Stand-up Tragedy
For the benefit of Mr. Kite, also known as my unnamed friend, I post this story as part reminiscence and part life lesson. I have enough confidence in Mr. Kite not to assume this is anything similar to his situation, but I do thank him for the impetus I needed to finally put it in print.
.
One cool January day I sat in my dorm room in Pardee Tower glancing at the computer. I was getting over the first man I had ever had more than sexual feelings for and hadn't yet decided to come out, so my situation was a mite vulnerable. Enter, virtually, "Joey," a bleeding-heart gay man of about 23 (I was and still tend to be into older men), who talked the talk and chatted the chat on some online meeting site I now conveniently forget. Joey was perfect: romantic, sexy, and settled in his life. We continued a digital relationship of a different, more substantial nature than I was used to, and my online heart jumped slightly whenever I saw his cyber-ego log on.
.
Naturally we arranged to meet one night. The game plan was unbelievable, but I was a sucker: I would take a train to Oxnard, he would meet me there and take me to his apartment for a romantic dinner and end the night among rose petals on the bed (I do not exaggerate). I have not felt nerves like that in a long time, with the exception of the night I finally met Scott at Union Station two months later, and as I arrived in Oxnard and disembarked I looked around hopefully for the man I was going to marry.
.
Things didn't quite turn out as planned, and as it grew dark and the last train to Los Angeles pulled out of the station, I looked, puzzled, at the phone I had been dialing for hours to no avail. Since it was still breaktime for my friends at the only school nearby, Cal Lutheran, it was hard to find a savior, but Lindsay called her friend, an RA who was still in Thousand Oaks, and she came to rescue me and take me to Lindsay's empty apartment to sleep until I could get the morning train to Union Station. I had been royally stood up.
.
As I logged online in Lindsay's room, I was somewhat surprised to see "Joey" online. Naturally I asked what had happened. It took about ten minutes to get a response, and it floored me. "Joey's" roommate answered and said "Joey" had been in a horrible accident on the way to pick me up and was in a coma in the hospital. I felt terrible, guilty and lost, and told Megan, Lindsay's friend, about it. Megan's mother works for CHP, and we called to check on an accident on the 101 near Oxnard. We found no reports. I couldn't get out of "Joey's" roommate the name of the hospital, and cried myself to sleep.
.
After about a week had passed, it became clear no one was going to give me the name of the hospital. I was helpless and pined for weeks more, undeterred when Roshni, Jessi's roommate, perhaps prematurely wondered whether the incident was as real as it seemed. That sentiment was repeated by a hookup I had one night a week or so later, and this time I listened a bit more, albeit unconvinced.
.
It wasn't until a few weeks later when "Joey" emerged from his coma. I initiated contact and got relatively unresponsive feedback. Perhaps the accident messed with his brain or something, but he didn't seem that eager to make amends.
.
When "Joey's" photo and similar stats emerged on another profile on said disregarded website, I called him on it. "Joey? Who is Joey?" was the response. At first I was annoyed that someone would use my lover's photographs in such disdain for privacy and hallowed internet honesty, but then, finally, I grew up.
.
I never got to give "Joey" the "fuck you" he deserved. But such a lesson at that point in my life (by then I had managed to come out to one or two of my closest friends) was worth ten (maybe eleven) well-deserved "fuck yous." Not to mention, if I do say so myself, it makes for a good story, one that usually lies just under my daily memory and finds its way out when the appropriate situation arises.
.
One cool January day I sat in my dorm room in Pardee Tower glancing at the computer. I was getting over the first man I had ever had more than sexual feelings for and hadn't yet decided to come out, so my situation was a mite vulnerable. Enter, virtually, "Joey," a bleeding-heart gay man of about 23 (I was and still tend to be into older men), who talked the talk and chatted the chat on some online meeting site I now conveniently forget. Joey was perfect: romantic, sexy, and settled in his life. We continued a digital relationship of a different, more substantial nature than I was used to, and my online heart jumped slightly whenever I saw his cyber-ego log on.
.
Naturally we arranged to meet one night. The game plan was unbelievable, but I was a sucker: I would take a train to Oxnard, he would meet me there and take me to his apartment for a romantic dinner and end the night among rose petals on the bed (I do not exaggerate). I have not felt nerves like that in a long time, with the exception of the night I finally met Scott at Union Station two months later, and as I arrived in Oxnard and disembarked I looked around hopefully for the man I was going to marry.
.
Things didn't quite turn out as planned, and as it grew dark and the last train to Los Angeles pulled out of the station, I looked, puzzled, at the phone I had been dialing for hours to no avail. Since it was still breaktime for my friends at the only school nearby, Cal Lutheran, it was hard to find a savior, but Lindsay called her friend, an RA who was still in Thousand Oaks, and she came to rescue me and take me to Lindsay's empty apartment to sleep until I could get the morning train to Union Station. I had been royally stood up.
.
As I logged online in Lindsay's room, I was somewhat surprised to see "Joey" online. Naturally I asked what had happened. It took about ten minutes to get a response, and it floored me. "Joey's" roommate answered and said "Joey" had been in a horrible accident on the way to pick me up and was in a coma in the hospital. I felt terrible, guilty and lost, and told Megan, Lindsay's friend, about it. Megan's mother works for CHP, and we called to check on an accident on the 101 near Oxnard. We found no reports. I couldn't get out of "Joey's" roommate the name of the hospital, and cried myself to sleep.
.
After about a week had passed, it became clear no one was going to give me the name of the hospital. I was helpless and pined for weeks more, undeterred when Roshni, Jessi's roommate, perhaps prematurely wondered whether the incident was as real as it seemed. That sentiment was repeated by a hookup I had one night a week or so later, and this time I listened a bit more, albeit unconvinced.
.
It wasn't until a few weeks later when "Joey" emerged from his coma. I initiated contact and got relatively unresponsive feedback. Perhaps the accident messed with his brain or something, but he didn't seem that eager to make amends.
.
When "Joey's" photo and similar stats emerged on another profile on said disregarded website, I called him on it. "Joey? Who is Joey?" was the response. At first I was annoyed that someone would use my lover's photographs in such disdain for privacy and hallowed internet honesty, but then, finally, I grew up.
.
I never got to give "Joey" the "fuck you" he deserved. But such a lesson at that point in my life (by then I had managed to come out to one or two of my closest friends) was worth ten (maybe eleven) well-deserved "fuck yous." Not to mention, if I do say so myself, it makes for a good story, one that usually lies just under my daily memory and finds its way out when the appropriate situation arises.