-5-
“Riding with Lady Luck”
As it turned out, the University didn’t take kindly to having one of its students completely sauced at the dorms. Though I’d seen plenty of star football players regularly stumble through the hallways on Friday nights, I didn’t put up much of a fuss. Sure I felt slighted and had no immediate options, but who can argue with the athletic department? I was informed that I could appeal the decision and try to provide reasons for me to stay on campus. From what I read in my handbook, the appeals process could sometime take up to four weeks. While it most likely would have been a good idea to get the ball rolling on the appeals process, I was in no rush to get back to living in the dorms.
Things with my roommate Pat soured fairly quickly. In fact, they never really got off of the ground. I had never really made a complete effort to hang out with him outside of the dorm room. We had gone to a few concerts, maybe a party or two, but nothing too exciting. A few of our Friday nights were spent bowling at the Student Union Building. Event hat was a hassle because the Christian Student group would be there and they couldn’t help but come and preach to us. To them, were lost souls and needed to be saved. Other then that, life was Pat was uneventful. It was hard to even get him away from Tory. The two of them were practically attached at the hip. If we went to eat, she was there. If we were playing video games, she was there watching. It got to be quite annoying as a matter of fact.
Don’t get me wrong, Pat was a nice enough guy. We had a few things in common, which was nice. We both liked sports and had the same taste in movies. Pat was very personable, but by December I was ready to move out. Our dorm room had turned into a collection of dirty laundry and dirty dishes. There were literally ten to fifteen bowls and plates with rotting food still on them. The putrid smell was not an inviting one, to say the least. I had asked once or twice for him to clean up. He would happily oblige, but the clean room would last only for a day or two. It didn’t help that Tory was practically living in our cubicle as well. Despite having a separate dorm room, she might as well been paying on ours. Her bras, shirts, and jeans were strewn about with Pat’s entire wardrobe on the floor. The two of them hardly left the room and my alone time was sparse. It got to a point where two of them having sex didn’t even bother me.
The straw that broke the camel’s back had happened when I got back from class one day. I walked in and the first thing I noticed was the smell of sex. You know, that sweaty, wet towel, dirty locker room smell that fills up a place after copulating? That’s the one I’m talking about. That act alone didn’t bother me. I was irritated, yes, but this was nothing new. I looked around and noticed Tory asleep on Pat’s bed. There was a used condom on a pile of clothes in the center of the room. On my bed, sprawled out, was Pat. He was playing video games. His feet, shoes and all, were propped up on my pillow as he scratched himself. He looked up at me and gave me a head nod. With no questioning by me, I lost my cool. “Have some fucking respect,” I yelled directly at him. I didn’t even wait for a response. I turned, stormed out of the room, and slammed the door behind me.
We basically had an understood avoidance of each other the next few days. I went home for Christmas for those few days and when I had returned, he was still at his parents home. The place was clean because I’d guessed that he’d thrown all of his clothes into a garbage sack and taken them home to be washed. He had done this once a month throughout the semester so I had his routine down pat. At that point, I was continually praying and wishing that he wouldn’t return for the second semester and I could live alone. I guess in a round about way, my wish was granted.
The people on the dorm board gave me a day to gather my belongings and figure out my options. The one place I knew wasn’t an option was returning to my parents. I had a weird sense of pride in that I didn’t want to crawl home to my parents at the first sign of trouble. I’d already felt that I had let them down by getting kicked out of the dorms. I didn’t want to leave school as well. Plus, despite my lack of interest in classes, I was pulling decent grades. I was close to being on the Dean’s list and all, so that helped my decision to tell them this little white lie.
I still had plenty of money from my years of summer jobs, so money was not an issue. My Financial Aid was also on its way, which gave me an option to live alone if I had to. Part of me wanted to live out of my car. I wanted to have that rich, vagabond history that you hear all of the celebrities talk about. You know, the ones where Joe Blow was down and out in Hollywood, using his last dollar to buy three hamburgers at McDonalds on Hamburger Sunday. Mr. Blow could only afford a little bit of food, so he’d sleep in his car and got to auditions the next day after bathing in a sink at a convenience store. That was going to be my brilliant plan until I realized that it was January in Idaho. I did not want to freeze my ass off, so I found a cheap hotel and promptly checked in.
The room was forty dollars a night, but when I said my stay would be indefinite, the lady at the front desk gave me the room for $225 a week. She said that if I choose to stay any longer, we could renegotiate the rates after the first week. The lady was older, probably in her early fifties and she took pity on me. I would have gladly paid the full price, but bless her soul, she insisted I take the cheaper rate. I did not argue anymore and I kindly thanked her for having a warm heart.
I was going to live like a king. Or at least like a man with a king sized bed and cable. I entered the room and I was already feeling more at home then I ever did at the dorms. The first thing I did was search for the bible. I’m not overly religious, not since my days of Catechism, but it’s a habit I picked up in high school. I would always need to find a bible or I would never feel comfortable during my stay. The routine itself was simple. I would locate the bible, flip to PSALM 23, and silently read the passage. I would place the greatest work of fiction back in its drawer and then never think of it again during my stay. In this particular situation, I located the bible and my passage. In my room, all alone, I read PSALM 23 out loud. I felt powerful in doing so and I grew more excited with the reading of each word. The power of Christ compelled me and I had a new form of confidence. Yet true to form, after I was done, I tossed the book back into the nightstand drawer and never looked at it again.
My new found freedom in hand, I placed a call to Eric. He had is finger on the pulse of social affairs in the city, and I needed some fun. A quick phone call was made and sure enough, Eric already had a party lined up. Something very low key, he told me, but I didn’t mind. As much as I enjoyed watching free cable, I needed to get out. Maybe have a few beers, find the woman I needed to get my mind off of Christa, and have some good old fashioned fun.
The party was at Eric’s friend Christopher’s house. He rented a three bedroom home on the East side of town with his girlfriend and her best friend. I picked up Eric around ten and proceeded to make our drive across town. I hadn’t talked to him since New Year’s Eve and I fully explained to him my current situation. He told me we should find a place because he was looking to move out. I told him that sounded like a good idea, but in my mind, I knew it might not happen. Eric currently had no job and couldn’t save money worth a shit. The one saving grace was that his financial aid was also coming in, so there was a chance everything would work out.
We arrived at Christopher’s place and I was able to pull right up in the driveway. It seemed the party hadn’t started yet, which was mildly disappointing because I hated to be the first one at a party. For a few seconds, Eric and I even debated as whether or not to go in. That passed over quickly and we stepped out of the car. As we did so, a girl came storming out of the house carrying an arm full of clothes. She was sixteen at best and I wondered just exactly what I was getting myself into. Eric and I had parked next to her car and I stepped aside to let her pass. She was crying and I had half a thought to comfort her and see what was wrong.
I soon got the answer when a heavy set man walked out of the house. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, which only added to his weight, it seemed. He was about six foot three, 230 pounds, so not huge, but certainly bigger than me. A cigarette dangled from his lip as he yelled after the girl, “That’s right, run home to mommy!”
She didn’t respond as she threw her clothes in the back seat and jumped in her car. She flipped on the headlights and proceeded to start the car. She threw it into reverse, flipped the man off, knocked over the trash cans as the car ran into them, and sped away. I stood in awe as she drove off. I heard the voice of the man say,
“Fuckin’ bitches.”
“Amen,” replied Eric.
Still in a state of slight disbelief, Eric introduced me to Christopher. We shook hands and he invited us in. He proceeded to explain that the girl who left was his girlfriend Laura and that she’d be fine. Christopher said her best friend had just moved out. In his rage of now needing to find another roommate, he had accidentally kicked Laura out of the house, too. Now without roommates, all Christopher wanted to do was get drunk and pass out on the front lawn.
And drink we did. The party was low key, with about ten people in all showing up. I did not meet a girl that night to cure my virginity, but I did smoke enough pot to kill a small donkey. The stuff made me really tired and I felt useless, but it took away some of the pain from New Year’s Eve. And through our night of boozed up stupidity, Chris, Eric, and I decided to become roommates. I had once again lucked out and would only have to stay in the hotel for a week after all. I could forget about the white lie with my parents and move into something new and exciting: Forgetting about sobriety.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
FOUR
Am I really crying again? No, it’s just sweat. You must have the heat turned way up in here. I mean, I get that it’s snowing outside and all, but this is ridiculous. A man could die in here.
I’ve always been fond of this time of year. These late November times when the cold weather settles into place and the first snow touches the earth. My favorite part used to be sitting out on my deck, late at night, and just watching the snow come down. It’s best when there’s a good solid inch on the ground and there is no traffic. The street lights are perfectly lit with the falling snow and there is complete and utter silence. I would light up a cigarette and enjoy the tranquility of the moment. For those five minutes, the world would slow down and I would be at peace. That feeling is nearly impossible to capture here at home with my parents. There’s never any traffic anyhow so it’s not quite the same when the first snow does hit. I guess that’s just a downside of living in a small town that I have to deal with.
