by CtotheB
It was the end of Spring Break, and I was on my way back to campus after an incredible week in Charleston. I found time there to be mind cleansing, which I needed desperately. On top of schoolwork, extra-curriculars and typical adolescent angst, my estranged girlfriend and I were trying to make things work. I had seen my share of “It’s Complicated” statuses on Facebook, but never lived it. We’d broken up the week of Valentine’s Day but still did all the things couples do, both publicly and privately. Hard to tell if we were confused, lonely, or somewhere in between.
Once reaching campus I made my way to her room, bags still in hand. It was a little after eleven and he was there. Sitting on the floor, television on, reading for class as she did the same from her elevated dorm room bed.
I blew up.
Commanded him to leave the room, and immediately began my inquisition. I’d like to think I’d be calmer if it were any other guy but knowing that she was in here, with him, with their history (they’d been together as recently as a few weeks before we started dating) made me a jealous mess. This insulted her.
“Do you think I’m that easy?!”
Yes.
“Considering you have already, have no classes with him, so it’s not like you were studying with him, and he was in here at this time of night?! What should I think? Nevermind the reason we are broken up right now is because you stepped out on me already! You’re right, I shouldn’t be concerned.”
It is here that I learned words have power. And unfortunately, when we’re the most out of control is often when we’re the most honest.
“It’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be in here with him, or any guy, not this time of night and not with you in your bed.”
“I’m not going to do anything!”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you slept with him before the end of the week.”
We argued more, then fell asleep so we could attend our Monday morning classes.
As the week passed on, we argued less and forgave each other. Smaller arguments arose but none akin to Sunday’s flare-up. I had RA duty on Friday and saw the guy in the student union. We talked about sports, told stories, and cracked jokes. I never considered him a friend, but we’d always been friendly, so I found no reason to stop. I wanted to apologize for blowing up on Sunday but never brought it up. We parted ways and I was almost through with my rounds but took time to stop by a friend’s room and talk. During the conversation I brought up the hope I felt. For the first time, I really believed my relationship was salvageable. He had hope for me and told me I’d be in his prayers as I departed. I was on my way to my dorm, but as hers was on the way, I figured I’d see what she was up to. I stood outside her building and dialed her number.
Her voice had the cadences of a hostage. She asked me how I was, implored me to go to my room, and enticed me with an evening together. I told her okay and continued to talk with her as I entered her building. I heard her pleas to go to my dorm and asked her if she was okay as I made my way up the stairs. With a stealth that surprised me, I made it to her door. Her voice cracked.
“You’re outside aren’t you?”
I told her I was going to open the door and she begged me to leave. I told her to open the door and she asked why I was doing this. I told her to open the door and she said alright.
Then he said, “Hold on, let me put on my clothes.”
I laughed. It would be a few more semesters before a professor told my class that laughing in moments of tragedy was a sign of hysteria. Your body becomes desperate for an avenue of reaction, having never experienced the aforementioned, identifies the absurdity, and laughs. My laughs were interwoven with praise. “Thank You Jesus.” I felt an inner peace and clarity that still doesn’t make sense. There were tears in their eyes as I spent hours yelling at them. I cursed them, called them liars and betrayers. I pitied them, mocked them, and told them they deserved each other.
After a while, his tears turned into anguished wailing and he exited the room. He had tried before but I commanded him to stay. His listening made me feel powerful; I knew I could destroy him with my fists or my words. I chose words. The barbs were relentless and the power grew frightening. I knew, if it were my choosing, these words could do anything. I could have destroyed him. When he left she pleaded with me to go after him. I refused. I saved my worst for her. He had no obligation toward me, she did.
“Yes, we had broken up but I intended to fix things, didn’t you?”
Now I could cry. The power I felt went away and I was empty. She told me every detail. They shared a bed while I was away, even on one night while we were on the phone. They didn’t intend to hurt me. “You deserve better than this.”
