It was a hell of a party.
Attachment psychologist Foster Cline described bonding as “the successful completion of an ordeal.” Think of how many interpersonal bonds have been dramatically forged — whether in books or films or real life — via the process two (or more) people go through when thrown together during a crisis. That’s the whole plot-engine behind The African Queen, for instance, and why we start to care so much about what happens to Shelley Winters in The Poseidon Adventure. Bogart and Hepburn are oil and water at the outset of the former flick, but after an all-out struggle to survive they wind up deeply bonded and in love with each other. Likewise, a group of strangers helping one another up and out of a capsized luxury liner become like a sort of motley family, and the sacrificial heroism of Winters and Hackman mirrors the self-sacrifice of devoted parents. There are countless other examples, but you get the drift.
Nothing quite that dramatic happened this weekend…but if I was anywhere near the tipping point before, I definitely went over the edge, thanks to a belligerently drunk Vietnam vet and a seizing epileptic.
All at the company barbecue.
**
But let me back up a little. A few posts ago I identified among my apparent fans “two affable young supervisors who find excuses to hover around my cube like honeybees.” One of those supervisors is a potty-mouthed, politically astute stepdaddy with a shiny bald pate and an attitude who cracks me up all day long with his antics. I’ve taken to sitting beside him lately because he makes the day go by faster.
The other supervisor is Sam.
Sam is a tender twenty-one going on a seasoned forty. One of the other supervisors refers to him as an “old soul,” and her assessment is entirely accurate. He comes off as far more responsive and more responsible than the assistant executive director, a man roughly my age. Most people think Sam is at least thirty. I honestly wish he were running the place, and told him so once. Sam went to college (to study political science) at sixteen, so he’s no dummy and certainly no slouch. He’s long been one of my favorite supervisors for his approachability, his listening skills, and his unassuming demeanor. Everybody loves Sam.
Rick hung out with him one evening and later told me he found him a tad too straitlaced, even though Sam does drink and occasionally partake of the herb. At the time, I hadn’t yet figured out who Sam was. I’d barely even noticed him.
Not that he’s unattractive — not at all — but if he were walking toward me as a stranger in a crowd I wouldn’t even see him. None of the things that usually make me take marked visual notice of a man are present with Sam, other than the retro-hipster mutton chop sideburns he was growing for a while as part of a bet. (Those did look damn good on him, I must say.)
I’d been developing a bit of a mild crush on him lately, however, partly because of our excellent chemistry at work, but also simply because he’s so cool, and because he’s young and fresh and male and there.
And let’s face it, mama cougar is hungry. (They just started hiring again, finally, and one of the first hires was a peach-fuzzed brunette colt with skin the color of browned butter. I was sitting in on his training, staring at his tanned arms, and it was hard to keep myself from openly salivating. I actually started fantasizing about a four-way with me and the kid and Sam and the other trainer, Joseph, a wiry little whip of a fella I’ve always liked. Not exactly the consummately professional thing to do. So, yeah, my appetites are getting pretty dire these days.)
**
At the company’s summer barbecue in our recently departed campaign director Andie’s backyard, feeling the buzz of a couple of drinks, I flirtatiously turned Sam’s Castro-esque cap backwards on his head.
In my inebriated state, I found after a while that I wanted to be near him more than I wanted to hang out with anyone else, even though I was sincerely enjoying my other friends. It was really only for that reason that I eventually followed him into the special room designated for “herbology.”
I only allow myself that particular indulgence maybe once or twice a year, because I’m so sensitive. And usually not while drinking. But everyone in the room was so jolly, and one of the gay co-hosts was so wickedly, raunchily funny, I stayed in there for a good while and took several turns. I was significantly spacey as the evening wound down, with that surreal sense of being in a dream I typically have when I smoke. I begged a ride home (I had walked over two miles to get there) from one of the company’s resident den mothers, a dry-humored lesbian in her fifties who was helping with cleanup. As it so happens, she was also Sam’s ride.
Cue the beginning of the craziness.
**
Helping Miranda fold chairs and bring in dishes, I couldn’t help but notice (even in my dreamlike state) that the longhaired Vietnam vet who had worked for the company for years was getting agitated and shouting. He was clearly out of it, either drunk or tripping on something, and his bellowing had to do with guns and killing people. He may have been having a PTSD episode. At any rate, he was yelling curses and threats at the remaining partygoers in the backyard. One of our braver coworkers, a top performer and fundraising veteran named Jerry with a striking shock of white hair, was valiantly attempting to pacify him, with mixed results. It wasn’t helping at all that Renee, an alcoholic former beautician in her late forties, was still making the rounds of the sparse festivities, throwing out strident and drunken assertions at everyone and occasionally provoking Tom, the vet, by telling him to “fucking shut up already!”
Near the kitchen doorway Sam stood monitoring the scene. “We need to clear everybody out of here,” he said quietly. “He’s getting all riled up with all these people around. He’ll calm down once the party winds down.”
Which it was definitely doing; most of the guests had already left. Someone told me that Tom was going to camp out in the backyard for the night, and there were already blankets and quilts fence-side. It was good to know nobody was going to have to wrestle him into a car or see him home. Andie, the hostess, had disappeared some time before, having passed out on her bed; her roommate Russell was wandering around rather incoherent, having consumed several more potent vices than alcohol and weed. The only person vaguely in charge was Paul, the wickedly funny gay guy who helped organize this funfest.
Sam and I were more than ready to go, and everyone was moving to leave, but Miranda needed a rest. She was feeling fatigued. She sat down on one of the outdoor chairs and slowly smoked a cigarette, chatting with a bleary-eyed Russell. When at last we started moving toward the front door, I led the way, through the kitchen and into the dining room.