There’s a lot more than that, but I’m coping. Coming home again was definitely an adjustment. I mean honestly, what grown man returns home to live with his parents? Besides a computer loving geek that never leaves the basement in the first place, that is. I consider them lucky for at least getting a basement to stay in. I don’t even get my old room back. My mom hopped into the whole exercise craze a few years back and converted my room to her gym. Now, I’m stuck in the small room that I had when I was seven years old while my old room is used as the dust collection room. The entire exercise fad lasted four months for her and she moved onto Oprah. I’d be mad, but that Oprah really helps me. She gave all of those people cars. And then made them pay taxes. She’s the best!
My ex-wife loved Oprah. She’d TiVo it every damn day. What’s that? Yeah, I talk about my loves a lot, so sue me. I can’t help it if I’m a sensitive man. I was raised by the television. It taught me how to love in a half hour time block, so I carried it over to my life. If Mike Seaver could find love with a Playboy model and then discover God, I can do anything I like. If I want to slip down to the whore house later and fall for the first forty year old cow that I see, I will. This is America damn it.
I’m sorry. This whole idea of approaching 30 is messing with my head. Things have not gone according to plan; either mine or society’s. Here I am, a man that was raised in a two parent household with two very loving parents. The fed me well, clothed me well, and gave me a good upbringing. Yet I took everything they supplied me, tools to survive, and I threw it out the window. They gave me the basic blueprints to enjoy an average middle class life and I pissed it away to live my life. Yet here they are again, opening me back home with open arms. They are once again giving me the building blocks to re-establish any sanctity of life that I may have left.
I am not well. My life goals have always been off the wall. Some people want to e married by a certain age. I wanted to learn to write left-handed. You may ask where that comes from. Well, I’ll tell you. In high school, I wrote out a list of 100 things I wanted to do in my life. One of them was learning to write with my left hand. Another one was to become vice-president. Even more so, I wanted to meet Eric Lindros. And I didn’t even like hockey. I just wanted to meet an up and coming sports star. For someone that wanted to revolt against all things popular, I sure did a lot in the vein of popularity. I mean, most people have a plan of college, job, house, marriage, kids, et cetera. I had no real ambition to check those things off of my list, even with how easily I fell in love.
Thus, my downfall was cemented. I would fall in love five times a day. Or lust, whatever you want to call it. Love is a fairly silly concept as it is. I used to be a man that believed in fate. I believed that the stars would one day align and that perfect woman would fall from the heavens. Everything else would be laid out and paradise would be mine. As the deck was played, I continued to draw the wrong cards, and fate reared her ugly beast of a head. In the wrong direction. So now I look back and figure all that lust I felt was love. In a way, I did love those girls. No fate appeared. No divine intervention. Just me, a girl, and a bottle of wine. That’s all it was.
This town, though, makes it hard to fall in love. Which is a good thing, don’t get me wrong. The last thing that I need is to lock eyes with some hot cocktail waitress somewhere and take her home to her trailer. Plus, I know half of the girls in this town. I don’t even like to leave the house most of the time. I trek out once in awhile, but I’d rather stare out my window at the sagebrush all day than deal with the people I knew in high school. This town is a black hole and I don’t need to be sucked in with them. You fall in love here, you don’t get out. I’m different. I’m here to regroup and put this dust bowl behind me.
I’ve seen what this town can do to people. I’ve been places and this town is no good. It’s like some Vincent Price version of Stepford. They are not cheery and happy, only depressing and punching the clock. Day in and day out it’s the same thing over and over again. That’s why I fought so hard to get away from here and never come back. Don’t get me wrong, most people are nice. They are pleasurable, but I need something more than the everyday habits of your average American, let alone the habits of this town.
That’s all on that. You see these people around, so you know what I’m talking about. They’re all sheep, and they follow each other around and don’t think for themselves. I wish that I could say that I’m completely different, but I’m not. I’m not your everyday Unabomber and I’m not an Average Joe. I’d say that I’m teetering slightly above the average line, at least in the regard of seeing things and going places. I’m not a man made of money, I never was, but I’m a man that’s rich because of the friends that I’ve made and the experiences that I’ve had. In the end, I truly believe that’s the measurement of a man’s life. It’s the people you’ve touched and the idea of knowing you did everything possible with what’s given to you. Even more so, it’s going above and beyond to find the moments of ecstasy in life. Believe it or not, I found that place once in my life. It was brief, but my carpe diem moments were there. And they will be again. Cheers to the future.
I’ve always been fond of this time of year. These late November times when the cold weather settles into place and the first snow touches the earth. My favorite part used to be sitting out on my deck, late at night, and just watching the snow come down. It’s best when there’s a good solid inch on the ground and there is no traffic. The street lights are perfectly lit with the falling snow and there is complete and utter silence. I would light up a cigarette and enjoy the tranquility of the moment. For those five minutes, the world would slow down and I would be at peace. That feeling is nearly impossible to capture here at home with my parents. There’s never any traffic anyhow so it’s not quite the same when the first snow does hit. I guess that’s just a downside of living in a small town that I have to deal with.
There’s a lot more than that, but I’m coping. Coming home again was definitely an adjustment. I mean honestly, what grown man returns home to live with his parents? Besides a computer loving geek that never leaves the basement in the first place, that is. I consider them lucky for at least getting a basement to stay in. I don’t even get my old room back. My mom hopped into the whole exercise craze a few years back and converted my room to her gym. Now, I’m stuck in the small room that I had when I was seven years old while my old room is used as the dust collection room. The entire exercise fad lasted four months for her and she moved onto Oprah. I’d be mad, but that Oprah really helps me. She gave all of those people cars. And then made them pay taxes. She’s the best!
My ex-wife loved Oprah. She’d TiVo it every damn day. What’s that? Yeah, I talk about my loves a lot, so sue me. I can’t help it if I’m a sensitive man. I was raised by the television. It taught me how to love in a half hour time block, so I carried it over to my life. If Mike Seaver could find love with a Playboy model and then discover God, I can do anything I like. If I want to slip down to the whore house later and fall for the first forty year old cow that I see, I will. This is America damn it.
I’m sorry. This whole idea of approaching 30 is messing with my head. Things have not gone according to plan; either mine or society’s. Here I am, a man that was raised in a two parent household with two very loving parents. The fed me well, clothed me well, and gave me a good upbringing. Yet I took everything they supplied me, tools to survive, and I threw it out the window. They gave me the basic blueprints to enjoy an average middle class life and I pissed it away to live my life. Yet here they are again, opening me back home with open arms. They are once again giving me the building blocks to re-establish any sanctity of life that I may have left.
I am not well. My life goals have always been off the wall. Some people want to e married by a certain age. I wanted to learn to write left-handed. You may ask where that comes from. Well, I’ll tell you. In high school, I wrote out a list of 100 things I wanted to do in my life. One of them was learning to write with my left hand. Another one was to become vice-president. Even more so, I wanted to meet Eric Lindros. And I didn’t even like hockey. I just wanted to meet an up and coming sports star. For someone that wanted to revolt against all things popular, I sure did a lot in the vein of popularity. I mean, most people have a plan of college, job, house, marriage, kids, et cetera. I had no real ambition to check those things off of my list, even with how easily I fell in love.
Thus, my downfall was cemented. I would fall in love five times a day. Or lust, whatever you want to call it. Love is a fairly silly concept as it is. I used to be a man that believed in fate. I believed that the stars would one day align and that perfect woman would fall from the heavens. Everything else would be laid out and paradise would be mine. As the deck was played, I continued to draw the wrong cards, and fate reared her ugly beast of a head. In the wrong direction. So now I look back and figure all that lust I felt was love. In a way, I did love those girls. No fate appeared. No divine intervention. Just me, a girl, and a bottle of wine. That’s all it was.
This town, though, makes it hard to fall in love. Which is a good thing, don’t get me wrong. The last thing that I need is to lock eyes with some hot cocktail waitress somewhere and take her home to her trailer. Plus, I know half of the girls in this town. I don’t even like to leave the house most of the time. I trek out once in awhile, but I’d rather stare out my window at the sagebrush all day than deal with the people I knew in high school. This town is a black hole and I don’t need to be sucked in with them. You fall in love here, you don’t get out. I’m different. I’m here to regroup and put this dust bowl behind me.
I’ve seen what this town can do to people. I’ve been places and this town is no good. It’s like some Vincent Price version of Stepford. They are not cheery and happy, only depressing and punching the clock. Day in and day out it’s the same thing over and over again. That’s why I fought so hard to get away from here and never come back. Don’t get me wrong, most people are nice. They are pleasurable, but I need something more than the everyday habits of your average American, let alone the habits of this town.
That’s all on that. You see these people around, so you know what I’m talking about. They’re all sheep, and they follow each other around and don’t think for themselves. I wish that I could say that I’m completely different, but I’m not. I’m not your everyday Unabomber and I’m not an Average Joe. I’d say that I’m teetering slightly above the average line, at least in the regard of seeing things and going places. I’m not a man made of money, I never was, but I’m a man that’s rich because of the friends that I’ve made and the experiences that I’ve had. In the end, I truly believe that’s the measurement of a man’s life. It’s the people you’ve touched and the idea of knowing you did everything possible with what’s given to you. Even more so, it’s going above and beyond to find the moments of ecstasy in life. Believe it or not, I found that place once in my life. It was brief, but my carpe diem moments were there. And they will be again. Cheers to the future.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
THREE
-3-
“Long December”
School rolled on pretty much uneventfully for the next few months. I hadn’t met too many people and I often found myself sitting alone in my dorm room every Friday night. There were a few occasions that I managed to rustle up some fun, but those were few and far between. There was one time I did go to a club with Christa and a few of her friends. It turned out, though, that one of these friends was the guy she had a crush on. Boy was I wrong to believe it would be any different for me this time around. That night was some random Friday in October. Two months had passed since then and the only time I saw her was in class. We barely even spoke on the phone anymore. College does that, I guess. Instead of bringing close relationships to a tighter bond, it weakens them. The whole idea of college tears old friends apart. It’s a place where you find out who your friends are and how close you should keep them to your heart. Perhaps it was in the December of my first year of college when my life first started to spin out of control.
