What the Hell is This?

It occurred to me a couple of Sundays ago, while walking the river-stone paths of my city’s gorgeous botanic gardens with a septuagenarian friend under a cerulean blue autumn sky, that I have been living for months in an utterly new state of being, and utterly taking it for granted.

That is to say — when one’s day-to-day existence is no longer a matter of either enduring or fleeing one’s ever-present emotional pain and anxiety, suddenly all one really wants to do with one’s time is enjoy one’s life.

Which is why unfulfilling or downright unpleasant work is no longer even tolerable for me. Before, even hateful, stressful external tasks and obligations were a distraction from internal hell; I could throw myself into an unpleasant job simply to forget the bane of me.

Now, however, all I want to do is spend my days sitting in this western climate’s abundant sunlight, writing, drinking a savory tea, coffee, or wine, eating good food, keeping good company, and seeking out new adventures. In the summer months, after obtaining an abandoned one-speed bicycle secondhand from an apartment-manager friend, I began to make day trips to state parks, sometimes cycling up to twenty miles at a time. At a lake well outside the urban landscape I’d stick my feet into gently lapping waves and gaze at the mountains, surrounded by beauty, content.

I quit the market research job. I just couldn’t stay in a job every aspect of which I hated. Now I’m back at the call center with the usual suspects, trying to help Democrats get re-elected and LGBT folk gain employment protection. At least it’s meaningful work. Also, I’d forgotten how much I relished my unaccustomed popularity there.

**

Jesus of Montreal, by the way, before I get into all that, turned out to be a stunning and remarkable film. I would go so far as to call it one of my favorites of all time.

The plot proceeds thus: the actors who assemble to rework an outdated Passion Play script for a famous Montreal shrine are recruited by the man chosen to play Jesus, in several scenes that recall the gathering of the disciples. “I’ve come for you,” Daniel says to Constance, an actress he knew at conservatory, now serving the ‘least of these’ in a soup kitchen. Another actor, Martin, is culled from among the acting “whores” who dub cheesy porn films. We meet the Magdalene character, Mirielle, engaged in another form of harlotry — selling her body (her only asset, according to her director boyfriend) in advertisements. Rene, who will eventually shine as a philosophical, agnostic Pilate, is currently providing the voice-over narration for a breathtaking (and distinctly atheistic) educational film about the origins of the universe.

The amazing piece of performance art they compose together is, in the eyes of the local priest and the Catholic Church, an unforgivably liberal take on the Gospel, peppered with information from non-Canonical sources and recent archaeological discoveries. Daniel (Lothaire Bluteau) soulfully inhabits the character of the radical Jesus I found so compelling as a child. As the film progresses, the actor takes on more and more of Jesus’ characteristics, and events in the film begin to parallel the events recounted in the Gospels. In one scene, Daniel upends tables and equipment and drives the advertising “mercenaries” out of the sanctum of a theater; in the subsequent courtroom scene, a judge (played by director Denys Arcand) like Pilate can find nothing wrong with him; in still another scene, a smooth and serpentine celebrity lawyer promises to deliver him the city. There is even a sacrifice and resurrection of sorts, as well as a John the Baptist character who at the beginning announces the arrival of the real best actor of his generation, and inspires an ad executive to exclaim “I want his head!” for her Homme Sauvage cologne campaign. (This actor — Cédric Noel, whom you can watch in a brief comic monologue in French at the name link — is the spitting image of Sonny, at least in his younger incarnation.)

Apart from the jarring ‘80s guitar-solo music inserted for no good reason into two scenes, and one distinctly un-Christlike act on the part of Daniel, I’d call it a perfect film. I watched it four times, and I’m still thinking about it.

I also read Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, all 400-plus pages of it, in about four days. I couldn’t put it down, it was too entertaining. Moore did an impressive amount of research in order to recreate the landscapes, rituals and cultural and political makeup of the regions where the story takes place. It’s definitely very funny, and the more you know about the Bible, the funnier you’ll probably find it. That said, it’s not a terribly profound book. Nothing about it has lingered for days in my mind, even though Moore wrote wonderful, snappy, snarky dialogue, and told a whopper of a tall tale. Many of the happenings are pretty implausible — but then again, so are miracles and demon-possessed pigs.

