the_new_struggle.doc
Fine. Here. Story after the cut.
The New Struggle
By Jon Austin
Before I begin, a cathartic confessional; because, for some reason, there aren’t too many people to talk to on a Saturday night at 12 AM.
What Nietzsche said about fiction I still find to be completely true: you can say all you want about emotional and intellectual connection, hermeneutics, sense data, or any other way of interpreting the world, but in the end we still are slaves to consciousness. Between everything else and ourselves there’s still a barrier. In this way, I think Sartre was right, but I don’t know if he went far enough. There’s even a barrier between who we are and who we know ourselves to be. How many of us haven't had to “find ourselves”? How many of us think we find ourselves, and then go through a “mid-life crisis”? How many of us use professions or relationships or addiction to distract ourselves from ourselves? To keep us from confronting our own alienation?
As if the fun ended there. Unfortunately, we live in relation to everything else. And even though we might not have too much of an issue with most things, people pose a practically insurmountable problem to us; while we deal with the problem of our own alienation, we come into contact with someone who is dealing with their own alienation in whatever fashion they please, and in your mutual alienation, you come together and create alienation between yourselves. Now, while this occurs with every instance of human interaction, it is particularly fun in a loving relationship. And I hardly need to explain the issues that arise here. Just take a look around.
So now, at age 22.6 or so, I have come to the conclusion that the only way two people can successfully engage in a love-based relationship is to concede to each other that ultimately, they are alienated from each other. Pretty much everything we do when dealing with our “others” is not based upon some final knowledge of that person, but our best guess, based upon our experiences with that person and in relationships in general. In short, we pretty much don’t know what’s going on, with our partners or ourselves, at any given moment. And while deep moments of connectivity can be achieved, they are rare, transitory, and completely random.
But then again, this might be what we’re in it for, why we still play the relationship game. Fleeting, transitory moments of epiphanic connection. Much like the reason we write stories, and why we read them.
* * *
It's 8:37 AM. My girlfriend, Aden Riley, is getting fingered by some dude at a party right now. Well, she's not really my girlfriend. And he's not just “some dude”; he's her ex. And that party is in North Carolina, at a small college dorm, which rests at the base of a tree-covered mountain in the Appalachians, which is quite possibly the exact opposite, geographically and topographically, from downtown Seattle, where I sit, at my computer, waiting to see if she'll log on.
Now, the certainty of this event is only rated as “possible,” according to her, but I've upped the danger level to “probable.” She warned me of its “possibility” this morning. The increased probability is in my head. She told me that she has a hard time resisting him, “especially when I'm not doing okay”, which translated by me, leads to a night of wild, passionate sex, followed by reconciliation, an immediate nuptial, a litter of spawn, and a lifetime lived out in his embrace. His name is Cameron, and he is my twenty-four hour nemesis.
So, to recap, it's been two hours since dawn, I'm drunk, have a shattered sense of pride, a terribly confused moral sense, and I'm waiting for... the object of my affections... to get home and either confirm or deny what is assuredly bound to be complete mental catastrophe. But perhaps I should start at the beginning and bring all of us-you all as observers along with I, the subject-a bit more clarity.
I woke to the cacophony of some newfound, overrated, untalented group of Berklee dropouts who call themselves a “collective” rather than a band (I see the comparisons to a certain cyborg-based group of conformists more than fitting) on the radio/alarm I've set for the ungodly hour of 10:30 AM in order to make my noon class. It's Friday, Nikki's party is today, and Harley Arista is in this class, which, undoubtedly, is the only reason I don't toss this lame band's “collective” ass out of my eighth-story window and let the “collective” of Seattle's least savory people pick at the remains of my radio to see if they can pawn them for beer money. I call the hour “ungodly,” not because I'm the traditional slacker/late riser (I am), but because I had been on my computer all night consoling Harley about her recent break-up with her long-time leech and dis-preciator of such fine specimens of feminine perfection, a fellow (whose ignorance I'll have to thank later) by the name of Josh. In another chat window, I was cursing Aden for completing Spring Semester a full month before my quarter was at its end, and listening to her claim that my brand of gum was “inferior”: “and it's not enough gum for one piece, but too much if you have two pieces, which is exceedingly lame,” much like myself, she claims. This is quite a far-reaching claim of lame-ness, and I tell her so, but she always has to find something to use to undermine me, and she's just about exhausted all possibilities in the short few weeks we've known each other.
Harley is a girl who certainly shares her namesake in some respects-long, curvy features, big headlights, and a nice, sexy ass you'd love to ride all weekend. In other ways she doesn't-she's quiet, keeps to herself, doesn't have expensive tastes, and certainly isn't stylish or popular. She's a perfect target for me. You see, up until now, I haven't had much luck with women, but a sudden escape from a debilitating unrequited love of eight years has infused a newfound sense of confidence (and reckless abandon, which may be more important in the long run) into my personality. For some reason, girls seem to pick up on and respond to confidence very well. I'd had more liaisons in the past two months than my entire previous sexual career, dating back to my first (and quite accidental) orgasm at age twelve, after which I had promptly pledged to experience this sensation as often as possible, and hopefully with actual girls at some point in time.