The month hadn’t started out so bad, at least in the early part. This is right around the time I met Eric. He was at a party I was at with Pat. People kept mentioning the man they called “The Baron”. I found out soon enough why they called him this. The Baron, as pointed out to me by Pat, was currently making is rounds with all of the ladies at the party. In succession, he had each of them laughing and having a good time. Without any hesitation, Eric, would get the girl’s number and move on to the next one. Okay, maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, but he really did slay the ladies.
T
That night, when introduced to Eric, the two of us hit it off almost instantly. Our personalities played off one another and, ironically, it was my MTV fed brain that connected with his. The music, movies, and other pop culture channels are what started the conversation, but it was the knowledge of Henry Miller and others that kept our connection going. We had a rapport that to this day cannot be matched by anyone I know. Eventually it got to a point that we’d both say the same joke without hesitation or acknowledgment. It is ironic, in a way, because he was almost like a soul mate, which quite frankly scared me. No, it wasn’t because I was gay. I had no problem with that lifestyle, don’t get me wrong. The whole friendship with Eric (I cannot regularly call him The Baron. I never have, but may still refer to him as that for your sake) made me question who I really was. Had my love Christa and her subsequent denial turned me to finding solace in a member of the same sex? There’s always a competition amongst guys and a machismo that drives their “relationships”. This friendship was neither of those things. For the first time since Junior High, I’d found a friend I could tell anything to. This is something I thought I would never find.
I’m gonna go back to Christa here, but Eric ties right in so bear with me. Christa had come and gone from my life, even though a mental image of her was permanently plastered on the back of my brain. Her denial of me ultimately led to my foray into the alcoholic college world of up all night and asleep all day. It’s odd how I trace everything back to her. At least in my mind. She is none the wiser and I can only imagine how I would have felt if we’d dated. It was in December of that year when I had forsaken life and had wanted to cling to death. In the good year of the Lord, 1998, is when Eric stood by my side. He was there to join me in the earthly delight of depression.
Now, Eric was brilliant with the ladies, at least when he wanted to be. Yet he still had that emptiness in his life. It was an unfulfilled passion that left him always wanting more. I had that same wanting and it was one snowy Sunday when we both discovered we had that common bond. We didn’t really acknowledge it at the time, but years later, it would all make sense. I was lonely and looking for a girl, while he was lonely and did not want the fun to end. It was a sad Sunday and there would be many more to come after that.
Okay, I’ll back it up. I’ll go back to the night prior to that first Sunday. Through the miracles of college society, Christa had arrived at the same party I was attending. You see, she had fallen for an actor acquaintance of The Baron’s. The Baron was an actor, so of course he knew other actors. I saw her walk in and I immediately reached for the bottle of Tequila. She was walking towards me and I quickly took a pull off the warm bottom shelf Cuervo. She reached me, smiled, and gave me a half-hearted embrace. I hugged her back and we exchanged pleasantries. It was amazing how much had changed over four months. Her new friend interrupted us and whisked her away. I probably said no more than five words to her the rest of the night.
The party was great, it really was. In fact, at that point in my life, it was one of the best I had ever attended. Drinking was done, weed was smoked, and sex was had. I drink myself into oblivion and even turned to weed for the first time. A few hits are all, but it was enough to lace my night with fun. People came in and out of the party and I met people I still keep contact with to this day. The beer did not stop flowing until the later part of the night.
At least for me it didn’t. It was nearing four when the excessive Tequila intake finally hit me like a ton of bricks. I was soon lying on the floor. I watched as the ceiling fan turned round and round. The entire thing seemed minutes, but in reality it was probably hours that went by. Eric sat on the couch as I was enraptured by the fan. He waxed poetic about girls and how, in the end, it didn’t matter what they thought. I came to the realization that no matter how long I had spent with Christa, or even away from her, she would never be mine. That night was the one in which I gave up the fight. Except now, as I enjoyed the beginnings of my first Sad Sunday, I realized that she’d never leave my mind no matter what happened.
By December 31st, things were not going well, at least for my liver. The two days I had been sober in the past month were the two I had spent at my family’s home for Christmas. It was tough, but I had pulled through. My time alone was spent mostly crying myself to sleep, which was not new to me. As you will see, crying becomes a theme in my life. I wish I could sit here and talk about the good times I had for the remainder of the year. The truth is, though, I don’t remember many days except for New Year’s Eve. There are big holes in my life that my brain has decided to replace. That’s the payment for this pleasure of depression drinking. Of course, the bad stuff is still in the dark crevices of my mind. Bad memories of the past are just something I haven’t been able to drink away.
Let me explain a little further. As I had mentioned, Christa had moved on to this actor chum. He was a real asshole of a man. He came from a background of three fathers and an unstable mother. He used people like the whole thing was going out of style. This man continually insisted to me, on occasion of our few run-ins, that he wasn’t interested in Christa. Being the foolish, trusting man that I was, I believed him. And that completely back fired. On the night of December 31st, my worst fears were confirmed.
See, when I was back home, the asshole had made his move. Here I was, wallowing in my misery, and he was planting seeds. Perhaps he had planned it the entire time or perhaps it was only a matter of chance. Either way, I didn’t believe what I’d heard when I got back into town. Rumor had spread that he had travelled to the undiscovered country of Christa’s inner lands. Though the rumor mill ran rampant, I still refused to believe it. I knew fully well that Christa would not have set aside her morals for this prick.
Needing to find out, I cancelled plans with Eric and his friends and had accepted a New Year’s Eve invitation from Brad. (The actor’s name was Brad. I’ll never mention it again.) We drank a bit at his place along with Christa and two other couples. Why I had agreed to be the fifth wheel on this triangle of love, I’ll never know. The seven of us smoked a bit too, even me, and we walked downtown to see the fireworks. I figured my proof would be in who she kissed at midnight.
Boy, did I find out. As the countdown reached “Happy New Year”, his tongue was already down Christ’s throat. As I watched the three couples kiss, I had to do my best to choke back a tear. A giant lump had formed in my throat, nearly making me gag. I reached into my jacket and removed my flask. I unscrewed the lid and forced the cold metal onto my lips. The rum did no good as the kissing and streamers continued. Before Auld Lang Syne was even finished paling, I had slipped away from the crowd. A full bottle of champagne had been left on the ground and I snatched it up as I began my long walk home. I sipped on that champagne all the way home and awoke the next morning on the steps of my dorm building. I had in my hand and empty bottle of champagne and was covered in snow and urine. I could already tell that 1999 was going to be a blast.
“Long December”
School rolled on pretty much uneventfully for the next few months. I hadn’t met too many people and I often found myself sitting alone in my dorm room every Friday night. There were a few occasions that I managed to rustle up some fun, but those were few and far between. There was one time I did go to a club with Christa and a few of her friends. It turned out, though, that one of these friends was the guy she had a crush on. Boy was I wrong to believe it would be any different for me this time around. That night was some random Friday in October. Two months had passed since then and the only time I saw her was in class. We barely even spoke on the phone anymore. College does that, I guess. Instead of bringing close relationships to a tighter bond, it weakens them. The whole idea of college tears old friends apart. It’s a place where you find out who your friends are and how close you should keep them to your heart. Perhaps it was in the December of my first year of college when my life first started to spin out of control.
The month hadn’t started out so bad, at least in the early part. This is right around the time I met Eric. He was at a party I was at with Pat. People kept mentioning the man they called “The Baron”. I found out soon enough why they called him this. The Baron, as pointed out to me by Pat, was currently making is rounds with all of the ladies at the party. In succession, he had each of them laughing and having a good time. Without any hesitation, Eric, would get the girl’s number and move on to the next one. Okay, maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration, but he really did slay the ladies.
T
That night, when introduced to Eric, the two of us hit it off almost instantly. Our personalities played off one another and, ironically, it was my MTV fed brain that connected with his. The music, movies, and other pop culture channels are what started the conversation, but it was the knowledge of Henry Miller and others that kept our connection going. We had a rapport that to this day cannot be matched by anyone I know. Eventually it got to a point that we’d both say the same joke without hesitation or acknowledgment. It is ironic, in a way, because he was almost like a soul mate, which quite frankly scared me. No, it wasn’t because I was gay. I had no problem with that lifestyle, don’t get me wrong. The whole friendship with Eric (I cannot regularly call him The Baron. I never have, but may still refer to him as that for your sake) made me question who I really was. Had my love Christa and her subsequent denial turned me to finding solace in a member of the same sex? There’s always a competition amongst guys and a machismo that drives their “relationships”. This friendship was neither of those things. For the first time since Junior High, I’d found a friend I could tell anything to. This is something I thought I would never find.
