, he wasn’t even attracted to her. They never even kissed. But that was the thing – he didn’t want to. It wasn’t necessary. He just loved being around her – can I believe in the possibility of that?
It’s late and we’re getting in our cups. I just need a chic, Right Now, he says. I just need someone, someone who I can fuck around with and not care about. Someone who is hot. Great, I’ll be sure to introduce you to all my single friends, I promise him. Helga is a definite candidate, he says. “Helga” is the interloper who came surfing with us last weekend. I do not like Helga. As evidenced by her pseudonym. And here I was worrying he was going to hit on me? Apparently I’m last on his list. I don’t want to be on his list, of course – not if I’m last – and because I am Not Attracted to him. Besides. It must be because he respects me so much and knows that I have a boyfriend that he’s not hitting on me. Not because I’m not hot. Note to self: just because a guy doesn’t want to fuck you, doesn’t mean he doesn’t think you’re a cool girl. Which is cool. Because I am a cool girl. And I’m definitely not not hot. I see how men look at me, I note smugly as I’m walking back from the bathroom. I am definitely not not hot.
And what does Roo have to say about it? I can’t believe you called me a secretary in front of Helga – what kind of wingman are you?
As my dad and Kurt Vonnegut Jr. say, and so it goes.
I just had dinner with my friend Roo. Roo is your typical investment banker type. I might even say yuppie, shh, don’t tell him. Went to a private school, got a college degree from a decent institution, worked at a respected New York investment banking firm, the whole nine yards. But of course, if that were the whole nine yards, I wouldn’t be friends with him. Because he also used to go to Amsterdam for the weekend, has partied in Morocco, and is not white. Which makes him somewhat interesting. He’s the type of guy you can bullshit with. You might never talk about anything, but you always have something to say. Well, he does, at least. But he’s so unexpectedly interesting that I don’t mind letting him entertain me.
I met Roo at work. I don’t even remember how. Did he introduce himself? I think we got to chatting one time when he was smoking outside. Anyway, we had our ‘love of surfing’ in common, so we always had some bullshit to chat about (you know how surfers can talk for hours about a single wave. I like to think that’s one part of surfing I can do pretty well). He used to come hide in my cube when his boss was looking for him, shit like that. We started going surfing together on weekends.
And everything was fine until I had a disastrous realization: I am not attracted to this guy. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great thing when you can have that perfectly platonic friendship. I achieved it once before. And everything is zipping along just fine until I realize it. And then I start thinking about it. And wondering. Why does he like me? Does he not find me hot? Why am I not attracted to him? Is he really that bad looking? (And invariably, he’s not.) Not that I want to be attracted to him. These are just things that idly cross my mind when I have nothing better to do than destroy platonic relationships that are by all counts pretty dandy.
Directly after this thought occurred to me, I had a dream that I hooked up with him. Which was rather horrifying, of course. Why am I such a sicko? Why do I have to insert my insecure, romantic yearnings into every goddamn relationship? It’s kind of like dreaming that you hooked up with your father (which I did, by the way, last night. I am not on speaking terms with my subconscious right now). I think I don’t know how to interact with men as friends because when I get to know them they’ve only ever been objects of desire.
Anyway, so he mentions getting a drink. I, good girlfriend that I am, ignore the offer. But a couple of days later, despite (or perhaps to spite) myself, I’m like so, how ‘bout that drink. Why do I do this? I make the “right” decision, not getting myself into a sketchy situation, and then I feel bad for being such an egotist to think he must like me that I invite him myself even though I am extremely uncomfortable with the situation for reasons I will later kick myself for not paying more attention to. It is not the first time this has happened. So he’s like, I’d rather just get some beers and chill at my place. But, you know, if you want to go to a bar, that’s cool too.
Do they realize how sketchy that sounds? I opt for the bar for two reasons. One, how could I possibly explain to my boyfriend why I was platonically over at some guy’s house drinking beer late at night? Even if the dude thinks I’m the ugliest ho on the planet, it’s still an unnecessary risk. The second reason is that I have learned to trust my better, if shamelessly egotistical judgment.
The ostensible reason we go to the bar is so that Roo can tell me how he got his heart ripped out by some ruthless woman. That’s a pretty clear indication that it’s not me he’s fretting about, right? (Or am I hopelessly naïve and it’s a cover to put me off my guard while convincing me that he’s a sensitive and sought-after man – WHAT?? I am going crazy. I Must stop thinking about how I am Not Attracted to this guy. Since when did I become so cynical? Honestly, all he wants is a friend to talk to. And he does know I have a boyfriend, right? And even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t date him. Because I am Not Attracted to him.)
So we get to the bar. Chit chat about this and that. He’s hilarious. It’s weird, because he doesn’t look like a hilarious guy. He’s so…nondescript. He looks like someone who would be boring, but in fact he’s not! So he entertains me with stories of his past exploits in Marrakech and work and other bullshit. And finally I ask him, so, tell me why all women are heartless bitches.
And he tells me this story. Of this girl. Whom he was really close to. How at first she used to come into his office just to chat, and he was like whatever. She used to come in all the time for no reason at all. And then one day, his officemate was like dude, you’re so clueless, aren’t you? She likes you. Don’t you see the way she looks at you? So he starts to notice her, to pay attention to her, to talk to her. And he realizes that she is really cool. Not just really cool, really fucking cool. And he starts to like her. And he tells her, look, I’m really starting to like you, really, as more than a friend. And she comes back with, well, you know, I’m not really into dating right now… because I dated all through college and I felt like I was always looking for something serious, and now I just want to chill out and have fun.