Yet my conversation the previous night with Harley had complicated matters a bit-she was a genuinely sweet girl who was in actual pain, and while I might be dreadfully male and am highly influenced by the autonomous thought process of my genitalia, I am primarily guided by my more rational and emotional faculties, and wherever one's conscience might fit on the continuum between the two. Besides, there's always the looming chance that she didn't share my interest, and this fact is highlighted by my dismal self-image (no doubt another artifact of my adolescence), which has yet to be positively affected by my confidence boost of late. But the simple fact is, Harley is gorgeous, and gorgeous girls make me happy when I see them. And now she was unattached, and, more importantly, vulnerable. And since my face doesn't usually do the trick, I welcomed this advantage, and intended to use it to the fullest extent.
I rose and flipped on my monitor to check if anyone had left me any messages. Aden, suffering from a three-hour time difference, would certainly have left something, and would probably still be around for a quick chat. And she had. And she was.
“Hey,” I sent, rubbing my eyes and trying to collect enough active brain cells to have a conversation. I had to be at my wits with her, and part of her attraction to me was that I had some.
“Your gum still sucks. And it goes terribly with Cheerwine. Did you get my package yet?”
“Not in the past six hours while I was sleeping, no.”
“Well I want you to try it! Ass.”
“I will when it gets here! Or maybe I'll leave the bottle unopened on my bookcase to remind me of you always.”
“God, you're so emo. Make sure you wipe your tears away before you enter the classroom.”
“Only if you remember that I cried them because of you.”
“You're going to make me sick.”
“No, my stench would make you sick. I need a shower.”
“Why are you talking to me then? Co-dependence is such a turn-off.”
Statements like this test the bounds of my sense of humor and tap into the vast wellspring of insecurity that has been filling the reservoir of my sub-conscious for the past eight years. It's tough to explain just how difficult it is to pick up sarcasm in text. Fortunately, I'm a publishing author, so I retain a capacity for clear (and at the same time, clever) sarcasm, but unfortunately am, in a broader sense, an artist, and retain the emotional visage of the creative type-one that can very easily take offense to comments about his greatest work of art, himself. And I'm a Libra. And an emotional wreck.
“Fine,” I reply, “in the shower, back in five.”
My apartment-excuse me, my room-is in a nine story building originally constructed as a hotel, but served as a mass-market whorehouse back in the 20's. The kitchen area-designated solely by a six-by-ten strip of linoleum that holds the sink, oven, and triad of overhead cabinets-is quite obviously an afterthought. The fridge, small enough to come sans Auto-Magic Light Bulb, sits on the carpet across from the sink, and next to it rests my computer desk, adjacent to the window. On the other side of the windowed wall is my bed, no more than three feet from my chair, and down the adjoining wall sits an end table with a retro touch lamp and my fiendish alarm clock, a steel Ikea shelving rack that holds my pseudo-folded clothes, and a closet nestled up against the front door. Across from the closet, on the other side of the wall from the kitchen space, is the bathroom, which has enough room for a person to be using the sink, toilet, or bathtub, but couldn't possibly house more than one person at a time to perform these multiple functions. All in all, I'm not really surprised that all anyone really did in here was fuck, drink, and get robbed by whores.
I slipped out of my chair, and in a few strides, stood in the bathtub, preparing for my morning cleansing ritual. The water was warm, a notable achievement for my building. I reached for my towel, as one usually does after concluding daily bathing activities completely out of habit, and began to dry off. I'll make clear, this is something I've done an exorbitant amount of times without incident. Yet as I finished drying my head and began to work the shoulders, I... oh, I don't know... I must have... okay, I absent-mindedly started the drying process with my right hand only, swinging the opposite corner of the towel around my back and thoroughly into the wide-open toilet bowl, still soiled from a previous nocturnal sojourn of relief. I paused, struck by just how wretched and vile this event is, and hung my head. Shortly after, I stepped dripping onto the carpet to retrieve a fresh towel and think only one thought, over and over: “this is going to be a bad day.”
After drying myself properly (well away from the toilet bowl), and throwing on my Gumby boxers, I returned to my computer to tell Aden about my bathroom tragedy. She always enjoys a laugh at the expense of others, but she seems to make it a bit more of a personal issue. She reminded me of my mental status (“That was dumb,” as if I didn't know.), and I could picture her laughing, even though all I had to work with was a fuzzy picture from a shitty digital camera she had sent me.
I don't think I'd call Aden mean. Okay, I would. But she's not mean-spirited. She makes fun of everyone, and more so the people she loves. And being one of the few for whom she's expressed her love(“You know what's scary? I had to backspace 'I love you sweetie' from my mind just now.'”), I am one of the heaviest hit by her aggressiveness.