I’m gonna go back to Christa here, but Eric ties right in so bear with me. Christa had come and gone from my life, even though a mental image of her was permanently plastered on the back of my brain. Her denial of me ultimately led to my foray into the alcoholic college world of up all night and asleep all day. It’s odd how I trace everything back to her. At least in my mind. She is none the wiser and I can only imagine how I would have felt if we’d dated. It was in December of that year when I had forsaken life and had wanted to cling to death. In the good year of the Lord, 1998, is when Eric stood by my side. He was there to join me in the earthly delight of depression.
Now, Eric was brilliant with the ladies, at least when he wanted to be. Yet he still had that emptiness in his life. It was an unfulfilled passion that left him always wanting more. I had that same wanting and it was one snowy Sunday when we both discovered we had that common bond. We didn’t really acknowledge it at the time, but years later, it would all make sense. I was lonely and looking for a girl, while he was lonely and did not want the fun to end. It was a sad Sunday and there would be many more to come after that.
Okay, I’ll back it up. I’ll go back to the night prior to that first Sunday. Through the miracles of college society, Christa had arrived at the same party I was attending. You see, she had fallen for an actor acquaintance of The Baron’s. The Baron was an actor, so of course he knew other actors. I saw her walk in and I immediately reached for the bottle of Tequila. She was walking towards me and I quickly took a pull off the warm bottom shelf Cuervo. She reached me, smiled, and gave me a half-hearted embrace. I hugged her back and we exchanged pleasantries. It was amazing how much had changed over four months. Her new friend interrupted us and whisked her away. I probably said no more than five words to her the rest of the night.
The party was great, it really was. In fact, at that point in my life, it was one of the best I had ever attended. Drinking was done, weed was smoked, and sex was had. I drink myself into oblivion and even turned to weed for the first time. A few hits are all, but it was enough to lace my night with fun. People came in and out of the party and I met people I still keep contact with to this day. The beer did not stop flowing until the later part of the night.
At least for me it didn’t. It was nearing four when the excessive Tequila intake finally hit me like a ton of bricks. I was soon lying on the floor. I watched as the ceiling fan turned round and round. The entire thing seemed minutes, but in reality it was probably hours that went by. Eric sat on the couch as I was enraptured by the fan. He waxed poetic about girls and how, in the end, it didn’t matter what they thought. I came to the realization that no matter how long I had spent with Christa, or even away from her, she would never be mine. That night was the one in which I gave up the fight. Except now, as I enjoyed the beginnings of my first Sad Sunday, I realized that she’d never leave my mind no matter what happened.
By December 31st, things were not going well, at least for my liver. The two days I had been sober in the past month were the two I had spent at my family’s home for Christmas. It was tough, but I had pulled through. My time alone was spent mostly crying myself to sleep, which was not new to me. As you will see, crying becomes a theme in my life. I wish I could sit here and talk about the good times I had for the remainder of the year. The truth is, though, I don’t remember many days except for New Year’s Eve. There are big holes in my life that my brain has decided to replace. That’s the payment for this pleasure of depression drinking. Of course, the bad stuff is still in the dark crevices of my mind. Bad memories of the past are just something I haven’t been able to drink away.
Let me explain a little further. As I had mentioned, Christa had moved on to this actor chum. He was a real asshole of a man. He came from a background of three fathers and an unstable mother. He used people like the whole thing was going out of style. This man continually insisted to me, on occasion of our few run-ins, that he wasn’t interested in Christa. Being the foolish, trusting man that I was, I believed him. And that completely back fired. On the night of December 31st, my worst fears were confirmed.
See, when I was back home, the asshole had made his move. Here I was, wallowing in my misery, and he was planting seeds. Perhaps he had planned it the entire time or perhaps it was only a matter of chance. Either way, I didn’t believe what I’d heard when I got back into town. Rumor had spread that he had travelled to the undiscovered country of Christa’s inner lands. Though the rumor mill ran rampant, I still refused to believe it. I knew fully well that Christa would not have set aside her morals for this prick.
Needing to find out, I cancelled plans with Eric and his friends and had accepted a New Year’s Eve invitation from Brad. (The actor’s name was Brad. I’ll never mention it again.) We drank a bit at his place along with Christa and two other couples. Why I had agreed to be the fifth wheel on this triangle of love, I’ll never know. The seven of us smoked a bit too, even me, and we walked downtown to see the fireworks. I figured my proof would be in who she kissed at midnight.
Boy, did I find out. As the countdown reached “Happy New Year”, his tongue was already down Christ’s throat. As I watched the three couples kiss, I had to do my best to choke back a tear. A giant lump had formed in my throat, nearly making me gag. I reached into my jacket and removed my flask. I unscrewed the lid and forced the cold metal onto my lips. The rum did no good as the kissing and streamers continued. Before Auld Lang Syne was even finished paling, I had slipped away from the crowd. A full bottle of champagne had been left on the ground and I snatched it up as I began my long walk home. I sipped on that champagne all the way home and awoke the next morning on the steps of my dorm building. I had in my hand and empty bottle of champagne and was covered in snow and urine. I could already tell that 1999 was going to be a blast.
Monday, November 2, 2009
2- It's a long one
-2-
“Still I’m the one who’s Stupid”
Being alone and eighteen was a hard thing to do. It sure doesn’t feel like ten years ago, that’s for sure. I was alone on the first day of the rest of my life. Some call it that, while others may simply call it college. I only thought of it as another system of schooling that would help to bring me down. I had no idea what I was doing with my life; let alone what I had wanted to major in. Yet here I was, once again attending an establishment that I delightfully hated. I was attending college for my parents and because society dictated that I needed to attend. If I didn’t graduate college, society implied, I surely wouldn’t succeed at life.
Throngs of students rushed around me. Some carried two, maybe three suitcases at a time in hopes of being the first to their dorm room. All of this racing was done in order to pick out the good side of the room. The entire idea in and of itself was ridiculous. Other students dawdled, hands in their pockets; lost in the crowd of people and seemingly having no cares in the world. I wish that could have been me. I myself fit into neither of these categories, for I didn’t care what side of room I had. At the same time, I had my fair share of worries. The rooms were eight feet by 12 feet and I likened them to more jail cells than dorm rooms. I could not imagine spending more than one hour at a time in this crawlspace of life.
The one overriding fear I had was that my roommate would be a six foot three black man that would be having sex every night. I wasn’t, and am still not, racist. The fact is, I wasn’t exactly raised in what would be called a diverse city, and I wouldn’t really know how to act around an African American. I was pretty certain that just because I had like Puff Daddy, Tupac, and Snoop Dogg would make us fast friends. In fact, I would probably be laughed at for it.
It was the first day of check in and I had assumed that I would be the first in my room. The early part of my day had been spent moving my oldest friend Christa into her dorm room. Her room happened to be on the other side of campus, which was my first disappointment. Christa and I had known each other since the first grade and we were good friends, but not best friends or anything like that. Our parents had pretty much decided that since we were going to school together that I should help her unload all of her crap. I, being the gentleman I am, lugged her stuff up four flights of stairs. By the time were done, it was in the afternoon and I had only thirty minutes to check in. I breezed through the check in at the front desk and dawdled enthusiastically up to my room, with Christa close behind.
Expecting the worse, and certainly hoping for the best, I reached the room and swung open the door. Slightly disappointed, I saw that the room was not empty. The sun shone brightly through the windows; its rays temporarily blinding me. As my pupils squinted to adjust, I saw that the room was already occupied. A guy sat on the bed and he had a girl seated on his lap. She was cradled in his skinny arms. “Man, he works fast,” I had thought to myself. “This may be cooler than I thought.”
The guy, at my best guess, was my age and he had blonde hair. And he wasn’t black. Once again, I am not racist, but I am simply pointing it out to let you know that my fears were did not come true. He was dressed rather sharply. Not in a suit and tie, mind you, but he was dressed in some rather nice casual wear. Probably something from Abercrombie and Fitch, who knows, I’m no fashion expert. All I know is he looked much better than I did in my old jeans and Nike polo shirt. He was not a big man, average size at best. He was not intimidating by any means, yet I stood there full of wrecked nerves that bothered me beyond belief.
Maybe it was because the girl on his lap was a knock out. She was a skinny blonde, weighing maybe a hundred and five pounds. Her hair was long, perhaps shoulder length (the memory of her nearly escapes me) and she had a perfect body. Her breasts were a little on the small side, but who cared. I had rarely seen a girl like this in my small town. I had no idea that they would only become more beautiful after this.
I was nervous and all and wasn’t quite sure what to exactly say. Lucky for me, the new roommate was a bit more outgoing and he started the introductions. “Timmy?” he asked with impalpable certainty.
“Yeah,” I responded shyly. “Pat, right?”
He nodded and wrestled a hand free from clutching his girl. He extended it to find mine. I reached out and groped it. I had learned awhile back how to read handshakes, and his felt sincere. “This is my girlfriend Tory,” he confidently stated.
“Nice to meet you both. This is my friend Christa.” The two girls exchanged a polite hello and smiled. For the first time, it felt weird with Christa standing there as only my friend, not as a girlfriend. Maybe it was because I was in this strange city alone, but I wanted to lean over and grab her hand in mine.
