1.02.2007

on love, and milestones, and potholes

    When I was 13 years old and in 8th grade, I developed a crush on a younger boy. I don't remember how we met or who we knew in common, though a girl named Robin comes to mind so she may have had something to do with it. The boy didn't live anywhere close to me, wasn't friends with my good friends, and didn't hang out in the places where I hung out, doing the things that I did. And yet I crushed on him, and somehow he found out. And so, as happens in junior high, plans were made to 'hook up.'
    He was in the orchestra. It wasn't a "cool" thing to do, but it wasn't the worst thing, either. He played the cello, which definitely saved him from complete dorkdom--the cello is a big instrument, and the sound is deep, and it requires a certain 'character' to choose to play something that isn't generally lugged back and forth between home and school on the bus. It wasn't like the clarinet that I played, or the violins or trumpets of my friends. It was different.
    He invited me (I think?) to a concert. We were to meet up afterward. For what? I don't know. I didn't know, then, anyway. I only knew that he was cute and I was enamored and he wanted me around, so I was there. My mom had a meeting that night, so she dropped me off; I was to walk back to meet her later. It was mid-October. I wore my gray linen walking shorts, white camp shirt, and gray crew-neck sweater vest, with gray penny loafers. For 1983, I was pretty hip. (OK, I was barely scratching the surface of hip, but I'd been 13 for only a couple of months and was doing the best that I could.)
    He wore blue pants and a lighter blue shirt, and a tie.
    Each class (7th grade, 8th grade, 9th grade) had its own concert. I watched his, and then we met up outside the orchestra room. We'd barely ever talked before, in person--most of our previous communication had happened through notes (left in lockers?) or via friends-of-friends. It was awkward.
    And then it wasn't. We just started wandering through the school, talking, and what had started out stilted and weird turned into something natural and fun. We laughed and got to know each other. It was nice.
    We even walked through a part of the school where I'd never been before. It was a hallway that went past the wood shop, then the weight room, then the boys' locker room (hence my lack of knowledge about it!), and at the end there was a door. We went through that door, and came out on a sidewalk that I'd never seen before. It ran between the side of the school and the back of the public library.
    I've had a soft spot in my heart for public libraries ever since.    
    On that sidewalk between the school and the library, that boy gave me the first real kiss that I ever had. As it happens, he gave me several more, on that warm night in October, 23 years ago. I don't remember the kiss, but I remember the night, and I remember what it felt like to walk back to where I was meeting my mom, knowing that my life was different. Knowing that I was, at least in a little way, forever changed. Thanks to that boy.
    If you've read this blog regularly, you might recognize this story, for I've written of it before. I've written of that boy before, more than once. He--not so much the boy himself, but the experience that I had with him--represents something in my life, a milestone of my existence.
    The boy eventually became a man. On October 11, 2006, he died. He was 35 years old, a veteran of the U.S. Army who served during Desert Storm, the father of two. He was a musician (still) who loved the outdoors.
    When I became aware of his death, I was sad. Not only because a man died too young, and not only because I will not be able to see him again. It's more subtle—I will never have the chance to see or talk to someone I once knew, who has come to represent more to me than he can possibly have known. I can never tell him about the impact that he made on my life.
    I know that my first kiss would have come sooner or later. I was at that point, ready to "get started", eager to see what I was missing but about which I'd heard so much from my "more experienced" friends. I was also dreadfully naive and little more than a child, physically. I didn't really know what I was getting myself into.
    The boy helped me learn, in good ways and bad. Because of him, I found out about trust and betrayal, privacy and expectations. I learned about keeping my own counsel until I cannot not, unless I can accept the story to be told.
    He really was a milestone for me, in two ways. He gave me my first kiss, which is an honor, I think. Not that I'm such hot shit, but I think it's pretty cool to have given someone their first, um, anything of that sort. And for all intents and purposes it must've been pretty good, because I certainly left there that night wanting to do it all again, as soon as I could and regularly. I would never forget him 'even if' he only existed in my memory for that reason.
    He also lives there, though, for the later lessons that he brought. The shock and dismay that I felt. The resilience (such as it was) that I developed because of his actions. The vindication that came much later when I thought I'd gotten my retribution.
    News of his death came to me when I was in my hometown before Christmas. Thinking about him, and thinking about the milestones, brought some other things to the surface. It made me think of others in my past—other guys—who are significant for one or another reason, and why. The milestones, and the potholes.
    The milestones are pretty easy to identify. They stand out for more obvious, objective reasons. They were there for the "big nights," or they were responsible (at least partially!) for the "big events."
  • Paul (you're famous! And I was writing this before I heard from you, which is creepy), because he was my first 'real' boyfriend, and the first guy that I went out with (i.e. made out with) who I somehow managed to stay friends with, after.
  • Scott, because...for lots of reasons. Just because, I think, he was Scott, and he was Meaningful, and it worked out the way that it did—he, much later, married someone who had been a dear friend of mine. And that friendship ended because of their marriage.