I told her to take a shower, she asked me why. I kissed her, and we began but it was too painful. I still don’t know why, but I stayed there that night. Perhaps she was too afraid to ask me to leave and I was too afraid to be alone.
It wasn’t long before we continued to behave as we did prior to that night. On the outside, we were still dating but weren’t together as much. We were guarded, and our conversations were terse. Friends would ask for her and I’d pretend to have the answer. I assume the same for her. It would be another fall until I could no longer maintain the charade. During another argument, she exclaimed, “But, I’m your friend!” I returned, “No! I was always a friend to you but you were never one for me.”
In her I had met my match – a girl as passionate as me. She cared about the environment so deeply that it challenged my own beliefs. I found being around her exhilarating – she being so unlike myself. She would rather have disease wipe out the majority of the human population than for us to continue destroying the environment. Statements like these baffled me, but she believed it so sincerely – and it was the sincerity of her belief that enchanted me.
However, when I asked – she revealed that she had a boyfriend back home. She mentioned that she was very unhappy in her relationship, and then did not mention him again. We quickly started spending a lot of time together. We would take long walks together around midnight, exploring ideas of faith, people, and love. I soon found myself liking her more and more, and for the first time since I had left a 2.5 year relationship, I realized I actually could love this girl and was willing to call her my girl friend.
I found myself reading the Tao of Pooh just to try to understand her better. When I was out at a supermarket I would call her just to see if she needed me to pick her up any trail mix. I would write her poetry that was as short and beautiful as she was. However, the only thing between us was her unspoken boyfriend back home. I assumed that she would soon break up with him, and was just waiting to go back home over Fall Break and do it in person. I wanted to be patient, however one fall night, in a rush of pure joy and danger, we kissed and the spell was complete.
Yet, when she came back from break her facebook status still had her in a relationship. She didn’t mention it, and I didn’t either. However, I couldn’t help wishing that this invisible third party would just go away. If he would just disappear – then I could have her as a girlfriend, I could finally have a happily-ever-after. We continued to spend time together, and take our walks. When we were together the world just seemed to make more sense, and everything deep inside of you just felt more alive. More and more I found myself disliking this boyfriend of hers, this elephant, this unspoken wall between us. I just wished that he could be out of the picture, that he could just go away.
One night she was no longer there. I went to her room and couldn’t find her. I went to the art studio and she wasn’t there. I called her and she didn’t answer. Finally I texted her, “where are you, are you okay?” And she replied, “my boyfriend died.” I asked how, and she said “drowned”. Her boyfriend and some buddies had gotten drunk and attempted to swim the length of a pool that was covered by a tarp. He didn’t make it and tragically drowned. When she came back to school weeks later to finish her exam, we briefly passed each other walking outside, she didn’t say a word to me – but I saw – I swear I saw – hatred.
After a few weeks of my internship and a few Friday night drink-ups at the shop, one of the guys said we should head out to one of the ex-pat bars over on the south side to investigate the nightlife and force me out of my apartment to meet some ladies so I could "get lucky." I appreciated his efforts and joined him that night.
After an hour of struggling to call a taxi to pick me up and a $20 cab ride for 2 miles (still bitter 4 years later), I arrived at Aqua a bit too early. An MMA fight was on the bar TV and roided out guys were screaming at the screens with the passion of Rocky. I ordered my Carib and waited for my buddy. Two Caribs and a rum and coke later, my coworker arrived drink in hand and smile on his face.
He buys me another rum and coke and we find a place on the wood paneled bar to watch the MMA fight for a second time. Shop-talk follows, with discussion of the GPS work we've done and diving on the island. Nothing social lubrication would facilitate. After finishing another round, we head to the tiki patio outside and he notices a lady in his periphery. He looks at me and said, "I'll be right back." He slid his hands into his khaki pockets and moseyed over to the women.