Of course, I didn’t, and the four of us stood in silence before Pat once again started up the conversation. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the right side of the room. The guy that led me up here said that the right side is the best. Since I got here first, I figured you wouldn’t mind.”
“No problem,” I solemnly replied.
My answer didn’t sound sincere, but in reality, it didn’t bother me. I have a problem of when I’m telling the truth about something, if often comes across as a weak minded lie. The fact is, even it was a problem that he took the right side of the room, I’m the type of guy that wouldn’t have argued anyhow. I’m like that, I guess. What did bother me was the fact that I wasn’t even led up to the room by anyone and it made me wonder if the people at the front desk didn’t care about someone that showed up ten minutes before the close of check-in times. Either way, I moved past it quickly and sat my suitcase on the left side of the room.
I glanced around the room and realized how unbelievably small it was. Christa stood in the doorway, silent as usual. Tory kept smiling at me, and I wondered if she was sizing me up in her mind; quietly judging me. I often thought that about most people. I’m sure it happens; I know that I certainly do it, but I wonder why people stoop to these low levels. I guess society just had in ingrained in their heads to do it, so why shouldn’t my roommate’s eighteen year old girlfriend be any different.
I turned away from her and gave my full attention back to my side of the room. There was one bed, one tiny dresser with three drawers, one desk, and one closet. These were all on one side of the room that seemed like the size of a large casket. The walls were painted white and peeling in many places. The ceiling was very rough and looked as if it was painted with spit wads. I would later find out that the building had asbestos crawling all through it. Which might partially explain my current trouble breathing, but doctors haven’t proven it yet. I finished my quiet judgment of the room and turned to face my roommate.
“I guess I’ll bring my stuff up,” I said with no inflection in my voice.
“We’ll get out of your way. Tory’s room is just downstairs. Come grab me if you need any help or anything. Nice meeting you, Christa.”
I couldn’t believe this guys luck. Not only did his girlfriend come to college with him, he was only separated from her by one measly floor. As my envy continued to grow, I watched as Pat grabbed Tory by the hand and led her from the room. Tory smiled at Christa and Christa once again returned the favor. This Tory girl loved to smile. I could already imagine this being a very exciting year. Christa watched them leave and she then quietly shut the door behind them. Christa whispered to me,
“They are very much in love.”
“How can you tell?” I asked. This should have been my first indication that I couldn’t read women, but it didn’t help.
“Didn’t you see them? They were all over each other. They’ll probably kick you out of the room all of the time, wanting to do it,” Christa said with a chuckle.
“Very funny,” I replied. “Let’s get my stuff.”
Christa mentioned they would have sex a lot and it turned out to be quite the prophecy. I was still a virgin. I had come close to sex once during my senior year of high school. Unfortunately, there was no condom to be found and I went home full of life and nothing to show for it. Here I was, one year later, still a virgin and having to hear about my roommates sex-capades on a daily basis.
By hear, I mean literally hearing Pat and Tory have sex. The first few weeks they would wait for me to leave the room, which I had no problem with. It was soon after these first few weeks, though, that half the time they didn’t bother to wait for me to be gone. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and hear them going at it. The only reason I could tell was the fact that I heard very rhythmic breathing on the other side of the room. That, and the fact I would hear a deep moaning sound coming from Tory. I really doubt that the two of them were doing yoga at three in the morning while lying in bed. It’s just not possible, at least in my opinion.
I never discussed it with them, mainly because I thought it was a private issue and I shouldn’t interrupt them or anything. That and I was the complete opposite of confrontational. They kept on doing the nasty six or seven times a week, by my calculations. I eventually learned that the only way that I could combat it besides talking to them was to put a CD in my Discman and fall asleep listening to that. I’d put songs on repeat, so the thing would play all night and I wouldn’t hear a thing. Besides, I had too much on my mind. The main thing was Christa. Every night, I’d attempt to think of ways to push the limit and move our relationship past the friendship stage. It was always to no avail, as something would always stop me. Most of the times it was my insecurity and cowardice, but the final brick to my head is what occurred at a party the two of us attended towards the end of the first month of school.
Christa and I both had a friend from high school that had attended this college the year before. She was still going there and knew a lot of people. She had decided to invite us to a party that Friday night. It was a party at one of the frat houses and it was a big party for the new pledges. I wasn’t really big on parties at the time, but Christa thought it would be a good idea to go. It’s not like it took much convincing to get me to go, either. I was a teenager with raging hormones and I had wanted to be wherever she was. It was decided that I would drive that night. I figured to be the one drinking less, so I volunteered. She insisted alcohol was not something that she wanted to delve too deep into, but I knew better than that. Christa had been sheltered by very protective parents and I knew that she would want to fully experience the college atmosphere.
I was in my Nissan Sentra outside of her building when she walked through the double glass doors. By looking at her, I could tell that tonight would not be one of those nights I could meet other girls. As she walked in the bright headlights, I couldn’t help but stare. The jeans she wore were very tight and perfectly accentuated her nice ass. The way she walked, wow. Christa’s hips swayed lazily from side to side, at least in my mind they did. The shirt she wore was even hotter. It was a sleeveless button up shirt. Silk, I think. I could see the outline of her bra and that turned me on more than seeing her topless. She had worn her hair down for the evening. The hair reached down past her shoulders and really brought out the features of her smooth face. I tried to get the funny thoughts out of my mind, but all I could think about was taking her back to my room, ripping off her shirt buttons with my teeth, and nailing her. Girls have that power to create funny thoughts. That’s why guys think of sex all of the time. It’s all because of girls like Christa.
The entire drive over all that I could think about was having sex with Christa and how special it would be to get laid by her. We had a conversation on the way to the party, but my responses and intellect consisted of “yeah” and “uh-huh.” Before I knew it, we had pulled up on the street of the party. Cars lined the driveways and the streets. I could tell that this would easily be a big party. We stepped out of my car and joined a group of people who were entering the house. The only thought I remember having was, “this is college?”
Christa slipped her soft, delicate hand into mine and my brain started to race a hundred miles per minute. Christa’s action only lasted a few seconds, carrying over until we walked into the house. She immediately let go and began to scope out the room. The place was packed. From wall to wall, college students squirmed past one another. All carried with them red cups of beer or liquor or both. There must have been thirty to forty people in the living room alone. Music blared and blasted out the sound of any conversations that might have been taking place between people in the room. It was rap music, I believe. It was probably the newest Dr. Dre hit or something similar to that. My mind began to wander and I figured this is exactly what I had missed out in high school. Here I was, at a party with Christa, and I was focusing on times that I might have missed in high school. It was pretty idiotic of me because I didn’t even notice that our friend from high school had approached us.
“Timmy? Timmy!” yelled the sweet voice of the girl. The voice brought me back to reality and I looked her in the eyes.
“Hey Donna,” I screamed to her.
“Pretty cool party, huh?” yelled Donna as the music died off. A few people looked our way, but Donna paid them no attention.
“Oh yeah,” said Christa enthusiastically. “I never imagined college to be like this.”
“Well, grab a beer. The keg’s in the kitchen. We’ll catch up later.” Donna left as quickly as she had arrived and I was once again alone with Christa.
“Let’s split up and meet again in a bit. We can meet more people that way. Okay?”
Being a dumbass, I agreed to the proposition with a hearty nodding of my head. Like I’ve said, I was young and unschooled in the ways of women, so I had no idea what to say to her to convince her to stay. I wanted to desperately be by her side, but then I felt if I did that, I would be like a dog following around his owner. The owner eventually gets tired of the dog constantly at his feet, so the owner kicks the dog. At this point, I didn’t need to be kicked any further down by Christa. We went our separate directions; her heading left and me heading right. In hindsight, I now know that this sent me further away from my goal.
The night dragged on and I met a few people, but my eyes were constantly following Christa. Every time that I broke from conversation with one of the beer drinking cretins or blonde bimbos, my eyes would immediately locate Christa. I would watch as she laughed with a guy or spoke engagingly to a girl. What exactly drew me to her, I don’t think I’ll ever know. Maybe it was her swaying hips. Maybe it was her demure personality. Or her good looks. I guess it was mostly her smile. She could melt guy’s hearts from a mile away with that smile. She would get a guy in her radar and shoot that smile, knowing full well what it could do. Creatures like that weaken men’s knees and deliver the kill with a sweet, sensitive voice. When I stared in her direction, the noise that exploded from the stereo evaporated and silence filled the room. I could faintly hear voices, but none of that mattered. The only thing I could think of was her. I wasn’t obsessed, if that’s what you think. Somewhere during the point of obsession, a line is crossed. I went beyond that line long ago.
At this point in the night, it was getting quite late and I was beginning to feel the sting of the five beers I had drunk. I arose from my spot on the wall and stumbled towards the bathroom. IT took me awhile to find it, mostly because drunken bastards kept running into me and they kept me from finding the toilet. By the time I found the bathroom, the piss was ready to erupt forth. I made it barely in time and I pissed for a good five minutes. In the dark. I’m sure most of it ended up on the floor, but hell, it wasn’t my house. I flushed the toilet and turned on the sink. It’s amazing what once can do drunk while in the dark. I ran my hands under the warm water and slicked back my hair. I thought maybe I could find some drunken freshman girl and steal a kiss. As I reached for the doorknob, I heard Christa’s voice walking down the hall. I remained in the bathroom and listened. The voices were muffled but I could tell that it was Christa and Donna.