Fitting she picks this moment (quite subconsciously, I'm sure), after highlighting my insecurity and attempting to bash me for the towel incident, to tell me that I would have to “fend for myself” tonight because she's planned to go to a friend's surprise birthday party. And Cameron would be there. And she “might be going home with him tonight, because I've had a rough week, and he's the only person who can make me feel better.” She wasn't lying; she'd had four papers, two finals and practically no sleep. And Cameron was truly one of the only people Aden could connect to on an emotional-and sexual-level.
“You know what that means, right?” she sent to me.
“Yeah, I know what it means.”
“And you're okay with it?”
“I didn't say that. But it's part of the deal, I guess.”
And it was. Aden was what we call a “free spirit.” She had adamantly made this clear when we made our affections for each other known. At first I was hesitant (“I don't share well,” I typed). But, Aden replied, the need for physical contact and release is ever present and simply too difficult to ignore (I believe her phrase at this point was, “some of us enjoy ACTUAL sex, too.”). And the more I thought about it, the less I could deny it. After all, we weren't actually dating. Not after three weeks on the internet. And I could certainly use the argument to my advantage as well. After this discussion about her evening's plans, I fully intended to.
“Are you okay?” she wrote.
“Why wouldn't I be? I've known the deal from the beginning. And shit, I'm going to a party, too. Maybe I'll bring Harley along and catch her on the rebound.”
A long pause. I was trying her at her own game now, It was risky. She's damn good at it.
“Hey, you're finally growing a spine.”
Fuck you.
“Yeah, you like it?” I sent.
“You're going to be late.”
One of the greatest-and most maddening-things about Aden is that she's never really ever wrong. She's just less right at times. This wasn't one of those times.
Harley had saved a seat for me in the back of the room. Our previous night's conversation had taken its toll aesthetically; her eyes were dark and her smile dim. She wore baggy sweatpants and a t-shirt paying homage to our Volleyball team, but she always chose her attire to accentuate her greatest assets, and today was no different.
“Feeling any better?” I asked, sitting next to her.
“A little. Talking with you helped a lot.” She gave a weak smile and averted her eyes downward.
“Well I'm glad I stayed up that late. You caught me just as I was heading to bed.” I could feel the devious smile of my id swelling.
“I'm just not sure I can stick with my decision. We were together for so long... He called me this morning telling me how much he missed me and begged me to reconsider. I'm supposed to see him tonight.”
“Well, like I told you last night,” I said with a sideways glance, “maybe you need a distraction until you feel better about all this.” I'm so in. “There's a party tonight, perhaps some classical hedonism would keep your mind off of things.”
She giggled a bit and smiled. “That might work.”
Oh, I'll make sure it works.
She slid her hand over to cover mine. “Thank you for looking out for me.”
Shit.
Why'd you have to say that, Harley? We were getting along so well.
“Uhm...” I started, “actually... last night sorta wiped me out, I might just stay home.”
She pouted. “Are you sure? Shouldn't I get out instead of moping around by myself?”
I could actually feel my brain fighting my penis for superiority.
I looked at her hand, still touching me. “That.. that's probably a good idea.”
She brightened. “Awesome! Will you get me at ten?”
“Sure.”
I cursed myself for the rest of class. I watched her sensuous note-taking during our discussion of puns used in Renaissance Poetry for orgasm; the tease of her loopy L's, the quick, sharp I's, the rigid T's and inviting O's. Her eyes sparkled with attention and her back arched over her notebook. When class reached its climax, she picked up her things to leave.
“So I'll see you later tonight?” she asked.
“Of course.” I let my forehead hit the desk as she exited the classroom. I wondered if I could catch Aden before she left.
I can't say I think about Aden all the time, because, well, every third thought is about how ridiculous it is to think this much about a wrong-coast girl I met three weeks ago on the internet.
I first started talking to Aden after a member of a chat room about video games I frequent (for the people, not so much the content anymore) introduced her to our little nerdy coterie. I think she saw a room full of inherently horny (read: horny and lonely) geeks and decided that she'd think it would be fun to introduce some estrogen into the mix and see what would happen. To her credit, she does like video games, but this is rarely what we talk about. Almost immediately after being introduced as female by her compatriot (a fellow named Ron who also attended her minuscule Waldenesque college), pictures were demanded by all, and haphazardly produced. She was undeniably attractive. One could imagine what this does to a room full of computer nerds.
I doubt she banked on the presence of such a male like me; that is, one with enough social proficiency to keep from alienating all those who come into contact with him, and, quite possibly, leave a positive impression. But I knew the game had begun when she mentioned the name of an obscure band, and, using my skills in the ways of the world, I convincingly feigned knowledge of this area, and the connection was engaged. Calling upon all of my powers and command over the vast resources of the internet, I produced for her in less than 24 hours the band's entire discography with proper titles and consistent filename notation with excellent sound quality. This seemed to tread the line between sweet and creepy in just such a fashion as to be unignorable, yet not weird enough to send her running. No, that usually only happens after we talk.
I wandered around campus until my phone decided to work. Aden had “accidentally” made her phone number accessible last week. We'd talked a few times since, despite the insinuation that she “hated the phone.”
“Hello?” Her voice partly came through and partly sounded like she was calling from an underwater cave. Worthless machinery.