  • Blake, of course, because that arrogant little prick was my First.
  • Brian ('the Army guy'), because what we had was, oddly, my first "adult" relationship. It was also the graduate degree in lying and betrayal and secrecy and greed, and an amazingly accurate portrayal of how Some Peoples' Marriages work.
  • Brent, because of what we did, and when. And where, which is the only funny thing about it. There's still enough there that we'd be in some big damned trouble if that truth came out.
    The potholes, though? They're a lot less easy to define. My theory is that each of us goes through life on our own individual path. My path may look a great deal like that of my friends' and some of my family's, but it is in truth different in some major ways (my education, where I live, my career) and in myriad subtle ways. The choices that I make every day have created, and continue to create, my path. Along the way, there have been some experiences that were memorable, on purpose. The guys with whom I went out during high school and the dates that I broke. The times that I had the sense, even drunk off my ass, to not hook up with someone that I knew was bad for me. The milestones.
    Some of the incidents became unforgettable only later. Hindsight, regret, reconsideration, and experience combined to bring them to the surface and reveal surfaces with a patina that had not shown before. Those are the potholes: the experiences that—positive or negative, memorable to the other person or not—cannot be forgotten, and which are intentionally remembered. Too valuable to give up.
    These are my potholes:
  • Jeremy was the first guy who dumped me for a solid reason that he actually meant. He was the first guy with whom I literally fought (not physically, but mentally we went toe-to-toe). And he was the first guy with whom I [redacted].
    Melancholy positive. That's how I feel about him.
  • Andrew was always there. Super steady. My bestest best friend. I just didn't get it. I didn't get how he felt, I didn't get what he gave up, I didn't get how long he waited and how patient he was. I treated him terribly, flaunted every wretched thing, and still he was decent and kind. When I think about stupid, crappy things that I've done, the way that I behaved toward someone whose friendship was once more valuable than gold is a low point in my memory.
  • Chris was a hottie. My landlord's boss, a local legend, several years older than me, and fucking gorgeous. Oh my God, gorgeous. Damn.
    Whew. Sorry.
    Anyway, Chris had always sort of been on long-range radar, but we really met when I was in college (sophomore year?) and in the process of breaking up with the dumb rugby player that I'd been messing around with for a few months. I was at a bowling alley bar and stumbled (probably literally) upon my landlord and this godlike creature. Introductions were made, and I walked away with stars in my eyes. Chris asked Jim for my number, but Jim had a rare spark of decency and said he'd have to ask me if it was OK. He came home later that night (I lived in the basement of his house) and related the story to me. I went ballistic on him, asking what the f%#$ he was thinking, and if Chris ever asked for anything from or about me again, Jim had damned well better fork it over. He took it goodnaturedly, and I think he got the point, because the next day at work, he slipped my number to Chris.
    Chris called that night. And the next, and the next. And we went out that weekend. We went to that same bar, got pretty fucked up, and he followed me home (i.e. drove his car behind my car) "to make sure I got home OK." Once I was there, he got out and said he really didn't want the night to end, so did I maybe want to come out and see his new house? He had bought a house in the country and was fixing it up.
    I went.
    I remember clocks—he had a dozen or more on the wall in one room, a collection—and back rubs, and lots of talking about doing this all again.
    I was floating on a cloud of lust and stardust when he dropped me off at something like 6:15 that morning. I thought it was the beginning of something big.
    We never went out again.
    Chris remains, for me, an almost entirely positive memory. That night with him was like going to The Gandy Dancer in A2—nothing I could afford to do every day, and certainly nothing my body could handle on a regular basis (too rich for me!), but an experience I am so totally glad that I had (really, an experience for which I am so unreasonably grateful!) that I cannot complain about never going back. (It's also a rare positive memory of Jim, who turned out to be a terrible person.)
  • J.A. I crushed on him from 4th grade on. We were mutually antagonistic for years. We don't recall any one event with the same emphasis, as we discovered last summer when we briefly struck up another communication, very long-distance. He's the only person that I ever tried to punch...and I missed (sigh). We went to a wedding after graduation, which is to say that we each attended the same wedding, not that we went to it together. I gave him a ride home after (he was on crutches for some reason that I can never remember), and we went to my crappy rat-hole apartment because he fairly well begged to see it, and we took advantage of being there alone and made out. I had wanted to touch him for ten years.
    We even recall that event differently.
    He is smart, funny and very good-looking. He is talented in many ways.
    I was not wrong to be attracted to him. I was wrong in allowing myself to be drawn into behaving the way that I did, to deal with the fruitlessness of that attraction. I was wrong to be weak in the face of pressure. I regret treating him badly, and I regret squandering the ties that we've had and lost.
  • Josh. 2:00-man. Deliberately casual on the surface, but driven by a strange sort of enduring link.