Which is when Miranda went down.
**
I was in front of her; Renee was behind. I turned sideways as she made a muted, guttural noise, and saw her reach toward the floor with both hands, as if she’d dropped something. In my altered state, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Renee grabbed at her as I stood dumbly by, watching. Miranda narrowly missed the dining table and chair and went down on her hands and knees before hitting the floor, shaking all over.
Sam was there like lightning, kneeling at her head. “Turn her on her side!” he barked. Renee and I helped him roll her. The remaining guests (minus Tom the ranter) had piled into the kitchen and were starting to freak out. “Call 911!” someone shouted. Miranda’s body was jerking spasmodically. “Don’t call 911!” Sam shouted back at the others. I looked at him uncertainly. “Just hold her,” he said. I trusted him. He held her upper body, I held her midsection, and Renee held her legs. Miranda went still and began making a sort of snoring noise in her throat.
Renee, drunk as a skunk as she was, started to freak out then, and decided we needed to do CPR and keep Miranda from swallowing her tongue. She pulled Miranda to one side and shoved her fingers in Miranda’s mouth, shouting at us and clumsily trying to do mouth-to-mouth. Miranda lay limply. Sam wasn’t intervening; maybe he was thrown by the throat-noise and by Renee’s sudden command of the situation. I was confused and vaguely frightened and couldn’t make any sense whatsoever of what was going on. I couldn’t remember whether Renee was the employee with the medical background or not (she isn’t). My brain seemed coated somehow, like a furry post-hangover tongue. “Is she breathing?” I asked, baffled. Renee said she was.
Good old Jerry, unconvinced that this didn’t constitute a life-or-death emergency, was calling 911 on his cell phone. Paul was protesting loudly, saying that it was unnecessary and that Miranda didn’t have insurance. Andie came rushing out the bedroom, surprisingly alert, demanding to know what the hell had happened. She knelt by Miranda’s side and got Renee to quit the amateur EMT routine. Renee got up in a growly huff, saying “I fucking saved her life, man.” Jerry was on the phone giving somebody, the police or EMTs, a blow-by-blow of the action until they arrived.
Which they did, in record time, just as Miranda was coming to. She opened and blinked her unfocused eyes, her limbs stirring. Sam, taking charge again (“Everybody out!”), herded the majority of us out of the room and into the backyard. I grabbed Miranda’s broken glasses up off the floor. Andie and someone else (Jerry?) stayed in the dining room to talk to the paramedics and the police.
**
Once everything had been sorted out and Miranda had been loaded onto the ambulance (bound for a small hospital nearby and not the public-hospital zoo, which was so overcrowded they were diverting emergencies elsewhere), Sam came to get me. “Let’s roll,” he said. I had no idea where we were going or how, but I grabbed my purse and salad bowl and followed. He unlocked the SUV parked in the driveway, Andie’s car. I got into the passenger seat. There was some consulting going on about the change of hospitals and where the smaller one was. I got out momentarily to hug a dazed Jerry, and tell him he’d done a good thing. He was wound tighter than a drum and squeezed me rigidly. Andie climbed into the back seat of her car, I got in front, and Sam, one of the only guests fully alert and sober now, slid into the driver’s seat.
He drove us to the quiet hospital E/R, where it turned out to be remarkably easy to park and check ourselves in as visitors. As we were walking in, Sam slipped an arm around my shoulders. “How are you doing?” he asked. I told him I had picked a hell of a time to do my once-a-year partying and that I wished I hadn’t gotten so fucked up.
There was absolutely nothing going on in the E/R for a Saturday night. Once Miranda had been admitted, within minutes we were able to go in and see her. She was completely conscious and coherent by that time, lying in a private exam room in a neck brace and hooked to an IV. She was glad to see us, but rueful that no one, particularly the paramedics and police, had noticed the dog tags hitched to her belt that said EPILEPTIC and DO NOT CALL 911 along with a list of her medications and her emergency contact. She hadn’t had a seizure in over a year.
Sam had been in the right all along. He stood by Miranda’s bedside now, squeezing her hand reassuringly. I was the designated digger, digging in her backpack for her spare pair of glasses, her wallet, and her portfolio of contacts and medical records. The casual, shirtsleeved doctor consulted with her briefly, determined she was good to go, and directed the nurses to discharge her. The whole hospital visit took less than an hour from end to end. Sam made the calls to the others to let them know everything was all right.
We all drove back to Andie’s house, which was dark by now. Miranda was going to spend the night there; Andie was lending Sam the car until tomorrow so he could get us both home (she still wasn’t fit to drive). Sam and I exchanged hugs with Andie and Miranda and climbed back into the SUV. I silently rejoiced to have him to myself at last.
(To any other gals out there: seriously, aren’t you in love with Sam by this point too?)
**
I marveled at how we had wound up here, after all the night’s misadventures, exactly where I would have wanted to be. Zooming down a quiet Thirteenth Avenue in Andie’s car, finally alone with him following upon a Foster-Clinean, dramatic ordeal, I felt even more strongly bonded to my steady young supervisor.
He had turned up the radio at Andie’s request on the way back to her house, and it was still turned up. I heard Glen Hansard’s gently plucked guitar intro to “Falling Slowly” from the movie Once come on, at a volume impossible to ignore, and I thought, aw, geez. Here it comes again: one of those moments where you’re rendered a hapless pawn to the emotion in a song, a beautiful love song that kidnaps you and carries you away to places you didn’t even know you wanted to go. A song from a movie about two people who become close in a short amount of time and share an unforgettable experience, but who, for one reason or another, don’t wind up together. Glen started singing
I don’t know you
but I want you
all the more for that...