“Hey, it's me.”
“You had to call while I was hoofing it across a six lane highway, didn't you?”
“Yeah, I'm trying to take you out before you get to the party.”
“I'm not surprised,” she said, breathing heavily. “What's up?”
“Oh, I don't know, just trying to get my last words in.”
“Last words?”
“Before you're driven the arms of another man.”
She laughed. “God. Well? What are they?”
“Hmm.. 'I hope it's terrible'?”
“You're assuming something will happen.”
“Oh, come on, you're saying nothing will happen? You had a terrible week, there's going to be alcohol there.. are you drunk already?”
“Darvocet.”
“Oh, Christ.”
“Look, I'll tell you everything that happens.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“I'll...” She started to break up.
“Hey, I'm losing you. Have a good time, I'll talk to you...” The connection dropped. “...later.”
I arrived on Harley's doorstep a little before ten and pensively rang her doorbell. She lived a few blocks away from the party in a student-infested area of town next to campus filled with dirty party houses and liberal campaign signs. She opened the door and stepped onto the porch.
“Hey.” She smiled.
I've never used this word to describe a woman before, but she looked... delicious. I almost fell over. It seemed like even the porch light turned to face her and she was the only object illuminated in the night.
She stared at me for a second. “Want to go?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I blinked a few times and regained my composure. That is, until she took my arm and started down the steps with me.
There's something about bringing someone to a party that makes you feel more secure. It implies possession, a delineation, a message to others that a connection has already been made, a relationship could already be established. “Fuck off, assholes, this one is mine,” it seems to say. It also secures a greater possibility that you'll get laid.
We entered the apartment. Harley saw a friend and ran into her arms, letting out a screech. Left alone in the entryway, I surveyed the carnage. It was a veritable den of hedonism. The usual array of bottles and cans were strewn about; nothing out of the ordinary. What really struck me was the complete lack of sexual demarcation: men kissing men, women kissing women, and the more typical combination of the two. But it wasn't limited to just two people. As I moved deeper into the living room, I moved away from a corner containing two guys, two girls, and a stuffed cartoon dog all sucking face at the same time.
Out of nowhere the hostess appeared, dragging along a small, underfed hipster kid. “URBAN!”
“Hi Nikki.”
“Ed, this is Urban. Well, his name isn't 'Urban', his screen name is 'Urban Contra' so we call him 'Urban'.”
I shook his emaciated hand, and I barely had time to pull my hand back before Nikki hugged me.
“I'm sorry, I'm totally trashed.”
“It's understandable, it's your party after all.”
“Hell yes! Come have a drink!” Nikki led me to the kitchen, which was completely covered in either mostly or completely empty alcohol containers.
“Sure, 'when in Rome', right?” I looked around. “As long as you can point me towards the vomitorium.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Nikki bounded off with the poor kid's wrist in her grasp. I grabbed the half-gallon of vodka. There was only about a half-inch in the bottom of the bottle, so I resolved to take what was left and fill the rest with cranberry juice. I began to pour. I kept pouring. I began to worry.
Halfway through the pouring process I realized that I had forgotten my basic geometry. There was a half-inch of booze left in the bottle, but the bottle also had a larger diameter than that of a fifth, making the volume significantly greater than what I was used to. I kept pouring. I added a splash of cranberry. It diluted in the alcohol like a drop of food coloring.
Suddenly, Harley rested her hand on my shoulder. “Pour me a drink, tiger?”
My eyes widened. I paused, then turned to face her. “This one's all out, you want something else?”
She grabbed a bottle from the opposite counter. “I'm more of a tequila girl anyway. Got anything to mix this with?”
“Anything citrus will do. There has to be something around here.” Nikki had some orange juice in the fridge. “Tequila sunrise?”
“Mmm.” She smiled. “Play your cards right and I might keep you up that long.”
Startled, I spilled a little too much booze into her cup. I handed the drink to her.
Harley took a sip. “Damn, are you tryin' to get me drunk?”
“Maybe.”
She gave a smirk. “How's yours?”
I put the cup to my lips and took a healthy, manly drink. Pure, shitty, bottom-shelf vodka flooded my gastro-intestinal system. I could have puked right then and there.
“It's good.” I tried to hold back a facial expression that showed just how much pain I was in. A small wince made it's way across my brow. Harley giggled.
“I'm gonna go find Carla,” Harley said, moving out of the kitchen. “I was telling her about the break-up.”
“Okay. I'll catch up with you later.”
She smiled and winked. I took another drink to keep my mouth from dropping open. The prospect of sleeping with Harley to make Aden jealous completely left my mind; now, the desire was unilaterally animal. My brain and penis had met at a neutral location, the butterflies in my stomach, but peace talks had become delayed indefinitely after supporters of the penis car-bombed the brain's limo. Riots broke out, and the forces of the passions took over any rational territory left in my body.
Looking around the kitchen and trying as hard as I could to avoid social interaction, I found a bowl of chips. I ate one, then another, then many in rapid succession. I caught myself eating them three at a time and remembered: I had forgotten to eat. I looked at my half-empty cup of pinkish vodka and swore to myself. This would be a night I would fail to remember.