    Why else would he have been the first one that I asked about, after the divorce? He wasn't a kid anymore. It wasn't objectively 'wrong' anymore. It wasn't going to happen, but...I wanted it to.
  • Uncle Neil. Oof. Hard to explain, but in some ways he's the original pothole. It's a sort of common thread for me: intellectual curiosity; feigned disdain covering almost overwhelming attraction; some seemingly-patient waiting; and then a sort of resolution. With him, it took place over the period of 14 years or so.
    "While doing these things, I will not think about you. Wish me luck?"
    I miss him. The stuff we did (which is still really important to me), the way that we talked, and the powerful influence that I cannot fully explain. I don't think that he would even believe it, if I had the opportunity to tell him.
  • r.: attraction (against my will and certainly against his), intellectual sparring for way too long, eventually some grapes and horribly bad beer and subs during Steve Martin films, far too many roommates in a tiny basement apartment, terrible timing, a large shark bite, more terrible timing, and an ignominious end. I wasn't 'girlfriend' material at the time. I was a good drinking buddy and I think I was pretty good at whatever we did on the couch. I stole his brand-new shirt and wore it until it was in tatters, shortly after my divorce. I wasn't very discreet, and there was an incident with a pink sweater....
    And now, half a lifetime later and 2000 miles apart, we are friends. He called 31 days ago, and I saved that message and replayed it a dozen times. Isn't it strange how what could have been a throwaway not-really-love affair turned into something like this?
  • Stewart. We had nothing in common except our vague political leanings. I was engaged when I first realized he existed. He was kind of weird and lazy and didn't really take care of himself. The problem? He was fascinating to me.
    He is both a milestone and a pothole. A last crush before..., which makes him the milestone. And one afternoon at a dive bar on the East end, we were drinking beer and playing pool with some other degenerate college students. I went to buy the next round and a townie on a stool reached over and pinched my butt. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before; I was stunned stupid. Stewart, however, saw it happen, and he confronted the guy. He told him to keep his hands off my ass, and anyone else's that he hadn't been specifically invited to touch. And he did that while holding on to me, sort of pressing my back into his chest, protectively. He came to my rescue. It was another thing that had never been done, and hasn't really been done since. I was touched and thrilled and smitten, all at once. We had one bizarre night at a party at a friend's house, where I relegated my engagement ring to my jeans pocket and let him warm my feet after I stomped around in the snow in a fit of pique at a friend. We came very close, but didn't quite move it past wanting to.
    I still think about him, wonder where he is, try to imagine what he was thinking when he stood up to that flabby drunk on my behalf. I always think of him with undisguised pleasure and happiness; he was one of the good ones.
  • Russ. I think I've hit this one a few times before, so I'll spare the details beyond: he ghosted me. He is an example of what I do want for my life (really outstanding love, overwhelming feelings, head-over-heeledness that means not taking 'no' for an answer) and also what I fear most: the hollow feeling of knowing that I want something that will not happen.
  • Johnnie. The pothole. Nick Earls wrote in Perfect Skin: "It's the shadow I'm standing in, a rock I can't push past." It takes nothing at all for me to slip back to the place that he left me, where he wanted me to be, yet I miss him in countless ways. He saved my life. Maybe it's not fair, but I am sorry that I was stronger than he—or I—thought.
  • Steve, who is the most important pothole of all. Not the first in time (Andrew), or the obsessive (Johnnie), or the 'original,' as in, the first that I recognized as something like this (Neil). He's just...the one. He's the song I cannot get out of my head. He's the [good] taste in my mouth, no matter how many times or how long I've brushed and flossed and rinsed. He's the scent of rootbeer from the bottle, the sun rising over the bluffs, the River practically still but sliding audibly from West to East. He's guitars and especially drums with Rush, and guys who take their children seriously, and Lucky Lager ("gotta get Lucky anytime you can!"). He's all about doing something you thought (and maybe swore) you'd never do, because you're in love with someone who says, 'please'.
    That's the thing, see? When it happened, I thought it was casual. I thought it was about sex and convenience and being friends-of-friends who lived across the street from each other and took grad-level History of Brazil together on Monday nights. I didn't know that I was in love with him. I didn't know that I was that far in until after I went through the window. He left (but didn't), and I moved on (but didn't). And then he came back and said, "If I was ever going to love someone, it would be you." I thought it was too little, too late. I thought he was dropping a pathetic line to make me believe in romance just because he wanted more sex, that I would be a fool to believe it. I had no experience with guys like that, the ones who say, "If you want to do something later, drop by," but who really mean, "Come over later, please?"
    If I had known, I would have said, "Steve, I think I love you, too."
    Yup, pothole.
    I know this is incredibly long and probably overwhelming. Imagine, though, what it's been feeling like in my head?
    On this 3rd anniversary of my blog, it seemed an appropriate time to consider this. And to suggest, to anyone who's made it through the entire post, that you honor your own milestones and potholes. No one of us ever does a 'good enough' job of letting people know what they've meant to us.
Try.

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