I asked Sam if he’d seen the film. He hadn’t. I told him a little about it and mentioned that this song won an Oscar. As we crossed the intersection of my street and Fourteenth Avenue, Glen was crooning
You have suffered enough
at war with yourself
it’s time that you won…
and I thought with a smile, hell if that ain’t the truth, but I’m the only one in this car to whom that line means much. I started singing along softly.
Sam pulled into the driveway on one side of my building, and extended his right hand as he thanked me for being there tonight. Freeing myself from my seat belt, I brushed aside his hand and went in for a full hug…which he gladly and gratefully accepted, nestling me against his chest with both arms.
We held each other for what seemed like a long time, as if one of us were leaving for good. His warm and relaxed embrace felt as rare and right as that of only a few other men, Sonny among them (and I have put my arms around a multitude of men). Melting into his body, I could have stayed there all night.
“You’re so great, Sam,” I sighed. “Do you have any idea how great you are?”
He murmured something characteristically modest in reply. I separated myself from him at last, placing a hand briefly, caressingly, on his stubbled cheek. “Boy, I swear,” I continued with wry regret, “if you weren’t my boss…or if I weren’t old enough to be your mother…”
I shot him a sidelong look as I released the door latch, leaving the sentence unfinished. My consummate professional of a supervisor had the loveliest shy, open, vulnerable expression in his shining dark eyes. It was the expression of a hopeful young boy. In the half-light under the streetlight, he had never looked more beautiful or more appealing. (Should I have tried to kiss him anyway? Dang it, I was too messed up to judge. My rational mind says I did the right thing, but that embrace felt like the kind of supreme trumping good that makes a body throw caution to the wind and break protocols and laws and even a commandment or two.) We said good night, and I gave him a conspiratorial wink.
Another man I had hardly taken notice of at the outset had become something irresistible before my very eyes.
**
I can’t get over how easily I topple, like a top-heavy stack of plates. I’m a one-woman cliche. A formulaic romance narrative: introduction, then buildup, then crisis, then realization of feelings — without the Hollywood payoff at the end. But it wouldn’t be unfair to say that I’m like a windless sailboat when I’m not powered by some kind of eros. At least now I’m getting some energy back.
Walking in the park the day after all this madness, I thought about Rick, and about how much I enjoyed the time we did spend together. Isn’t that the point, I thought, to savor every moment you spend with someone you care about?
So I shared a bonding ordeal, and a lovely moment alone, with the capable and winsome young Sam…and I wouldn’t take any of it back or trade it for all the tea in China. That embrace glows in my heart the way Christ’s kiss glowed in the heart of Dostoevsky’s jaded old Inquisitor.
Is this going to be one more AlienBaby mishap? Oh, hell. Maybe.
Ask me if I care.
ah, you should not A and never B and why did you C and not D? maybe you should have E?
juts kidding! Suspenseful read for me, I always half expected a return of the flippy (see happy tree friends)
great that the evening ended in that beautiful embrace for you.
I am now convinced that you lead a much more interesting life than I do. Also, that your co-workers are much cooler than my co-workers. And that I should probably avoid the next work party as a result.
Kid I grew up with a few houses down was mentally retarded and epileptic, so from an early age I knew about both in detail. Though you don’t see grand mal seizures very often any more, probably due to anti-seizure meds. Those episodes look a lot worse than they are. (By the way, immediately after the seizure, most pass into a deep sleep, and snoring, believe it or not, is common, even for those that don’t snore when sleeping normally.) Your boy Dostoevsky was a famous epileptic, who once said that seizures were preceded by a state of euphoria so transcendent that, if given a chance to be cured, he wouldn’t do it.
I find that fascinating. Oliver Sacks talks about this; apparently, migraines are also often preceded by a kind of vision, usually described as a spiral or radiating wheel. You ever see anything like that before a migraine? Since altered states of consciousness really intrigue me, I’m deeply curious about pre-ictal euphoria or visions. PMS is another one: I’ve read some accounts of women who know their period is about to start, saying that colors seem sharper and there’s a certain electricity in the air. Sounds like a hit of acid coming on. I’m envious.
You should’ve dragged Sam upstairs, by the collar if necessary. After all, you had every excuse in the book: inebriation, emotional crisis, bonding, and to top it off, the radio was playing your song. Seriously, after all that turmoil a good fuck can do a world of good. He may have needed a little of that himself, you know. Should’ve done it for him.
BM3: The flippy? I take it you mean the Vietnam vet? I have no idea what happy tree friends are, although I’d wager Russell (the co-host) saw a few that night.
Russ: the place is full of truly colorful characters of various ages and social classes and educational backgrounds, lots of recreational drug users, and more than a few felons. (Rick was a felon, after all.) They really are interesting people, and I’m quite fond of them. If I quit, I’d definitely miss them. They’re not unlike the people I worked with at the bookstore. (We probably had fewer felons, though, and more BAs.)
I don’t get auras with migraines, but one of my friends has hallucinations. Dammit, I just get the pounding pain.
Sam does make me want to quit, just so I can drag him upstairs by the collar. He’s got so much personal integrity, I can’t see him doing it otherwise. Maybe I’m wrong…I keep fantasizing about him pulling up a chair and sitting down next to me and saying with a sly grin, “The age thing doesn’t bother me, if the other thing doesn’t bother you.”
I did realize today (smiling), however, that when Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova made that movie, he was about 36 and she was only 19.
I want to know what Chris has to say. I have a feeling he’d like “Ask me if I care.”
All the more reason you should have grabbed him right then: Monday morning you could both have written it off as the logical conclusion (if coincidentally intimate) of a crazy work party. (Or not.) Sounds like a good guy, though. Can’t hurt to daydream.