There are, however, three things I remember from last night. One is the three-way make out with the hostess and her best friend for playing bartender (while I could still stand). The second is a girl named Nicole. Nicole and I had a conversation about how no one can ever remember other peoples' names at parties, so we resolved to shout each other's names as loudly as possible whenever we saw each other. It worked, apparently, except her face is a bit fuzzy in my mind.
The third is waking up next to Harley in Nikki's bed.
I looked up from the pillow. The room was still spinning, but at least I could see instead of trying to make out blurry shapes like how I was the last time I remembered being conscious. I propped myself up on one arm, and instantly regretted it. Collapsing back onto the bed woke Harley.
“Hey tiger.”
“Wha...” I held my head in my hands.
Harley giggled the same way she did back in class, back when she was hurting.
“It's good to know someone can fuck better than my ex.”
I instantly sobered up.
“Huh?”
She turned to face me and smiled. “You stay pretty damn hard for a passed out guy.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, it's too bad you couldn't feel it.”
“No, the first thing.”
“Oh. Sure, now I know I'm not missing out on anything. I can get on with my life.”
I stared at her. Was this the same girl?
She put her hand on mine. “Maybe we can do it again sometime.”
My heart sank. “You just wanted to... see how it was?”
“Yeah. And you're pretty good.” She put her head back on her pillow, staring at the ceiling. “Now I just need to find a guy I like who's that good.”
What. The fuck.
I started to put on my clothes. “You want me to walk you home?”
“Nah, I'm a big girl.”
“Bigger than I thought.”
She sat up. “What's that supposed to mean.”
“You just used me for sex, what am I supposed to say?”
“You're a guy, I didn't think that would be a problem. I thought you were trying to get me into bed anyway.”
I would have been offended, except that's exactly what I had been trying to do.
“Whatever.” I tried to leave in the biggest huff I could muster.
I was home before the sun came up. I saw my computer, and instantly thought of Aden.
My pride was too damaged to talk about Harley, but I told some of the night owls in my chat room about what had happened with Aden. Most of those guys like to play it tough. “Fuck her, man.” Others tried to get me to talk to her about how I felt. And I know some began to plan their moves to snatch the highly coveted “Geek Girl” out from under me. Socially inept people can be fucking evil.
Staring into the night sky, I thought of her little mountain town. How there were no skyscrapers, no sirens, no trains. How she could see the stars, and how city's the light pollution ironically made the heavens more inky for me. I thought about her and Cameron as the sun rose, and a renaissance aubade briefly came to mind. I thought of how silly she would think I was. Then I thought of how silly I was being. The distance was immense, the differences between us substantial, and the attraction... completely indescribable.
And that just about brings us up to speed.
The noise from my instant messaging program wakes me up. It's a little after noon. I must have fallen asleep at my desk. It's Aden.
waxmoronic: hey you
UrbanContra: hey. how was your night?
waxmoronic: it could have been better.
I smile. A little icon in the corner tells me she's typing again.
waxmoronic: what about you? conquer that girl you were on about?
UrbanContra: I think she conquered me.
waxmoronic: ...didn't she just get dumped?
UrbanContra: yeah. fucked.
waxmoronic: yeah.
A long pause.
waxmoronic: I thought about you when I was with cameron
UrbanContra: dont tell me you screamed my name
waxmoronic: LOL
waxmoronic: no, he didn't get below the waist
waxmoronic: i didn't let him
waxmoronic: i don't think i could have.
waxmoronic: damn you.
Simply euphoric. But the show must go on.
UrbanContra: sorry to ruin your fun
UrbanContra: i fell asleep at my desk. you woke me up.
waxmoronic: don't tell me you were waiting for me
UrbanContra: nope. i did it completely on purpose and with full consent of the will.
waxmoronic: lol, riiiiiight
waxmoronic: go to bed.
UrbanContra: k. night kiddo
waxmoronic: don't sleep too long, i'll be bored.
Content that I was warmed inside by something other than alcohol, I put up my away message:
"Our generation has a unique problem: it's hard to follow your dreams with the internet in the way."
Happy?
The New Struggle
By Jon Austin
Before I begin, a cathartic confessional; because, for some reason, there aren’t too many people to talk to on a Saturday night at 12 AM.
What Nietzsche said about fiction I still find to be completely true: you can say all you want about emotional and intellectual connection, hermeneutics, sense data, or any other way of interpreting the world, but in the end we still are slaves to consciousness. Between everything else and ourselves there’s still a barrier. In this way, I think Sartre was right, but I don’t know if he went far enough. There’s even a barrier between who we are and who we know ourselves to be. How many of us haven't had to “find ourselves”? How many of us think we find ourselves, and then go through a “mid-life crisis”? How many of us use professions or relationships or addiction to distract ourselves from ourselves? To keep us from confronting our own alienation?