**

Unfortunately, like the randy apostle Biff, I don’t seem to have transcended the concerns of the flesh, particularly when there’s a bit of an overabundance of it.

During my market research interlude, away from the call center, I was getting offers I could refuse. Brent, a pillar of our activist community, sent me a bizarre message out of nowhere that could only be construed as a romantic pass. This guy has done more to raise awareness in my city about global human rights issues than everyone else put together. Like Jonah, he started his own nonprofit (I was on his board the first year). Sounds like a catch — right? Well, here’s the catch…once upon a time (I’ve seen the Before pictures) he was indeed a hottie in a Hitler Youth sort of way — a fit, blond, blue-eyed Aryan (which admittedly isn’t my type anyway). Years ago, however, he became depressed over a particularly humiliating rejection by a girl and out of spite gained two hundred pounds. More than his original body weight. No kidding. He’s not just the biggest guy I know in the figurative sense.

Another guy friend in upstate New York was threatening to drive out to see me. He’s dropping the hints he always has, hints I never had any interest in taking. He always reminded me a little of Jack Lemmon, plus about 75 pounds and problem skin. He was talking about getting into the beef industry (and wouldn’t I like to go ‘straight to the top’ with him?), so I very pointedly talked about my longtime and politically motivated vegetarianism.

I told Sam at one point that if he gained all the weight back (he had been a morbidly obese kid) that I wouldn’t love him one iota less…but that was Sam. Somehow that was different.

There are women out there who like big boys. I know there are. There’s even a name for them. I’m not one of them, so help me Jesus.

**

Back at the call center, I saw Ted again, after a month of not seeing Ted, and felt a stab. And that easy feeling of well-being threatened to trickle out of me as if from an intangible wound.

I paused and took a breath. I knew that whatever knee-jerk longing I still feel toward Ted doesn’t have all that much to do with Ted. Yes, he’s an intelligent guy, we have a certain rapport, and I find something pleasantly, reassuringly masculine about him. He looks a little like an older version of Sam. But the longing is an old one…what was for a very long time a very painful one…all tied up with feelings of rejection and wanting and not having. My intermittent appetite for Ted has more to do with an ancient deprivation than even with lust. It’s indicative of more complicated longings, a wanting to settle old scores that can never be settled. And it exists mainly because he has seemed to prefer women under thirty over me.

At certain moments, I’m actually embarrassingly aware that Ted is really just another rather ordinary dork who makes the occasional lame joke and strikes out spectacularly with hot young women. To be quite frank, I seem to be doing better with the hot young men these days. So objectively speaking — taking the empirical “data” into consideration — Ted would be lucky to get me. Whether or not he sees it that way.

When Ted and I finally connected — he was arriving late, I was leaving — at the front of the building, he exclaimed my name as if his voice were a crowd of fans and gave me a one-armed hug. His hair was damp from biking in the rain. He told me he’d finally passed the state pharmacy exam, and I gave him a high-five. This means that with any luck he won’t be at the call center for much longer. As I rode away in the drizzle, a mental blast of recognition like a hurricane wind almost knocked me off my own bike: Jonathan Goldman. Even more than he reminds me of Sam, Ted reminds me of Jonathan Goldman. How could I have missed that?

No wonder I can’t seem to get over my crush. My irrecoverable losses do extend beyond my immediate family. Maybe I’ve been unconsciously projecting Jon’s best qualities on Ted, expecting him to be like him. It’s really unbearable, after all, when I think about it, that a man as good and solid and kind as Jonathan, a man with a beautiful heart and mind, who was an integral part of my childhood from my earliest years, whom I loved and who loved me, could be gone. Lost. Forever.

Maybe I want Ted to be Jon. But no one else will ever be Jon.

**

Padraic, my nebbishy friend who talks a mile a minute, spouting one-liners like the early Woody Allen, still wants to just fool around. I don’t really want to just fool around with Padraic. I told him what I’m up to these days, what I’m looking for in a relationship. I told him that it hadn’t seemed like a good sign to me when he complained that his ex had liked him too much. He laughed at that, nodding. At least he has a sense of humor about it.