And once again, you’re not too old for him–nor is he too young for you. If he has personal integrity, then he’s probably not disposed to sex with one of his workers. Then again, if such were to happen, you could rest assured that he’d be discreet and not let it develop into some workplace drama. Hopefully, anyway.
Ever read Oliver Sacks’ MIGRAINE? Is likely going to be my next purchase for the Object Of My Obsessions.
Sam isn’t just a good guy, he’s the BEST. That’s the thing: I have the deepest and sincerest respect for him, as well as genuine (and well-deserved) affection.
If there’s any workplace that’s casual enough for mixing between the ranks, it’s probably T-fund. I guess the question is whether or not either of us would want to take such a risk, and not just of things going sour after some NSA sex. I don’t even think I want NSA sex with Sam. It’s hard to explain, but this is coming from a whole other place than my glands.
On the stereo: Bjork, “State of Emergency”
NSA? Haven’t heard the term applied, sexually.
Well, all the more reason to delve into Sam. Slowly, though. The up-by-the-collar method may not yield satisfactory results. (Though, you never know.) Life sounds good for you at the moment.
Me, I’m being harangued by My Crazy (Ex-) Roommate, who, at a remove of 3,000 miles, is still in need of emotional support. I thought I’d play less of that role now that we were no longer rooming together? Thought that was part of the deal whereby she left? (Remember, she moved out on a week’s notice, it’s not like I talked her into leaving.) She’s being very accusing and generally annoying, wanting to rake over her understanding (or lack thereof) as regards Hammerhead and his unwillingness to talk to her while she was here. I’m starting to think he was right (or at least had a good point).
No Strings Attached. I realized that what I’m talking about is a certain kind of objectification that goes on with me when I’m responding to someone based at least partially if not wholly on his looks and my tendency toward visual stimulation. It’s not just a guy thing! At least not with a girl who used to be named Milton!!!! I was totally objectifying that new kid with the tan, like I totally objectified my handsome FWB years ago. There was nothing to that relationship but the physical. Sam is in a whole other category. It’s strange for me to be infatuated with a guy for his character.
Sorry D is being so flippy. Hammer probably did have a point, she’s always been a piece of work, but you’ve always been so good with her. I imagine she regrets moving back home.
Nothing wrong with being visually stimulated (says the guy with several GBs of space given over to nekkid chicks). Nothing wrong with falling for someone’s character (says the guy who is in no hurry to bed the Object Of His Obsessions). Hope it goes well for you on this front. Sounds like your company should have another barbecue soon.
No, MC(E)R doesn’t regret moving back, I think she was feeling like she was going nowhere in the job market here, and after a failed engagement (at least, that’s how she regarded that whole thing), no real social life either. (Who the hell dates off Craigslist, anyway?) She feels like I wasn’t being supportive enough, and that I spent a lot of time tearing her down. If by that she means that I would point out how crazy some of her ideas and actions were, then yes. I’m also not the brightest ray of sunshine anyone’s ever seen, but she knew that (or should’ve).
Example: I told her living in close proximity with Hammerhead wouldn’t be a problem, if she wasn’t any sort of presence in his life. All was going well for the most part, they never saw each other. Then she wanted to cook something, and we didn’t have a pan big enough. She mentioned that she wanted to go across the hall and ask HH if she could borrow one of his. I said that was a stupid idea, he wouldn’t open the door if he saw her through the peephole, and this would only antagonize him–not to mention the fact that the lazy bastard doesn’t cook much, and is unlikely to have a pan the size she’s looking for. She concluded that he must hate her and want to do her ill, if he still didn’t want to lend any help after all these years. She still couldn’t grasp the idea that the only way to maintain the peace was to not have any contact; she inferred that he must want her dead or something.
Then a few weeks ago she convinced herself that he was manipulating her, by being passive-aggressive he was really trying to get her to approach him, just so he could shoot her down. That’s the kind of logic (?!) at work here. It’s a peculiar type of Asperger’s (tinged with, I think, outright vanity) that she thinks everything is about her and what she wants. And now that I’m not running quickly enough to address her latest insecurities, I’m guilty of manipulating her too (as well as being less than a friend).
She needs a lot of external validation, is all I can say. And while I wish things were otherwise, and don’t mind making a modest effort, I can also say that after a year and a half, I’m burned out on the subject. It’s like we’ve been married for 24 years: all the history and conflicts are there, with no sex. Not my idea of a relationship.
Wow, that’s some high maintenance, Sunshine. If I was going to drain my straight male roommate’s resources that much, I’d be sure to return the favor and drain some other resources as well. At least manually. XD Kidding, but I thought you’d like the joke.
Yeah, there’s a place for everything, I don’t think it’s bad to have an eye for beautiful men, but it can really blind you to their crap. Plus you tend to overlook the under-the-radar guys. I’ll tell you what, if inner beauty were mirrored externally, Sam would be a Calvin Klein underwear model. And I’m sure plenty of underwear models would look like Gollum.
I was in a surreal haze of infatuation today, my first day back at work since the party. I lit up like a Christmas tree when Sam showed up, and beamed like a happy imbecile. I felt high, literally high, all day. When he was first talking to me I’m sure I was blushing furiously. He had noticed that I hadn’t been around for a couple of days, and said I was missed, which made me grin that much more. My performance had been in the bottom 40 percent lately due to my lack of enthusiasm and energy, but today I took a $1000 (single donor) contribution on a credit card. I completely SHATTERED my fundraising ceiling!!! Then Drew (my adorable astrologer friend) fervently wanted to go to a baseball game with me. Suddenly I was the greatest thing since sliced bread again. It’s like I had a mojo avalanche. I kept laughing to myself and saying out loud “I got the JUICE!” to no one in particular.