As if the fun ended there. Unfortunately, we live in relation to everything else. And even though we might not have too much of an issue with most things, people pose a practically insurmountable problem to us; while we deal with the problem of our own alienation, we come into contact with someone who is dealing with their own alienation in whatever fashion they please, and in your mutual alienation, you come together and create alienation between yourselves. Now, while this occurs with every instance of human interaction, it is particularly fun in a loving relationship. And I hardly need to explain the issues that arise here. Just take a look around.
So now, at age 22.6 or so, I have come to the conclusion that the only way two people can successfully engage in a love-based relationship is to concede to each other that ultimately, they are alienated from each other. Pretty much everything we do when dealing with our “others” is not based upon some final knowledge of that person, but our best guess, based upon our experiences with that person and in relationships in general. In short, we pretty much don’t know what’s going on, with our partners or ourselves, at any given moment. And while deep moments of connectivity can be achieved, they are rare, transitory, and completely random.
But then again, this might be what we’re in it for, why we still play the relationship game. Fleeting, transitory moments of epiphanic connection. Much like the reason we write stories, and why we read them.
* * *
It's 8:37 AM. My girlfriend, Aden Riley, is getting fingered by some dude at a party right now. Well, she's not really my girlfriend. And he's not just “some dude”; he's her ex. And that party is in North Carolina, at a small college dorm, which rests at the base of a tree-covered mountain in the Appalachians, which is quite possibly the exact opposite, geographically and topographically, from downtown Seattle, where I sit, at my computer, waiting to see if she'll log on.
Now, the certainty of this event is only rated as “possible,” according to her, but I've upped the danger level to “probable.” She warned me of its “possibility” this morning. The increased probability is in my head. She told me that she has a hard time resisting him, “especially when I'm not doing okay”, which translated by me, leads to a night of wild, passionate sex, followed by reconciliation, an immediate nuptial, a litter of spawn, and a lifetime lived out in his embrace. His name is Cameron, and he is my twenty-four hour nemesis.
So, to recap, it's been two hours since dawn, I'm drunk, have a shattered sense of pride, a terribly confused moral sense, and I'm waiting for... the object of my affections... to get home and either confirm or deny what is assuredly bound to be complete mental catastrophe. But perhaps I should start at the beginning and bring all of us-you all as observers along with I, the subject-a bit more clarity.
I woke to the cacophony of some newfound, overrated, untalented group of Berklee dropouts who call themselves a “collective” rather than a band (I see the comparisons to a certain cyborg-based group of conformists more than fitting) on the radio/alarm I've set for the ungodly hour of 10:30 AM in order to make my noon class. It's Friday, Nikki's party is today, and Harley Arista is in this class, which, undoubtedly, is the only reason I don't toss this lame band's “collective” ass out of my eighth-story window and let the “collective” of Seattle's least savory people pick at the remains of my radio to see if they can pawn them for beer money. I call the hour “ungodly,” not because I'm the traditional slacker/late riser (I am), but because I had been on my computer all night consoling Harley about her recent break-up with her long-time leech and dis-preciator of such fine specimens of feminine perfection, a fellow (whose ignorance I'll have to thank later) by the name of Josh. In another chat window, I was cursing Aden for completing Spring Semester a full month before my quarter was at its end, and listening to her claim that my brand of gum was “inferior”: “and it's not enough gum for one piece, but too much if you have two pieces, which is exceedingly lame,” much like myself, she claims. This is quite a far-reaching claim of lame-ness, and I tell her so, but she always has to find something to use to undermine me, and she's just about exhausted all possibilities in the short few weeks we've known each other.
Harley is a girl who certainly shares her namesake in some respects-long, curvy features, big headlights, and a nice, sexy ass you'd love to ride all weekend. In other ways she doesn't-she's quiet, keeps to herself, doesn't have expensive tastes, and certainly isn't stylish or popular. She's a perfect target for me. You see, up until now, I haven't had much luck with women, but a sudden escape from a debilitating unrequited love of eight years has infused a newfound sense of confidence (and reckless abandon, which may be more important in the long run) into my personality. For some reason, girls seem to pick up on and respond to confidence very well. I'd had more liaisons in the past two months than my entire previous sexual career, dating back to my first (and quite accidental) orgasm at age twelve, after which I had promptly pledged to experience this sensation as often as possible, and hopefully with actual girls at some point in time.
Yet my conversation the previous night with Harley had complicated matters a bit-she was a genuinely sweet girl who was in actual pain, and while I might be dreadfully male and am highly influenced by the autonomous thought process of my genitalia, I am primarily guided by my more rational and emotional faculties, and wherever one's conscience might fit on the continuum between the two. Besides, there's always the looming chance that she didn't share my interest, and this fact is highlighted by my dismal self-image (no doubt another artifact of my adolescence), which has yet to be positively affected by my confidence boost of late. But the simple fact is, Harley is gorgeous, and gorgeous girls make me happy when I see them. And now she was unattached, and, more importantly, vulnerable. And since my face doesn't usually do the trick, I welcomed this advantage, and intended to use it to the fullest extent.