I get it now, I think, why English James in Italy wouldn’t fool around with me. I can still compartmentalize in certain circumstances — I’d be more than happy to get in some sexy time with young Tanner, for instance, the future be damned — but I don’t think I could manage it so well with someone to whom I already have an emotional attachment. Padraic and I have been friends for too long. He drives me a little nuts with his constant rapid-fire wisecracking, but I do care about him. Plus he reminds me of my brother. That’s a lethal combination.

**

Young Tanner! I didn’t see him my first week back (O Tanner, Where Art Thou?) but he appeared mid-shift one day, and I trailed off mid-sentence. I can’t help it; I want to look at him all the time. What a beauty. His hair is so black, his skin so white. He must appeal to my fundamentalist fondness for stark duality. I turned around the other day to catch him looking at me surreptitiously through a gap between the cubicles; he almost fell out of his chair. That was funny, in a happy-blushing kind of way. I’ve forsworn my usual bloodhound fox chase, but I don’t mind letting him catch me looking, too. One time he performed an elaborate, lazy stretch, standing up and thrusting out his chest like a rooster — as if to call greater attention to his irrepressible manly splendor — while he knew my gaze was upon him. I honestly can’t believe this little game is actually going on. I’m not that bad for a horny middle-aged broad, but the kid is a stone fox.

Take different steps, and the whole dance changes.

No longer fleeing the closeted monsters of pains or fears I wouldn’t face for years (always attributing them to the current situation and person), I’m more mindful in my actions now. I’m less obsessive about this man or that man, less insecure about my deserving of love and respect. I am not going to walk toward those who do not also in some way walk toward me. I certainly won’t run.

Had I done my usual thing, and, for instance, gone after Ted with both barrels, pursuing harder and harder the more he backed off or showed interest in other women, I would have brought about the usual outcome. I have no doubt about this whatsoever. I would have wound up feeling brokenhearted and humiliated, and the pain would have been primal and bottomless. When you chase someone this hard, it’s never about the other person.

I used to count this Crowded House song from their debut album among my favorites:

Feeling devastated
That’s what I call
Hangin’ on and falling over
That’s what I call
Tired and deflated
That’s what I call love…

It runs through my mind of late whenever I feel what are now comparatively mild pangs of disappointment, pangs much more in proportion to whatever the actual situation is. I remember “feeling devastated” before, under similar circumstances. I even used to call that love. But that’s not what I call love — not anymore.

**

Ted started arriving in the afternoon when I told him I’d be working that shift. I saw him staring at me through a row of callers and waved, grinning. He started as if poked with an electrified cattle prod, and waved back with a goofy smile. During the break we stood around talking in the kitchen with a few other people. I said something cheeky in response to an observation he had made (I don’t remember what it was), and he threatened, as a muttered aside, to spank me.

“Who says I wouldn’t like that!” I exclaimed.

A new employee standing by the water cooler with mischievous blue eyes and a gray ponytail said to Ted, “Translation, dude: that means yes.”

I was a little embarrassed, but at the same time grateful to the guy. Seriously, Ted, do I have to wear it on a sandwich board? Do you want me, or not? I lob you farm league pitches like these and you won’t even take a swing? Knock it out of the park, man! It’s an easy homer!

Ted has been friendlier and punchier ever since, and on Friday night when we got off work I was almost sure he was going to suggest we go get a drink, or something, but instead, after hanging around me and my bike for a few minutes, bid me a “Ciao bella” and rode off.

The gentleman with the gray ponytail, on the other hand, has told me that he wants to have wine and cheese with me sometime, or take me out dancing.

I can’t aim for shit. Since I landed Chris instead of Ted, maybe I’ll go out with him anyway. He’s not exactly my type, either, but he’s not unattractive. He reminds me a little of Drew, my pretty redheaded astrologer friend, and a little of a pint-sized joker I went to college with. He’s as friendly as a Labrador retriever puppy. And hits or misses notwithstanding, it’s nice to be back in a place where I can feel like the frickin’ homecoming queen.