At the end of the evening, though, I found out that Sam is leaving in a few days for Roswell, NM. Only for a week, but I’m going to be whining pathetically in the corner for days like a sad-eyed puppy keening for its master. Plus I’ve got this sinking fear it’s to see a girl. I mean, that would be why, if circumstances wanted to stay consistent with my completely sucky track record. I’m afraid to ask. I just joked, “Is that your rendezvous point?” in reference to the UFO thing.
You’ve gotta be kidding–let MC(E)R anywhere near my [genitalia]?! I’d fear for my safety. Woman can get confounded by a key and lock: one day I had to open the apartment door for her, she just couldn’t get it to turn. Another day, she concluded that the landlord must have changed the lock on the mailbox, as her key wouldn’t work. I went downstairs, opened it first try. Not to mention the fact that she’s a sexphobe. I won’t (shouldn’t) go into the details of the love/hate relationship she has with her own body, and her very limited (and ill-informed) conceptions of male anatomy and function. You do know that, at age 42, she is still “intact”, right? Even among devout Catholics, she’s something of a rarity. She did ask at one point if she could join me for my evening “workout” in my bedroom–at which point I had to explain (in broad outlines) what it was I was actually doing, and why she wouldn’t be a welcome presence. But no, a year and a half in cohabitation, completely free of sexual tension.
I should call her tonight, maybe while I’m cooking dinner (I’m planning South American rice, and either a rotisserie chicken or, if I’m feeling ravenous and restless, grilled pork chops). Tomorrow night HH and I are going out to look at computers, then out for Shakey’s pizza.
So you’re back on top of the world, that’s great. You should telegraph some of your enthusiasm Sam’s way; I don’t know of a subtle way to ask if he’s wrapped up with anyone. But even if the answer is yes, that shouldn’t diminish your feelings for him. I’ve fallen back into despairing that I’ll ever get with the Object Of My Obsessions (these things come in waves…like nausea…), but if nothing else I feel encouraged that chicks like her really exist, and there’s hope after all.
Wait til Sam’s out of town…then see if you can sneak up on Stoner Rick, use him for practice.
Well, it’s too bad you don’t believe in karma, because it sounds like you built some of the good kind up for yourself in your dealings with MCER!
I’m always amused when you expect my life to in any way resemble the softcore porn narrative you or I could dream up in our idle moments, but it just don’t happen that way. I don’t even know exactly where Rick lives across town, and after all the unreturned phone calls (the last one to say essentially “thanks for the memories”) I deleted him out of my phone. I’m pretty sure he meant to burn this bridge. I did my best in my last message to release him with love (no blame).
I was the classic Robert Palmer song today: I tossed and turned all night and my digestion’s all freaked out now (ya can’t eat, ya can’t sleep…). Went in for the morning shift, since I was already up! Sam used the cube next to me to train a neophyte in the afternoon. We didn’t get a chance to talk much, but it soothed my wigged-out psyche just to have him beside me. Sam! Sam! Sam! Tomorrow I’m going to try to ask when he’s leaving, when he’s coming back, and what’s up with Roswell.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but good karma means that you’ll be reincarnated as a higher life form, right? And since I don’t believe in reincarnation, Milton, I don’t give it much thought. There’s American karma, which apparently says that if you act morally and show good will, that the universe (and other people) will return the favor *in this lifetime*, in a quasi-Frank Capra style. Of course, this is exactly the problem MC(E)R is up against: basically a good and kind person, she can’t understand why anyone/everyone else isn’t the same. Spends a lot of time trying to reverse the Golden Rule: she insists that it’s a moral imperative that others treat her as she treats other people.
In a word: naive.
I didn’t call her last night, might try to talk for a few minutes between tonight’s “workout” and my evening out with HH. I sincerely wish she were happier and less hung up, but given our history together (and countless attempts to try to explain the world/other people to her), I don’t think I can offer any more than a passing reassurance. I guess I should at least do that much, since I haven’t made any gesture at all since the accusatory email she sent me Sunday night.
I don’t realistically expect any of these softcore scenarios to play out; but they are pleasant thoughts, no? You should see how many I’ve worked up that involve me and the OOMO. You may be surprised at how many are PG-13 or milder. (The ones that aren’t may surprise you in a different way….)
All I’m saying is that if you’re downtown and see Rick, just go up to him and take his hand. And don’t let go. And lead/drag him to the nearest dark alley. If he protests, just tell him “Shut up, you brought this on yourself. Now *I’m* gonna bring it. How long’s it been since you been brought off?…”
If he survives, I’ll bet he’ll be grateful.
PS — You check out my shadow site lately? Just posted something yesterday you might like.
I was actually talking about the second watered-down American version she believes in: what comes around goes around. (Did you mean to sound snide?) It’s a nice thought, anyway. Whenever something inexplicably lucky happens (like your day finding money in the street) I like to think of it as payback. Anyway, I was just trying to give you some kudos for being patient.
I still say you watch too much porn, dude!!! Antics like that discovered downtown could land anyone in the registry of sex offenders. (In the warehouse district, perhaps. Even the hookers stay out of downtown.) Besides, I’ve totally let Rick go. Closed the book on that one and moved on. If I saw him downtown I’d probably just say hello, how are you, etc. At most a hug, maybe a kiss. Why the fixation with Rick? You may have heard of a certain character by now named Sam. He’s been just a little bit on my mind…
I did make a point of touching Sam today, in passing, a lingering hand on his back, even though we didn’t talk. I like touching Sam. He feels nice to the touch. I’d like to touch Sam some more. Maybe a whole lot more.