I rose and flipped on my monitor to check if anyone had left me any messages. Aden, suffering from a three-hour time difference, would certainly have left something, and would probably still be around for a quick chat. And she had. And she was.
“Hey,” I sent, rubbing my eyes and trying to collect enough active brain cells to have a conversation. I had to be at my wits with her, and part of her attraction to me was that I had some.
“Your gum still sucks. And it goes terribly with Cheerwine. Did you get my package yet?”
“Not in the past six hours while I was sleeping, no.”
“Well I want you to try it! Ass.”
“I will when it gets here! Or maybe I'll leave the bottle unopened on my bookcase to remind me of you always.”
“God, you're so emo. Make sure you wipe your tears away before you enter the classroom.”
“Only if you remember that I cried them because of you.”
“You're going to make me sick.”
“No, my stench would make you sick. I need a shower.”
“Why are you talking to me then? Co-dependence is such a turn-off.”
Statements like this test the bounds of my sense of humor and tap into the vast wellspring of insecurity that has been filling the reservoir of my sub-conscious for the past eight years. It's tough to explain just how difficult it is to pick up sarcasm in text. Fortunately, I'm a publishing author, so I retain a capacity for clear (and at the same time, clever) sarcasm, but unfortunately am, in a broader sense, an artist, and retain the emotional visage of the creative type-one that can very easily take offense to comments about his greatest work of art, himself. And I'm a Libra. And an emotional wreck.
“Fine,” I reply, “in the shower, back in five.”
My apartment-excuse me, my room-is in a nine story building originally constructed as a hotel, but served as a mass-market whorehouse back in the 20's. The kitchen area-designated solely by a six-by-ten strip of linoleum that holds the sink, oven, and triad of overhead cabinets-is quite obviously an afterthought. The fridge, small enough to come sans Auto-Magic Light Bulb, sits on the carpet across from the sink, and next to it rests my computer desk, adjacent to the window. On the other side of the windowed wall is my bed, no more than three feet from my chair, and down the adjoining wall sits an end table with a retro touch lamp and my fiendish alarm clock, a steel Ikea shelving rack that holds my pseudo-folded clothes, and a closet nestled up against the front door. Across from the closet, on the other side of the wall from the kitchen space, is the bathroom, which has enough room for a person to be using the sink, toilet, or bathtub, but couldn't possibly house more than one person at a time to perform these multiple functions. All in all, I'm not really surprised that all anyone really did in here was fuck, drink, and get robbed by whores.
I slipped out of my chair, and in a few strides, stood in the bathtub, preparing for my morning cleansing ritual. The water was warm, a notable achievement for my building. I reached for my towel, as one usually does after concluding daily bathing activities completely out of habit, and began to dry off. I'll make clear, this is something I've done an exorbitant amount of times without incident. Yet as I finished drying my head and began to work the shoulders, I... oh, I don't know... I must have... okay, I absent-mindedly started the drying process with my right hand only, swinging the opposite corner of the towel around my back and thoroughly into the wide-open toilet bowl, still soiled from a previous nocturnal sojourn of relief. I paused, struck by just how wretched and vile this event is, and hung my head. Shortly after, I stepped dripping onto the carpet to retrieve a fresh towel and think only one thought, over and over: “this is going to be a bad day.”
After drying myself properly (well away from the toilet bowl), and throwing on my Gumby boxers, I returned to my computer to tell Aden about my bathroom tragedy. She always enjoys a laugh at the expense of others, but she seems to make it a bit more of a personal issue. She reminded me of my mental status (“That was dumb,” as if I didn't know.), and I could picture her laughing, even though all I had to work with was a fuzzy picture from a shitty digital camera she had sent me.
I don't think I'd call Aden mean. Okay, I would. But she's not mean-spirited. She makes fun of everyone, and more so the people she loves. And being one of the few for whom she's expressed her love(“You know what's scary? I had to backspace 'I love you sweetie' from my mind just now.'”), I am one of the heaviest hit by her aggressiveness.
Fitting she picks this moment (quite subconsciously, I'm sure), after highlighting my insecurity and attempting to bash me for the towel incident, to tell me that I would have to “fend for myself” tonight because she's planned to go to a friend's surprise birthday party. And Cameron would be there. And she “might be going home with him tonight, because I've had a rough week, and he's the only person who can make me feel better.” She wasn't lying; she'd had four papers, two finals and practically no sleep. And Cameron was truly one of the only people Aden could connect to on an emotional-and sexual-level.
“You know what that means, right?” she sent to me.
“Yeah, I know what it means.”
“And you're okay with it?”
“I didn't say that. But it's part of the deal, I guess.”
And it was. Aden was what we call a “free spirit.” She had adamantly made this clear when we made our affections for each other known. At first I was hesitant (“I don't share well,” I typed). But, Aden replied, the need for physical contact and release is ever present and simply too difficult to ignore (I believe her phrase at this point was, “some of us enjoy ACTUAL sex, too.”). And the more I thought about it, the less I could deny it. After all, we weren't actually dating. Not after three weeks on the internet. And I could certainly use the argument to my advantage as well. After this discussion about her evening's plans, I fully intended to.