So he doesn’t talk to her for like two months. He avoids her. He ignores her e-mails. He runs the other way when he smells her perfume. Because he likes her that much. But they start talking again, inevitably. He tells her he’s quitting. She freaks out, rushes to plan a goodbye luncheon, goodbye happy hour. And she asks, who do you want to come to lunch, and he says, you. Just you. So they go to lunch. He tells her he’s going to cook the best Chilean sea bass she’s ever had. That weekend she’s over at his place for dinner. He can tell she’s nervous, wondering what he’s going to pull. So he thinks you know what, this is a young girl, a really intelligent, but naïve young girl, and you know what, I am not going to try anything. So he doesn’t. He cooks her the best Chilean sea bass she’s ever had. And then the best lobster with risotto. And soon she’s coming over every weekend, getting drunk, hanging out. If they spent any more time together they would be living together. And he really starts to like her.
There’s only one problem: he’s not attracted to her. I have to say, I’ve seen this girl. And she is definitely Not not attractive. But Roo has this thing with lower backs. He thinks it’s the most unattractive part on a woman’s body. And one day, when he was picking her up at the airport, she leaned over to pick up her bags and he thought he’d just take a look and – no no no, just not attractive. But in every other way, she’s perfect. I could have married this girl, he tells me. She made me feel…whole, you know?
– Is my smooth-talking investment banker friend really saying this? –
FUck you – fuck you and your condescending smile (he sees the look on my face). But I can’t help it. It is so unbearably wonderful to hear a man say something like this about a woman, to hear him unabashedly admit to reinventing the cliché of love into something that has meaning in his world. You don’t hear that much, ever, except in movies, which only makes you want to hunker down and prepare for the worst.
So they hang out. They eat together. They talk about everything. They talk about their children together. She says she’s never met anyone like him. Anyone can see that they just have this ‘connection.’ He takes her to his Christmas party and people are asking how long they’ve been married. And she plays along. And then she goes to Florida for New Years and stops calling him when she gets back.
Now she’s hanging out with different people, asking other people to do stuff, avoiding him. Weeks later she wants to hang out. He says no. No way. Not even to the Crab Shack? Well, ok. Fine. But only because I’ve missed you like crazy and I can’t live without you. (He thought.)
They’re in the car on the way to the restaurant. And she mentions, like, casually, oh yeah, I was dating this guy for the time we weren’t talking. I mean, nothing happened, we just went to dinner a couple times. Really, it was nothing.
And Roo’s looking out the window. Wishing he were anywhere but in that car going to some stupid fucking restaurant with a girl he’s in love with and whom he has been working like crazy just to get the time of day from, and she’s “not looking for anything serious,” so she goes and hooks up with this total dork, this total tool – it’s just indescribable, inexplicable, inexcusable. Somehow he gets through the miserable night. And the next day he e-mails her and says he never wants to talk to her again.
Maybe it’s because she’s 22, he’s 30, I tell him. You have to accept that about her, that’s who she is at this age. Even if you have this great connection, she’s not ready to settle down, she doesn’t know what she’s about, she doesn’t know enough to know she’s being completely irresponsible with your heart.
Although, from my perspective, I have to say the signals were clear. If a woman says she doesn’t want to ruin the friendship, that’s Signal Number One that she wants to be Friends. And if she’s saying she doesn’t want to date seriously right now, it probably means she doesn’t want to date you. And it probably means she’ll wait for some asshole to come along that she can’t say no to, and break your heart. I know. I’ve done it. I’m sure I’m not the only one.
But still, they were talking about their kids, for chrissake. If that isn’t a mixed signal I don’t know what is.
He keeps going over the events, again and again. And when he talks about her, his face lights up. I’ve never met someone who completed me so well, he says. Who grounded me, made me feel like I had a place to stay wherever she was.
And it strikes me – he is in love with her. When have I last spoken with someone who is really, truly in love? It’s like this mystical, rarely sighted phenomenon, in whose presence you feel humbled, and against which all other, lesser forms of love seem unnecessary, foolish.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he was fooling himself. After all, it’s different once you actually get into the relationship. Who knows? I mean, he wasn’t even attracted to her. They never even kissed. But that was the thing – he didn’t want to. It wasn’t necessary. He just loved being around her – can I believe in the possibility of that?
It’s late and we’re getting in our cups. I just need a chic, Right Now, he says. I just need someone, someone who I can fuck around with and not care about. Someone who is hot. Great, I’ll be sure to introduce you to all my single friends, I promise him. Helga is a definite candidate, he says. “Helga” is the interloper who came surfing with us last weekend. I do not like Helga. As evidenced by her pseudonym. And here I was worrying he was going to hit on me? Apparently I’m last on his list. I don’t want to be on his list, of course – not if I’m last – and because I am Not Attracted to him. Besides. It must be because he respects me so much and knows that I have a boyfriend that he’s not hitting on me. Not because I’m not hot. Note to self: just because a guy doesn’t want to fuck you, doesn’t mean he doesn’t think you’re a cool girl. Which is cool. Because I am a cool girl. And I’m definitely not not hot. I see how men look at me, I note smugly as I’m walking back from the bathroom. I am definitely not not hot.
And what does Roo have to say about it? I can’t believe you called me a secretary in front of Helga – what kind of wingman are you?
As my dad and Kurt Vonnegut Jr. say, and so it goes.