“Meet any cute guys tonight,” asked Donna.
“Yeah, a couple of them. Nothing too special, though.”
“College boys are just the same as high school guys. A few are nice; don’t get me wrong, but its always sex, sex, sex. You have to find the right ones. How’s Timmy doing? The two of you seem to be getting pretty close.”
“Timmy,” questioned Christa.
I could tell by the confidence in her voice that she knew exactly what Donna was talking about. My heart raced as I prepared myself to hear her answer. I pressed my ear close to the door, careful not to make a sound. “Timmy’s like a brother to me. He’s great and all, but it would be totally weird to date him.”
And there it was. With two simple sentences, my heart was crushed. It was a huge blow to my groin. My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach and I slowly backed away from the door. In retrospect, I knew long before she did that we could never have a relationship. I just never planned on hearing it this way. I was destroyed. And through it all, I’m still the one that’s stupid.
“Still I’m the one who’s Stupid”
Being alone and eighteen was a hard thing to do. It sure doesn’t feel like ten years ago, that’s for sure. I was alone on the first day of the rest of my life. Some call it that, while others may simply call it college. I only thought of it as another system of schooling that would help to bring me down. I had no idea what I was doing with my life; let alone what I had wanted to major in. Yet here I was, once again attending an establishment that I delightfully hated. I was attending college for my parents and because society dictated that I needed to attend. If I didn’t graduate college, society implied, I surely wouldn’t succeed at life.
Throngs of students rushed around me. Some carried two, maybe three suitcases at a time in hopes of being the first to their dorm room. All of this racing was done in order to pick out the good side of the room. The entire idea in and of itself was ridiculous. Other students dawdled, hands in their pockets; lost in the crowd of people and seemingly having no cares in the world. I wish that could have been me. I myself fit into neither of these categories, for I didn’t care what side of room I had. At the same time, I had my fair share of worries. The rooms were eight feet by 12 feet and I likened them to more jail cells than dorm rooms. I could not imagine spending more than one hour at a time in this crawlspace of life.
The one overriding fear I had was that my roommate would be a six foot three black man that would be having sex every night. I wasn’t, and am still not, racist. The fact is, I wasn’t exactly raised in what would be called a diverse city, and I wouldn’t really know how to act around an African American. I was pretty certain that just because I had like Puff Daddy, Tupac, and Snoop Dogg would make us fast friends. In fact, I would probably be laughed at for it.
It was the first day of check in and I had assumed that I would be the first in my room. The early part of my day had been spent moving my oldest friend Christa into her dorm room. Her room happened to be on the other side of campus, which was my first disappointment. Christa and I had known each other since the first grade and we were good friends, but not best friends or anything like that. Our parents had pretty much decided that since we were going to school together that I should help her unload all of her crap. I, being the gentleman I am, lugged her stuff up four flights of stairs. By the time were done, it was in the afternoon and I had only thirty minutes to check in. I breezed through the check in at the front desk and dawdled enthusiastically up to my room, with Christa close behind.
Expecting the worse, and certainly hoping for the best, I reached the room and swung open the door. Slightly disappointed, I saw that the room was not empty. The sun shone brightly through the windows; its rays temporarily blinding me. As my pupils squinted to adjust, I saw that the room was already occupied. A guy sat on the bed and he had a girl seated on his lap. She was cradled in his skinny arms. “Man, he works fast,” I had thought to myself. “This may be cooler than I thought.”
The guy, at my best guess, was my age and he had blonde hair. And he wasn’t black. Once again, I am not racist, but I am simply pointing it out to let you know that my fears were did not come true. He was dressed rather sharply. Not in a suit and tie, mind you, but he was dressed in some rather nice casual wear. Probably something from Abercrombie and Fitch, who knows, I’m no fashion expert. All I know is he looked much better than I did in my old jeans and Nike polo shirt. He was not a big man, average size at best. He was not intimidating by any means, yet I stood there full of wrecked nerves that bothered me beyond belief.
Maybe it was because the girl on his lap was a knock out. She was a skinny blonde, weighing maybe a hundred and five pounds. Her hair was long, perhaps shoulder length (the memory of her nearly escapes me) and she had a perfect body. Her breasts were a little on the small side, but who cared. I had rarely seen a girl like this in my small town. I had no idea that they would only become more beautiful after this.
I was nervous and all and wasn’t quite sure what to exactly say. Lucky for me, the new roommate was a bit more outgoing and he started the introductions. “Timmy?” he asked with impalpable certainty.
“Yeah,” I responded shyly. “Pat, right?”
He nodded and wrestled a hand free from clutching his girl. He extended it to find mine. I reached out and groped it. I had learned awhile back how to read handshakes, and his felt sincere. “This is my girlfriend Tory,” he confidently stated.
“Nice to meet you both. This is my friend Christa.” The two girls exchanged a polite hello and smiled. For the first time, it felt weird with Christa standing there as only my friend, not as a girlfriend. Maybe it was because I was in this strange city alone, but I wanted to lean over and grab her hand in mine.
Of course, I didn’t, and the four of us stood in silence before Pat once again started up the conversation. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the right side of the room. The guy that led me up here said that the right side is the best. Since I got here first, I figured you wouldn’t mind.”
“No problem,” I solemnly replied.
My answer didn’t sound sincere, but in reality, it didn’t bother me. I have a problem of when I’m telling the truth about something, if often comes across as a weak minded lie. The fact is, even it was a problem that he took the right side of the room, I’m the type of guy that wouldn’t have argued anyhow. I’m like that, I guess. What did bother me was the fact that I wasn’t even led up to the room by anyone and it made me wonder if the people at the front desk didn’t care about someone that showed up ten minutes before the close of check-in times. Either way, I moved past it quickly and sat my suitcase on the left side of the room.
I glanced around the room and realized how unbelievably small it was. Christa stood in the doorway, silent as usual. Tory kept smiling at me, and I wondered if she was sizing me up in her mind; quietly judging me. I often thought that about most people. I’m sure it happens; I know that I certainly do it, but I wonder why people stoop to these low levels. I guess society just had in ingrained in their heads to do it, so why shouldn’t my roommate’s eighteen year old girlfriend be any different.
I turned away from her and gave my full attention back to my side of the room. There was one bed, one tiny dresser with three drawers, one desk, and one closet. These were all on one side of the room that seemed like the size of a large casket. The walls were painted white and peeling in many places. The ceiling was very rough and looked as if it was painted with spit wads. I would later find out that the building had asbestos crawling all through it. Which might partially explain my current trouble breathing, but doctors haven’t proven it yet. I finished my quiet judgment of the room and turned to face my roommate.
“I guess I’ll bring my stuff up,” I said with no inflection in my voice.
“We’ll get out of your way. Tory’s room is just downstairs. Come grab me if you need any help or anything. Nice meeting you, Christa.”
I couldn’t believe this guys luck. Not only did his girlfriend come to college with him, he was only separated from her by one measly floor. As my envy continued to grow, I watched as Pat grabbed Tory by the hand and led her from the room. Tory smiled at Christa and Christa once again returned the favor. This Tory girl loved to smile. I could already imagine this being a very exciting year. Christa watched them leave and she then quietly shut the door behind them. Christa whispered to me,
“They are very much in love.”
“How can you tell?” I asked. This should have been my first indication that I couldn’t read women, but it didn’t help.
“Didn’t you see them? They were all over each other. They’ll probably kick you out of the room all of the time, wanting to do it,” Christa said with a chuckle.
“Very funny,” I replied. “Let’s get my stuff.”
Christa mentioned they would have sex a lot and it turned out to be quite the prophecy. I was still a virgin. I had come close to sex once during my senior year of high school. Unfortunately, there was no condom to be found and I went home full of life and nothing to show for it. Here I was, one year later, still a virgin and having to hear about my roommates sex-capades on a daily basis.
By hear, I mean literally hearing Pat and Tory have sex. The first few weeks they would wait for me to leave the room, which I had no problem with. It was soon after these first few weeks, though, that half the time they didn’t bother to wait for me to be gone. I’d wake up in the middle of the night and hear them going at it. The only reason I could tell was the fact that I heard very rhythmic breathing on the other side of the room. That, and the fact I would hear a deep moaning sound coming from Tory. I really doubt that the two of them were doing yoga at three in the morning while lying in bed. It’s just not possible, at least in my opinion.
I never discussed it with them, mainly because I thought it was a private issue and I shouldn’t interrupt them or anything. That and I was the complete opposite of confrontational. They kept on doing the nasty six or seven times a week, by my calculations. I eventually learned that the only way that I could combat it besides talking to them was to put a CD in my Discman and fall asleep listening to that. I’d put songs on repeat, so the thing would play all night and I wouldn’t hear a thing. Besides, I had too much on my mind. The main thing was Christa. Every night, I’d attempt to think of ways to push the limit and move our relationship past the friendship stage. It was always to no avail, as something would always stop me. Most of the times it was my insecurity and cowardice, but the final brick to my head is what occurred at a party the two of us attended towards the end of the first month of school.