After striking up a conversation and getting her number he came back. Hands now out of his pockets he looked at me and said, "Sometimes I like to push the limits." I stared at him blankly and waited for a follow up. I could tell there had been an internal dialogue raging in his head and I was catching the tail end. "Would you think less of me if I took off my ring?"
All I could think about was his wife who had just fixed the perfect gnocchi two nights before, how she had just decided to take a ladies trip over to Cuba, and how she seemed like the most loving person I had ever met. To my dismay I found myself shrugging my shoulders and showing no disapproval. He wrestled and twisted the ring off and slipped it into his cargo pant pocket. He led the charge to the next bar.
We arrived at Boca de something, a more urban dance club that further illuminated his subtle Hawaiian shirt. He handed me two more beers and agreed we would head out in an hour. I danced; lazily. We met some people from an accounting firm and I struck up a conversation about the world cup and became engrossed in the island's obsession with its mother, Britain. After 30 minutes of intense dialogue, I see my friend on the couch talking with this same jet black haired lady from Aqua. It appears harmless and its not my responsibility to babysit this 30 year old man. Right? I reenter the conversation with my disappointment in the fall of Real Madrid despite a Yankee scale payroll.
The hour or so flies bye and closing time nears. I take a lap around the bar looking for my ringless friend and decide to take one last pass at the bathroom. After relieving my self, I found my accountant acquaintances. I tell them that my ride is nowhere to be found and I think he may have slipped out with his lady friend. They offer me a ride back to their place for an after party. Not seeing a better alternative, I agreed and hopped in the back seat. Inevitably, my friend was the topic of discussion but their disappointment was not in how he may have left with someone else but how I got shafted with finding a way home. Everyone has a beer or two more and then someone says their heading by my place and would drop me off on their way.
I wake up the next morning and put many of the pieces together from the previous night while watching the morning matches of the World Cup and look forward to the US actually making a decent showing later in the afternoon. Around noon I get a call from my M.I.A friend and he wants me to come over to watch the game and have some steaks. After 3 weeks of living off of hot dogs and ham sandwiches, I jumped at the opportunity. I hopped on my bike and rode the 5 miles to the other side of the island just in time for kickoff. Potatoes, steak and even a salad were waiting for me on the coffee table with Landon and crew on the TV.
We chat about the US's chances. I didn't bring up the night before and it didn't come up during the match. Both of us devoured the steak and set back in the glory of gluttony. We moved to the back porch; he handed me a Miller Lite. The back patio looked onto the waterway and we just sat for a few minutes. Amidst the silence, my mind was replaying the two sitting there on the couch and how they were lost in the blur of the night.
"Crazy night," he sputtered. I nodded. While still seated, he began shuffling his feet on the concrete, like a self conscious child in the spot light. He hinted that he wanted to tell me something. "I haven't even told my brother this." I knew it was coming. Transitioned mumbling followed until, "I cheated on [my wife] for the first time last night."
I continued my steady, rhythmic nodding and silence. He pulled out his pack of cigarettes; the ones that he had sad were his last for the past 2 days. He lit and took a long draw, leaning back in his chair and looking over the waterway. He didn't look stressed. But for that matter, I'd never seen him stressed even when we were in a tropical storm aboard a tiny john boat, he was perfectly in control. Silence fell and he asked me what he should do. At the time, only 19, was perplexed at what insight I could offer. More silence. He vowed to give up alcohol, and the remainder 2 months on the island, he did not drink. All I could get out was jumbled advice about honesty, love, forgiveness; all things I think I had learned from wasted days watching Lifetime.
We shook hands, he thanked me for listening and I departed.
It was the slowest bike ride of my life. Reflecting, taking in the fact that only my buddy, the jet black haired girl, and I knew that he violated what I felt was the most sacred vow was tearing me up. That son of a bitch. He could not blame this on alcohol. He took his ring off after 1 beer. He followed the girl to the club. He had one intention. With the sea on my right, the disappointment in humanity fell over me. I had utmost faith in good men. Maybe he was hoping that I had stepped in the previous night. Gave him a nudge from the angel on the left shoulder or not stared blankly at him when he took the ring off.