Hey, I did just read about your little email misunderstanding. That’s pretty funny, though not something you should spend too much time worrying about, methinks. Unfortunately, LJ doesn’t seem to like bloggers who use anything other than LJ. I was completely unable to comment, even if I wanted to.
I only got on LiveJournal to follow the Object Of My Obsessions–my own LJ posts are kind of an afterthought (though I realize its use as a potential dating tool, I think I mentioned that). Just like the only reason I signed up on WordPress is to comment here–I don’t keep a WordPress page of my own. In my experience, you can’t comment on blogs unless you create an account, either because the blog forces that, or the user sets it to not allow anonymous posts (I forget what I’m set to, but nearly a year after the fact, no one has ever posted anything to my LJ, including the OOMO).
I appreciate your thinking that I’m doing right by MC(E)R, though I could also be impatient and critical while we were living together, so not all the supposed karma is good. At all events, I’m not a strict believer in American karma, I think it can certainly pay dividends in interpersonal relations, but even that is never a given. I don’t believe that the universe is a moral place, though: if I find $150 on the pavement, I don’t think it has anything at all to do with my conduct, other than the fact that I left the apartment at a given time, walking down a given alleyway that nobody else had that morning (other than the poor joker who’s out $150). Personally, I find it more burdensome to understand life’s up and downs in a moral context than to simply accept that most things are random. It is only in our interpersonal dealings that we can expect to find morality–and as I say, that ought not to be taken as a given even then.
Sure, Sam’s got your attention–but I don’t advocate dragging him into a dark alley and kindly raping him. Rick, on the other hand, you described as something of a tease (not to mention perfect for what ails you), so I’d say he’s fair game, even though he’s taken himself out of the picture.
Don’t read too much into my offhand speculative scripting, I do it a lot (as you may have noticed). I remember once I was hosting a poker night at the apartment, and blasted out Evite invitations to about two dozen people, five of whom don’t even live in the state, so it was more of an announcement (only got six people to show that night, if I recall). Our lawyer friend Eliot in Philly declined, saying “It kills me, but I can’t make it.” To which I gamely responded, “Just what we’d need anyway, some Philadelphia shyster elbowing his way to the table, all fedora and pinstripes. ‘So you fellas like to play cards, eh?’ Laughing and blowing cigar smoke. ‘I’ll just take my cut and be on my way. And don’t forget: couple of broken legs never hurt *anybody*.’”
Oh, I almost didn’t see you calling me out. Did you think I’d appreciate you admitting your desire for more mishaps? I wasn’t feeling the need for vindication on that issue. Love, C
R: The Google blog host Blogger and some others I’ve visited let you log as your WordPress identity. I hadn’t encountered that roadblock before.
The image of Elliott in pinstripes is hilarious.
C: Wow, dude. You reframed that in a way I wasn’t even thinking about. I was thinking my last statement was more along the lines of “Far be it from me to (not ask for donations, or whatever it was I said that you liked)” — coming from a more empowered, risk-taking place (like, what the hell, I’m gonna throw caution to the wind)…but now I see you see it as just more pathology, like I actually want something bad to happen. Damn. That’s just cold, bro.
All this week I’ve been walking through my ginormous fear. I know I’m a chickenshit — today I started to believe I might actually get somewhere with Sam, and that freaks me out. If I sabotage myself, it’s not because I want to fail, it’s because I’m terrified by the prospect of both failure AND success.
Anyone despaired enough to consider suicide should be despaired enough to consider success for a change, right?
Fear is a bad adviser…but you know all that, so let me try to say something new.
You mention the possibility that you sabotage yourself, that makes me think that this could really happen, and you should be stopped from sabotaging yourself.
Maybe it’s already wrong to talk in terms of success and failure.
You can never fail. It is not your fault, should Sam not “fall in love with you” (or whatever it exactly is that you would declare a “success” )
Be what you are and don’t be afraid, and insist on correct treatment.
Does that sound like a good formula? Did I forget something? Let me know
If deep deep inside you think you are “not right”, and if fear controls you totally – well, you could call that sabotage, yes.
Not so easy to send those demons to the desert, I know.
BM3, your response is so kind and acknowledging and compassionate I think I might cry. I spend 90 percent of my time beating myself up for my real or perceived flaws, and the other 10 percent I let someone else do it. This is like getting a kiss when I was braced for a blow. Thank you, thank you, thank you, sweetheart. I actually am crying a little.
Well, I’m glad to hear that my interpretation was off the mark, then. I’m curious: what is it that freaks you out about getting closer to Sam? And no, I’m not criticizing or shaming you for wanting to or not wanting to.
That isn’t a painful question at all, but I’m not even sure I can answer it. It’s like being afraid of setting anything in motion, like a chain of dominoes or a snowball rolling downhill. You don’t know what all’s going to happen, or where it’s going to go. What if I’m a disappointment to him? What if he’s a disappointment to me? What if one of us is more smitten? I almost don’t mind being the one “on the bottom,” as my ex-therapist used to put it (and not in THAT way, Russ), I’m just so loath to be the cause of injury to anyone. Or what if it really does turn into something? Am I prepared for that?
I might do well at such moments to take Russ’s advice about living in the moment.
glad that you liked what I wrote.
What came to my mind is the image that Peter Russell created (I think I mentioned him before) , about the person holding the rope, I just drop it here:
—
We are like a person holding on to a piece of rope.
He holds on for dear life, knowing that if he were to let go he would fall to his death. His parents, his teachers, and many others have told him this is so; and when he looks around he can see everyone else doing the same.