Christa and I both had a friend from high school that had attended this college the year before. She was still going there and knew a lot of people. She had decided to invite us to a party that Friday night. It was a party at one of the frat houses and it was a big party for the new pledges. I wasn’t really big on parties at the time, but Christa thought it would be a good idea to go. It’s not like it took much convincing to get me to go, either. I was a teenager with raging hormones and I had wanted to be wherever she was. It was decided that I would drive that night. I figured to be the one drinking less, so I volunteered. She insisted alcohol was not something that she wanted to delve too deep into, but I knew better than that. Christa had been sheltered by very protective parents and I knew that she would want to fully experience the college atmosphere.
I was in my Nissan Sentra outside of her building when she walked through the double glass doors. By looking at her, I could tell that tonight would not be one of those nights I could meet other girls. As she walked in the bright headlights, I couldn’t help but stare. The jeans she wore were very tight and perfectly accentuated her nice ass. The way she walked, wow. Christa’s hips swayed lazily from side to side, at least in my mind they did. The shirt she wore was even hotter. It was a sleeveless button up shirt. Silk, I think. I could see the outline of her bra and that turned me on more than seeing her topless. She had worn her hair down for the evening. The hair reached down past her shoulders and really brought out the features of her smooth face. I tried to get the funny thoughts out of my mind, but all I could think about was taking her back to my room, ripping off her shirt buttons with my teeth, and nailing her. Girls have that power to create funny thoughts. That’s why guys think of sex all of the time. It’s all because of girls like Christa.
The entire drive over all that I could think about was having sex with Christa and how special it would be to get laid by her. We had a conversation on the way to the party, but my responses and intellect consisted of “yeah” and “uh-huh.” Before I knew it, we had pulled up on the street of the party. Cars lined the driveways and the streets. I could tell that this would easily be a big party. We stepped out of my car and joined a group of people who were entering the house. The only thought I remember having was, “this is college?”
Christa slipped her soft, delicate hand into mine and my brain started to race a hundred miles per minute. Christa’s action only lasted a few seconds, carrying over until we walked into the house. She immediately let go and began to scope out the room. The place was packed. From wall to wall, college students squirmed past one another. All carried with them red cups of beer or liquor or both. There must have been thirty to forty people in the living room alone. Music blared and blasted out the sound of any conversations that might have been taking place between people in the room. It was rap music, I believe. It was probably the newest Dr. Dre hit or something similar to that. My mind began to wander and I figured this is exactly what I had missed out in high school. Here I was, at a party with Christa, and I was focusing on times that I might have missed in high school. It was pretty idiotic of me because I didn’t even notice that our friend from high school had approached us.
“Timmy? Timmy!” yelled the sweet voice of the girl. The voice brought me back to reality and I looked her in the eyes.
“Hey Donna,” I screamed to her.
“Pretty cool party, huh?” yelled Donna as the music died off. A few people looked our way, but Donna paid them no attention.
“Oh yeah,” said Christa enthusiastically. “I never imagined college to be like this.”
“Well, grab a beer. The keg’s in the kitchen. We’ll catch up later.” Donna left as quickly as she had arrived and I was once again alone with Christa.
“Let’s split up and meet again in a bit. We can meet more people that way. Okay?”
Being a dumbass, I agreed to the proposition with a hearty nodding of my head. Like I’ve said, I was young and unschooled in the ways of women, so I had no idea what to say to her to convince her to stay. I wanted to desperately be by her side, but then I felt if I did that, I would be like a dog following around his owner. The owner eventually gets tired of the dog constantly at his feet, so the owner kicks the dog. At this point, I didn’t need to be kicked any further down by Christa. We went our separate directions; her heading left and me heading right. In hindsight, I now know that this sent me further away from my goal.
The night dragged on and I met a few people, but my eyes were constantly following Christa. Every time that I broke from conversation with one of the beer drinking cretins or blonde bimbos, my eyes would immediately locate Christa. I would watch as she laughed with a guy or spoke engagingly to a girl. What exactly drew me to her, I don’t think I’ll ever know. Maybe it was her swaying hips. Maybe it was her demure personality. Or her good looks. I guess it was mostly her smile. She could melt guy’s hearts from a mile away with that smile. She would get a guy in her radar and shoot that smile, knowing full well what it could do. Creatures like that weaken men’s knees and deliver the kill with a sweet, sensitive voice. When I stared in her direction, the noise that exploded from the stereo evaporated and silence filled the room. I could faintly hear voices, but none of that mattered. The only thing I could think of was her. I wasn’t obsessed, if that’s what you think. Somewhere during the point of obsession, a line is crossed. I went beyond that line long ago.
At this point in the night, it was getting quite late and I was beginning to feel the sting of the five beers I had drunk. I arose from my spot on the wall and stumbled towards the bathroom. IT took me awhile to find it, mostly because drunken bastards kept running into me and they kept me from finding the toilet. By the time I found the bathroom, the piss was ready to erupt forth. I made it barely in time and I pissed for a good five minutes. In the dark. I’m sure most of it ended up on the floor, but hell, it wasn’t my house. I flushed the toilet and turned on the sink. It’s amazing what once can do drunk while in the dark. I ran my hands under the warm water and slicked back my hair. I thought maybe I could find some drunken freshman girl and steal a kiss. As I reached for the doorknob, I heard Christa’s voice walking down the hall. I remained in the bathroom and listened. The voices were muffled but I could tell that it was Christa and Donna.
“Meet any cute guys tonight,” asked Donna.
“Yeah, a couple of them. Nothing too special, though.”
“College boys are just the same as high school guys. A few are nice; don’t get me wrong, but its always sex, sex, sex. You have to find the right ones. How’s Timmy doing? The two of you seem to be getting pretty close.”
“Timmy,” questioned Christa.
I could tell by the confidence in her voice that she knew exactly what Donna was talking about. My heart raced as I prepared myself to hear her answer. I pressed my ear close to the door, careful not to make a sound. “Timmy’s like a brother to me. He’s great and all, but it would be totally weird to date him.”
And there it was. With two simple sentences, my heart was crushed. It was a huge blow to my groin. My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach and I slowly backed away from the door. In retrospect, I knew long before she did that we could never have a relationship. I just never planned on hearing it this way. I was destroyed. And through it all, I’m still the one that’s stupid.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
ONE
“Who am I?”
That question surely hasn’t been answered yet.
“Where did it all go wrong?”
That’s the question I ask everywhere I go and no one can seem to tell me the answer. The only answer I get is silence. Absolute, no fucking doubt about it, genuine silence. I look at my life at where it stood three years ago, and everything was perfect. Perfect in the sense that it made me nearly complete. Or so I thought. That was one of my many misplaced ideas I had lost. In retrospect, maybe things were never right in my life. Maybe my utopian paradise was created by society and not by me. From day one I’ve known, I suppose, and yet I fought for it to be right. I’ve just chosen to blatantly ignore all of the signals and live in a crystal idealization of myself.
“What have I become?”
I used to be a man with dreams. I was a man that had goals and lofty aspirations. Now I’m hopeless. I’m a shell of the sensitive man that I once was. I’m a man that sits on the roof of his parents’ house, just as I did twelve years ago. You see, in high school when I was depressed, I would grab my dad’s Eagles tape and pop it into my walkman. I would grab the silver ladder from the garage, lean it up against the side of the house, and make my way to the roof of our one story house. I would find the song Desperado and listen to it over and over again. Don’t ask me why, but that song made me break down and my melancholy would pour out. Life has come full circle and I often find myself in the same exact place. Except now it’s Ben Folds songs that litter my IPod.
I mentioned day one earlier. By that harrowing day, I am referring to the collective whole of my teenage years. One’s life doesn’t REALLY start until then anyways. Up until that point, everything done in life is carefree and fun. As a child, who really cares about anything but running around the playground, watching television, and playing house with the neighbor girl? It’s all fun and games, and then life suddenly changes. One magical morning you wake up with a stiff penis and a sticky substance in your shorts. That’s when life starts. And ends, I guess, with Viagra and all that jazz. The beginning is like winter turning into spring. Then stress enters your life and nothing is ever the same again.
“Is it over?”
That’s the stress talking. Of course it’s over. I’m done trying to impress members of the opposite sex. My life has revolved around girls for far too long and I perhaps based too much stock in what they thought. Well fuck them! They’ve had their chances and now they’ve screwed with my mind once too often. It doesn’t matter anyhow. Bitches. All of them. Nothing matters now. I moved back home to my parents’ house to get away from all of that. To find myself. It’s sure helping, right?
“Am I crying?”
Be a man asshole. You’re 28 years old and living with your parents. You’re not a teenager anymore. I worry a lot, if you can’t tell. I always have. Sometimes I’m so inside my mind it that the entire thing drives me nuts. I have taken a lot of responsibility for myself; much more than a lot of my friends ever did, and yet I’m the one staring at the mountains off in the distance in the afternoons. I sit there, letting the deep, throaty vocals of Tom Waits soothe me over. I try to fight back those tears, but one will always eventually drop down my hair covered cheeks.