After making the journey home, I finished a bottle of Appleton’s and passed out to replays of the US losing. I had high hopes.
Our meeting was almost perfect, despite the fact that we were both in committed relationships at the time. We were working on a student film together, and on the first day of rehearsals the director asked the two of us to stand in for the actors. Before I even knew his hometown, I was hugging this boy, taking in his scent, marveling at the electricity passing between us as we embraced. We stayed in this position for a few minutes as the director paced around us, discussing shots set-ups with the cinematographer. He and I spoke in each other’s ears, and I was captivated; never before had I experienced such an intense physical attraction to a boy. Especially not my current boyfriend.
He and I became close friends. He was my confidant, and we took to sneaking off together during lulls in filming to go for long walks in the night air. I bared to him my soul, and he gave me back massages when I grew tired. I kept denying that there was anything going on between us, despite the fact that I’d broken up with my loser boyfriend and was an aching, lonely soul.
I met her once. He brought her to set one day, proudly showing her off. It was eerie how much she looked like me. Same frame, same curly hair, same glasses. Except she had a nice rack, whereas I am flat-chested. She was “beautiful,” as he described her. Her name was Anna.
I hated her.
She, in my opinion, was hideous - the ugliest, most deplorable female I had ever laid eyes on. I couldn’t bring myself to talk to her, but instead chose to glare at her from across the room. Look how happy he is. Look how happy SHE is. I wanted to vomit, and then I wanted to take my clenched fist and ram it straight into the side of her ugly little head. I wanted to tear her apart. I wanted her to suffer.
Despite the fact that he had paraded his trophy girlfriend around in front of me, he would not leave me alone. And I was all too eager to push her out of my mind and let him in. He began to visit me at my apartment. It was always very innocent, at first. We would watch a movie. We would talk. And then he would tell me how beautiful I was.
I fell into his trap without thinking. Before I could reflect on my actions, we were holding hands. Then we were lying down in my bed, staring into each other’s eyes in awe. Then we were standing on my rooftop, underneath the sparkling stars, touching foreheads as I wished with all my heart for him to tell me he and his girlfriend were breaking up.
They weren’t breaking up. He loved her, he reminded me.
Then he began touching me, feeling me, sending shivers of sensation up and down my body. It was intoxicating, and I fell under his spell as he grabbed me and drew me to him. He kissed me, passionately (I’m wanted! I’m wanted! …my pathetically insecure mind exclaimed with glee), and then he leaned down and whispered in my ear, confirming all of my hopes: “I want you.”
I threw myself at him, gave him everything I could, desperate to prove how superior I was to that deplorable creature he called his girlfriend. Night after night I cast away all my reason and set out to complete my mission to make him forget her altogether.
We did not discuss the problem at all. Weeks went by, and he still had that vile little girl waiting for him in Irvine. Sometimes she would call while we were together. Part of me died every time.
Finally, he confessed to me that he had a history of cheating on his girlfriends. That girl I loathed, miles away? She had helped him cheat on his previous girlfriend. At one point in high school, he was sleeping with three different girls at the same time, without their knowledge. It figured: he was charming, talkative, wild with sex. The quintessential player.
One day, he came to my door, eyes ablaze. His stone gaze spoke of nothing but hatred. Quietly, he informed me that he had finally broken up with Anna, who he still deeply loved. And it was my fault.
I stayed with that boy. He had ensnared me so tightly that I could not let go, so I stayed by his side, even during the period of time when he could not look at me because I had caused him to cry. He cried when he broke up with her. He’s only ever cried three times in his entire life.
Months later, we were in the throes of happiness. We spent the long summer days together, building on that spark that drew us together. I envisioned my future with him, the darkness of the origins of our relationship fading into a dream. I was floating.
Then, one night, we were making love with more intensity than ever before. It was blissful and wonderful how close we had become, how deeply I loved him.