Nothing would induce him to let go.
Along comes a wise person. She knows that holding on is unnecessary, that the security it offers is illusory, and only holds you where you are. So she looks for a way to dispel his illusions and help him to be free.
She talks of real security, of deeper joy, of true happiness, of peace of mind. She tells him that he can taste this if he will just release one finger from the rope.
“One finger,” thinks the man; “that’s not too much to risk for a taste of bliss.” So he agrees to take this first initiation.
And he does taste greater joy, happiness, and peace of mind.
But not enough to bring lasting fulfillment.
“Even greater joy, happiness and peace can be yours,” she tells him, “if you will just release a second finger.”
“This,” he tells himself, “is going to be more difficult. Can I do it? Will it be safe? Do I have the courage?” He hesitates, then, flexing his finger, feels how it would be to let go a little more . . . and takes the risk.
He is relieved to find he does not fall; instead he discovers greater happiness and inner peace.
But could more be possible?
“Trust me,” she says. “Have I failed you so far? I know your fears, I know what your mind is telling you — that this is crazy, that it goes against everything you have ever learnt — but please, trust me. Look at me, am I not free? I promise you will be safe, and you will know even greater happiness and contentment.”
“Do I really want happiness and inner peace so much,” he wonders, “that I am prepared to risk all that I hold dear? In principle, yes; but can I be sure that I will be safe, that I will not fall?” With a little coaxing he begins to look at his fears, to consider their basis, and to explore what it is he really wants. Slowly he feels his fingers soften and relax. He knows he can do it. And he knows he must do it. It is only a matter of time until he releases his grip.
And as he does an even greater sense of peace flows through him.
He is now hanging by one finger. Reason tells him he should have fallen a finger or two ago, but he hasn”t. “Is there something wrong with holding on itself?” he asks himself. “Have I been wrong all the time?”
“This one is up to you,” she says. “I can help you no further. Just remember that all your fears are groundless.”
Trusting his quiet inner voice, he gradually releases the last finger.
And nothing happens.
He stays exactly where he is.
Then he realizes why. He has been standing on the ground all along.
And as he looks at the ground, knowing he need never hold on again, he finds true peace of mind.
BM3, that’s a wonderful metaphor, and exactly what I needed to hear today.
Thanks for making me feel like I’m really okay.
Well I think this is healthy. You may deplore your own trepidation, but look at it this way: it not only means that you’re alive and sentient and living in the moment (I’ve made that remark before, I remember), it also means that you’re taking it seriously. If he’s got you asking yourself these questions, it’s a good sign that that’s how much he means to you. Way back when you were hesitating about Dex, you didn’t freak about where it was going and what it would mean, your biggest worry was about rejection. Here, your asking about the fundamentals.
Same with me. I spend a lot of time mooning over the Object Of My Obsessions, imagining what it would be like if she were lying next to me…then some inner voice of reason speaks up, demanding to know exactly *what* I’d do if that were the case. I have no practical experience in my recent life that offers any suggestions, so I’d probably be at a loss. But those times that I was with her, things worked just fine. You can trust yourself or not, but sometimes it’s best to just let that insecurity go and dive in head-first. One of my favorite lines in Clarke’s novelization of 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY is where the evolving proto-human doesn’t know what his future, or the future of his species, will hold. “But he would think of something.” (Also the last line of the book, not to give that away–)
One other thing I’d like to point out: you were wondering aloud why it is that guys seem to cut and run as soon as you bring up sex. The answer to that lies here in your own ambiguity about someone that you actually want; imagine what goes on in the mind of some guy who isn’t completely sure if he wants someone, but that the prospect has gone from hypothetical to real. Not saying the two are the same, but if you can understand one you’re in a better position to understand the other.
Thanks, Russ, that was really supportive. You guys are being so encouraging. I’m feeling a lot better about things.
I like that quote from Clarke. I’ll think of something, eh? Diving in…I’ll never forget the time on a camping trip that I jumped off a bridge (with an inner tube) into a river. My fear of heights had me absolutely paralyzed. The longer I stood there, the harder it was to jump. Finally I just did it…and the fall and the dunk and the bobbing up was exhilirating and fun.
It taught me a lot about my tendency towards overthinking.
Sam does mean a lot to me. I think anyone who’d hurt Sam should be tarred and feathered and run out of town…and I’d hate to be the one who did. I’m not sure this capricious, distractable ‘ho-for-a-pretty-boy even deserves him, to be honest. Just yesterday I was falling out of my chair at my fave coffeehouse from craning my neck at a steely-jawed stud and a Sonny lookalike. I’m like a crow, mesmerized by shiny pretty things. Beauty is an intoxicant for me. I adore Sam, but he doesn’t quite gratify that addiction. (Yet I still fantasize constantly about making love to him. I snagged another $1000 yesterday while doing that very thing.)
Speaking of Dex, I saw him the other day when I stopped in for a chai at his cafe. He said something so snobbish and poser-y (that hinted at my seniority) it made me realize things all worked out for the best. That kid needs to get over his uber-hip self. Know why the girls aren’t flocking to ya, Mr. Philosophy? Maybe it’s the superior attitude. Little pipsqueak.
And I know what you mean on that count, as well. The difficult part for me is that, by the time I am interested enough in a chick that I start to seriously consider sex, I can’t go through with initiating it–not because I’m afraid of the rejection (at least not so much). I just don’t want to put her in the awkward position of having to say no. And I’m almost always thinking that a “no” is in the works; maybe the most encouraging thing about the Object Of My Obsessions is the fact that I don’t think she’ll turn me down, if I’m careful and I time it right. So I’d advise, don’t feel too rushed. This as a counterpoint to the hurry-up-before-one-of-us-changes-their-mind! thinking that I’m betting you’re also experiencing.