My name is Timmy. I’m an alcoholic. Or at least I like to call myself one. If that’s the case, I’m also a drug addict, sex addict, and an esteemed member of gambler’s anonymous. And by gambling, I mean that I buy five dollar scratch tickets at the local gas station on a daily basis. Sometimes, I even buy a whole sheet of them. My liver is probably failing, but I’m sure it has close to a good ten, or fifteen, years left in the healthy cycle. That’s if the smoking and eventual lung cancer don’t catch me first. I have brown hair, blue eyes, and the uncanny ability to drive people away that get close to me. I am six feet tall, and outwardly it appears that I have been chiseled from that of a Greek God. Okay, that’s not true, but I like to think so. Surely everyone has heard this sob story before, so I’ll spare you the minor details.
“Have I lived life to the fullest?”
Who knows?
“Do I deserve any of this?”
That answer is probably not; at least not in my eyes. People have often asked me if I’m afraid of death. I say yes, that I don’t want to die yet. I also tell them that I can’t really dwell on the inevitable. Everyone does at some point. I figure that if some higher power decides that it’s my time to go, then I will politely oblige, just as I’ve done with everything else in my life. I had my opportunities and my chances. I even attempted to gather ye rosebuds while ye may, as the saying goes. I have repented and sought forgiveness for those that I’ve sinned against. The fact is, I don’t even know where my mind is at most of the time. The scary part is that by not knowing the answers, I’m sent deeper and deeper into oblivion. I am a seeker of knowledge and wish to know everything I possibly can before I pass from this place. This place Earth, as it’s called. Well, by most observers anyway.
As I look back now, I can honestly say that so much that I’ve done n my life was done to impress my parents. I yearned for girls, yes, but I was a need for my parents’ constant support and reassurance that drove me nuts. Nothing was ever for me and that turned me into the person that I became after my teenage years. I couldn’t visualize anything for myself. It was always seen through my parents’ eyes. In high school, I didn’t get good grades to necessarily learn. I studied hard in subjects that interested me, but only hard enough to receive a low ‘A’ or high ‘B’ in that course. I might have been the valedictorian with a bit more effort. I wanted to learn, yes, but not the basic rubbish the schools were doling out in the public system. I wanted to read Dante, Aristotle, Plato, and Milton. All of those were subjects that are lost on the majority of today’s MTV fed society. A random teenager can name you the latest Lil Wayne or Taylor Swift song, but they can’t name you one of Shakespeare’s plays. Unless, that is, it’s one that Julia Stiles was in the movie version of. I took four years of Science in high school. For some reason, every single year I had to have the Scientific Method re-taught to me because the book demanded it so. The irony is that I can’t even tell you what it is now, just proving to everyone how much I really cared about Science.
Somehow, though, I managed to get through it. I got through the ups and downs of a middling athletic career in which I lettered in four sports. I got through the awkward stage of wearing glasses and bearing with the pain of girls choosing the guy right next to me at the various school dances. I got through the pain of being alone as I heard my so called friends talking about all the fun things they did without me the previous weekend. Not once did that phone ring at my house. I survived everything. Except for maybe this thing I’m going through here. That part is still to be determined. I’ve done everything for my parents. Everything. I even kept from taking my own life. Just for their sakes.
That question surely hasn’t been answered yet.
“Where did it all go wrong?”
That’s the question I ask everywhere I go and no one can seem to tell me the answer. The only answer I get is silence. Absolute, no fucking doubt about it, genuine silence. I look at my life at where it stood three years ago, and everything was perfect. Perfect in the sense that it made me nearly complete. Or so I thought. That was one of my many misplaced ideas I had lost. In retrospect, maybe things were never right in my life. Maybe my utopian paradise was created by society and not by me. From day one I’ve known, I suppose, and yet I fought for it to be right. I’ve just chosen to blatantly ignore all of the signals and live in a crystal idealization of myself.
“What have I become?”
I used to be a man with dreams. I was a man that had goals and lofty aspirations. Now I’m hopeless. I’m a shell of the sensitive man that I once was. I’m a man that sits on the roof of his parents’ house, just as I did twelve years ago. You see, in high school when I was depressed, I would grab my dad’s Eagles tape and pop it into my walkman. I would grab the silver ladder from the garage, lean it up against the side of the house, and make my way to the roof of our one story house. I would find the song Desperado and listen to it over and over again. Don’t ask me why, but that song made me break down and my melancholy would pour out. Life has come full circle and I often find myself in the same exact place. Except now it’s Ben Folds songs that litter my IPod.
I mentioned day one earlier. By that harrowing day, I am referring to the collective whole of my teenage years. One’s life doesn’t REALLY start until then anyways. Up until that point, everything done in life is carefree and fun. As a child, who really cares about anything but running around the playground, watching television, and playing house with the neighbor girl? It’s all fun and games, and then life suddenly changes. One magical morning you wake up with a stiff penis and a sticky substance in your shorts. That’s when life starts. And ends, I guess, with Viagra and all that jazz. The beginning is like winter turning into spring. Then stress enters your life and nothing is ever the same again.
“Is it over?”
That’s the stress talking. Of course it’s over. I’m done trying to impress members of the opposite sex. My life has revolved around girls for far too long and I perhaps based too much stock in what they thought. Well fuck them! They’ve had their chances and now they’ve screwed with my mind once too often. It doesn’t matter anyhow. Bitches. All of them. Nothing matters now. I moved back home to my parents’ house to get away from all of that. To find myself. It’s sure helping, right?
“Am I crying?”
Be a man asshole. You’re 28 years old and living with your parents. You’re not a teenager anymore. I worry a lot, if you can’t tell. I always have. Sometimes I’m so inside my mind it that the entire thing drives me nuts. I have taken a lot of responsibility for myself; much more than a lot of my friends ever did, and yet I’m the one staring at the mountains off in the distance in the afternoons. I sit there, letting the deep, throaty vocals of Tom Waits soothe me over. I try to fight back those tears, but one will always eventually drop down my hair covered cheeks.
My name is Timmy. I’m an alcoholic. Or at least I like to call myself one. If that’s the case, I’m also a drug addict, sex addict, and an esteemed member of gambler’s anonymous. And by gambling, I mean that I buy five dollar scratch tickets at the local gas station on a daily basis. Sometimes, I even buy a whole sheet of them. My liver is probably failing, but I’m sure it has close to a good ten, or fifteen, years left in the healthy cycle. That’s if the smoking and eventual lung cancer don’t catch me first. I have brown hair, blue eyes, and the uncanny ability to drive people away that get close to me. I am six feet tall, and outwardly it appears that I have been chiseled from that of a Greek God. Okay, that’s not true, but I like to think so. Surely everyone has heard this sob story before, so I’ll spare you the minor details.
“Have I lived life to the fullest?”
Who knows?
“Do I deserve any of this?”
That answer is probably not; at least not in my eyes. People have often asked me if I’m afraid of death. I say yes, that I don’t want to die yet. I also tell them that I can’t really dwell on the inevitable. Everyone does at some point. I figure that if some higher power decides that it’s my time to go, then I will politely oblige, just as I’ve done with everything else in my life. I had my opportunities and my chances. I even attempted to gather ye rosebuds while ye may, as the saying goes. I have repented and sought forgiveness for those that I’ve sinned against. The fact is, I don’t even know where my mind is at most of the time. The scary part is that by not knowing the answers, I’m sent deeper and deeper into oblivion. I am a seeker of knowledge and wish to know everything I possibly can before I pass from this place. This place Earth, as it’s called. Well, by most observers anyway.
As I look back now, I can honestly say that so much that I’ve done n my life was done to impress my parents. I yearned for girls, yes, but I was a need for my parents’ constant support and reassurance that drove me nuts. Nothing was ever for me and that turned me into the person that I became after my teenage years. I couldn’t visualize anything for myself. It was always seen through my parents’ eyes. In high school, I didn’t get good grades to necessarily learn. I studied hard in subjects that interested me, but only hard enough to receive a low ‘A’ or high ‘B’ in that course. I might have been the valedictorian with a bit more effort. I wanted to learn, yes, but not the basic rubbish the schools were doling out in the public system. I wanted to read Dante, Aristotle, Plato, and Milton. All of those were subjects that are lost on the majority of today’s MTV fed society. A random teenager can name you the latest Lil Wayne or Taylor Swift song, but they can’t name you one of Shakespeare’s plays. Unless, that is, it’s one that Julia Stiles was in the movie version of. I took four years of Science in high school. For some reason, every single year I had to have the Scientific Method re-taught to me because the book demanded it so. The irony is that I can’t even tell you what it is now, just proving to everyone how much I really cared about Science.
Somehow, though, I managed to get through it. I got through the ups and downs of a middling athletic career in which I lettered in four sports. I got through the awkward stage of wearing glasses and bearing with the pain of girls choosing the guy right next to me at the various school dances. I got through the pain of being alone as I heard my so called friends talking about all the fun things they did without me the previous weekend. Not once did that phone ring at my house. I survived everything. Except for maybe this thing I’m going through here. That part is still to be determined. I’ve done everything for my parents. Everything. I even kept from taking my own life. Just for their sakes.
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About Me
- Jason Haskins
- Boise, Idaho, United States
- I am a playwright, screenwriter, novelist. My novels "Of Snow Forts and Santa," "The Dragon Princess", "The Blue Gem" and "The Dragon Slayer" are all available in paperback and as e-books. To learn more, visit jason-haskins.com or follow me on Bluesky, Instagram, or Threads