I told him so, and he replied, without pausing, without thinking: “I love you too, Anna.”
I don’t think most of us wake up in the morning thinking about the miserable shit we’d like to befall our former neighbors, friends, or lovers. I'll go even further and suggest that no one plans on hating what we know another person loves -- but sometimes it turns out that way. Thus, I can’t shake the idea that sometimes we just aren’t supposed to like a motherfucker. Sometimes you just look down at 14 months of bouncing baby boy and think, “I wouldn’t mind if you fell down some stairs.”
I didn’t go into this blind. I play dumb sometimes -- better safe than sorry I figure -- but this time I knew full well what the stakes were. I knew what he meant to his mother: she adores him. We fast became friends, and she told me in a moment of heartbreaking vulnerability that he literally saved her from suicide. She didn’t know her purpose before him. Because of that knowledge, I never smile at him. I don’t want him feeling comfortable around me. The one time we made a connection, he giggled and wanted me to pick him up. A few minutes later he came back and hugged my leg. “He’s never done that to my guy friends before.” That would have been a good omen to a more honorable man, but I couldn’t bring myself to look at it so positively. I only saw a liability: if the kid likes you, then she’ll like you, and then you’ll have to get “serious.” Never that. Serious men are miserable, and I didn’t want to be a long-term serious man. Not this soon.
I don't know exactly when it started, but I think it was inevitable for my mood toward him to change from indifference to enmity. The straw could have been the day he paused from spinning around the living room to audibly shit his pants: something he found hilarious. Maybe it was the 7am Baby Einstein wake up calls (we both hated being alone, so I slept over sometimes); maybe their lie reflected my own. We were both faking it: those tapes wouldn’t make him any smarter, not even marginally, and no matter how tight I held her at night, I couldn’t convince myself that I was not, in fact, making a dangerous mistake. “Friend, my ass. This is how women get hurt,” I thought. “This is how bad relationships start.” Maybe I was jealous that he could be with the woman who loved him; the one who loves me is half a country away.
So here I am (or was, as it’s finally over), it’s morning again; I'm waiting for the bathroom. I’m looking at her drooling, slack-jawed, $10,000 paperweight, and can’t help but picture gently placing an index finger between his big, vacant eyes and pushing backward. I wonder if he’ll topple like a stack of alphabet bricks. He waddles over, carrying a little green cylinder. He was tired of sucking on it and wanted to roll it across the room. He looks up at me, and holds it out for me to play with, but his grip isn’t strong enough and it falls to the floor. He tries to pick it up, but my foot beats him to it: a little kick sends the thing clattering across the den. He looks hurt. I feel very satisfied.
We live in a society that has rejected the idea of "black"and "white", right and wrong, good and evil. Most people don't even agree that such old-fashioned notions like "the truth" even exists. Perception is what rules our world, and not just any perception, but your perception. However, even though we believe we live in a world of technicolored gray - very rarely do we actually explore those real life experiences from which we draw these conclusions. In these series of stories we will explore what it is that makes our world grey, what inspires our moral relativism. Often we encounter moments in our lives that do not make sense - where our actions clash with our values - where what we thought we believed starts to crumble. Many times these moments are traumatic, sometimes they are funny, often they are surprising, but they are always moments where we are at our most human. Many of these stories will contain anti-heroes, will have no clear morals, and may very well be disturbing. Good.
The purpose of the Boundary series is to cause the reader to question, to empathize with another persons experience, and perhaps even be comforted by how deeply flawed we can be - how even really good people can do bad things - how we sometimes give in to our animal urges - how we are most often fully alive right at that point where we are in the greatest danger of losing our humanity.
We encourage all of our readers to dig deep within themselves and write down their own boundary experience(s) - at the very least comment on the experiences of others. If you do write a story you can send it to artstarblog@gmail.com.
Thanks for supporting Art Star and always remember "you can't fake real".
-smartblackboy