As for your appreciation of male beauty–odds are that’s a good thing. That is, if he’s an appreciator of female beauty, which given his age is almost certain. So the two of you could sit on a park bench together, comparing notes on people passing by. “Oh, now *there’s* a hot one!” Long as you both realize that lustful aesthetics don’t go very far toward a fulfilling relationship, you can actually treat this as something you both have in common.
On a side note: we were talking about Eliot? It’s his birthday today. Want some more anecdotes, real and imagined, check him out on Facebook today.
This conversation has made me think long and hard about some things I would have rather not thought about, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I think one rope of BM3′s that I may need to let go of is my own g-damn vanity.
I need to let go of those mercilessly hierarchy-making thoughts that rank people in terms of appearance (and who’s in who’s “league”). Jeezus, I’m worse than Dan Savage. I’ve got a big fat head right now because six different guys at work have asked me out, and the latest, Drew, would probably impress other women, at least on sight…he’s conventionally good-looking and dresses well…besides which I’m still getting plenty of flirty attention from others of various ages and degrees of availability. So there are those times when I think “Shit, I could have anybody–including that guy over THERE!”
The (vain) part of me that thinks so fully expects Sam to be thrilled to have the “popular girl in school” pay attention to him (even if that status is something new to me)…but another part feels guilty for being in any way condescending toward a young man so extraordinary and inherently worthy I probably don’t even deserve to shine his shoes. It’s all very Dostoevskian…
At the grocery store today I saw a woman done up like she was Christina Aguilera. She had this terrific two-tone blonde-on-black hair sharply styled, a perfect Hollywood makeup job, and a fashionable outfit with matching accessories that sparkled. She was like a Barbie doll fresh out of the box, lipstick shiny, wrinkle-free, camera-ready. Envious, I smiled at her, and she looked at me with the most vacuous expression imaginable. Like the lights were on, but no one was home.
Somehow I thought I was meant to find a lesson there, and I did.
Well, that may be true. On the other hand, you shouldn’t beat yourself up just because you have an appreciation for male beauty. If Sam has any depth of character (and isn’t a hypocrite) he’ll accept the fact. Hell, even if he’s gay, that’d only mean that he shares your appreciation, think of it that way. Of course, I’m a lifelong defender of pornography, since I think the aesthetic is *basically* a healthy one, though it can complicate your life, that’s for sure.
Anyway, you may be right to keep some perspective and restraint as far as your basic urges go, but on balance I think you understand your priorities well enough. And so don’t begrudge yourself feeling like the most popular girl in school, at least for a bit: I’d say you’re entitled, and though Sam may not snap you up solely on that basis, it’s not like you’re acting popular just to game him. Hell, two weeks ago you were saying that you felt like the attention well had run dry. Enjoy the moment.
Hey, Russ, thanks for the permission. Maybe I shouldn’t need anyone else’s permission, but it’s nice to hear somebody else say “Enjoy it.”
I really do try (it’s a habit I picked up after reading the Brothers Karamazov) to tell the truth about my motives, even the ones that me look less than sympathetic (and far from heroic)…I guess I consider it some sort of purification in the direction of authenticity. Kind of like confession for agnostics. So that would make you-all my secular humanist priests.
Bless me, father, for I have been a shallow f*ing bitch. I hope you’ll prescribe a dozen Hail Sammys along with (insert joke about another form of oral atonement). Damn, I can’t even make a dirty joke about it anymore — I respect the subject too much. There’s a helluva lot I’d like to do to Sam but I don’t think I’m gonna blab about it.
The girl is a goner.
No, you haven’t been shallow. Just human–leave it at that. And don’t think of it as oral atonement: you don’t have anything to atone for, and it isn’t a chore. Check what the Object Of My Obsessions has to say in her book about the generous giving of your oral self: she calls it a sacrament. (I can’t wait to take that communion, myself–) See also her current advice column, where she characterizes oral as a selfish act (on the part of the giver, not the receiver).
By the way: she invited me to chat last night!! I’ve been waiting on that forever!! And just my FUCKING luck, I was out of town with Hammerhead, buying a new computer. The Universe hates me, you know.
Oh, hell, of course it’s not a chore, I was just trying to make a joke. (Sometimes I think I should identify myself to my mother as a practicioner of one of my more favorite activities in that regard, because then she’d be deliriously happy thinking I’d joined up with those conservative wingnuts dumping Lipton in the harbor. Leave it to clueless Republican “morans” to name themselves the slang term for an intimate act.)
I’m impressed by your courage and openness in this thread, A.B. (No, that doesn’t mean I’m not impressed by you at any other time.)
Wow, what a fucking unreal day. I raise $1070 for the ASPCA in four hours, the DCCC list can’t say no to me, Chris tells me he’s impressed by my courage and openness, and just when you think that it doesn’t get any better, I ask Sam if he wants to have a drink and HE SAYS YES, AND IMMEDIATELY PUTS ME IN HIS PHONE. Did ya hear me, all ya’ll? YEAH, THAT’S WHAT I SAID.
We were both acting like schoolkids with a secret. He sat at the adjacent station all afternoon. Later he gave me this funny little playing-card size card from the art museum with a gleeful Jack Kerouac quote on one side and the word “happy” on the other. I could not stop grinning. “Why are YOU so happy?” one of the other supervisors asked me.
I’m almost mad at him though, for cutting all his hair off this week. One physical attribute that I thought was really CUTE, and he shaves it, god damn it! Now he looks like he’s been plucked, my poor birdy. This man is determined to make me give up my obsession with outer things.