“Are you okay?” she wrote.
“Why wouldn't I be? I've known the deal from the beginning. And shit, I'm going to a party, too. Maybe I'll bring Harley along and catch her on the rebound.”
A long pause. I was trying her at her own game now, It was risky. She's damn good at it.
“Hey, you're finally growing a spine.”
Fuck you.
“Yeah, you like it?” I sent.
“You're going to be late.”
One of the greatest-and most maddening-things about Aden is that she's never really ever wrong. She's just less right at times. This wasn't one of those times.
Harley had saved a seat for me in the back of the room. Our previous night's conversation had taken its toll aesthetically; her eyes were dark and her smile dim. She wore baggy sweatpants and a t-shirt paying homage to our Volleyball team, but she always chose her attire to accentuate her greatest assets, and today was no different.
“Feeling any better?” I asked, sitting next to her.
“A little. Talking with you helped a lot.” She gave a weak smile and averted her eyes downward.
“Well I'm glad I stayed up that late. You caught me just as I was heading to bed.” I could feel the devious smile of my id swelling.
“I'm just not sure I can stick with my decision. We were together for so long... He called me this morning telling me how much he missed me and begged me to reconsider. I'm supposed to see him tonight.”
“Well, like I told you last night,” I said with a sideways glance, “maybe you need a distraction until you feel better about all this.” I'm so in. “There's a party tonight, perhaps some classical hedonism would keep your mind off of things.”
She giggled a bit and smiled. “That might work.”
Oh, I'll make sure it works.
She slid her hand over to cover mine. “Thank you for looking out for me.”
Shit.
Why'd you have to say that, Harley? We were getting along so well.
“Uhm...” I started, “actually... last night sorta wiped me out, I might just stay home.”
She pouted. “Are you sure? Shouldn't I get out instead of moping around by myself?”
I could actually feel my brain fighting my penis for superiority.
I looked at her hand, still touching me. “That.. that's probably a good idea.”
She brightened. “Awesome! Will you get me at ten?”
“Sure.”
I cursed myself for the rest of class. I watched her sensuous note-taking during our discussion of puns used in Renaissance Poetry for orgasm; the tease of her loopy L's, the quick, sharp I's, the rigid T's and inviting O's. Her eyes sparkled with attention and her back arched over her notebook. When class reached its climax, she picked up her things to leave.
“So I'll see you later tonight?” she asked.
“Of course.” I let my forehead hit the desk as she exited the classroom. I wondered if I could catch Aden before she left.
I can't say I think about Aden all the time, because, well, every third thought is about how ridiculous it is to think this much about a wrong-coast girl I met three weeks ago on the internet.
I first started talking to Aden after a member of a chat room about video games I frequent (for the people, not so much the content anymore) introduced her to our little nerdy coterie. I think she saw a room full of inherently horny (read: horny and lonely) geeks and decided that she'd think it would be fun to introduce some estrogen into the mix and see what would happen. To her credit, she does like video games, but this is rarely what we talk about. Almost immediately after being introduced as female by her compatriot (a fellow named Ron who also attended her minuscule Waldenesque college), pictures were demanded by all, and haphazardly produced. She was undeniably attractive. One could imagine what this does to a room full of computer nerds.
I doubt she banked on the presence of such a male like me; that is, one with enough social proficiency to keep from alienating all those who come into contact with him, and, quite possibly, leave a positive impression. But I knew the game had begun when she mentioned the name of an obscure band, and, using my skills in the ways of the world, I convincingly feigned knowledge of this area, and the connection was engaged. Calling upon all of my powers and command over the vast resources of the internet, I produced for her in less than 24 hours the band's entire discography with proper titles and consistent filename notation with excellent sound quality. This seemed to tread the line between sweet and creepy in just such a fashion as to be unignorable, yet not weird enough to send her running. No, that usually only happens after we talk.
I wandered around campus until my phone decided to work. Aden had “accidentally” made her phone number accessible last week. We'd talked a few times since, despite the insinuation that she “hated the phone.”
“Hello?” Her voice partly came through and partly sounded like she was calling from an underwater cave. Worthless machinery.
“Hey, it's me.”
“You had to call while I was hoofing it across a six lane highway, didn't you?”
“Yeah, I'm trying to take you out before you get to the party.”
“I'm not surprised,” she said, breathing heavily. “What's up?”
“Oh, I don't know, just trying to get my last words in.”
“Last words?”
“Before you're driven the arms of another man.”
She laughed. “God. Well? What are they?”
“Hmm.. 'I hope it's terrible'?”
“You're assuming something will happen.”
“Oh, come on, you're saying nothing will happen? You had a terrible week, there's going to be alcohol there.. are you drunk already?”
“Darvocet.”
“Oh, Christ.”
“Look, I'll tell you everything that happens.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“I'll...” She started to break up.
“Hey, I'm losing you. Have a good time, I'll talk to you...” The connection dropped. “...later.”
I arrived on Harley's doorstep a little before ten and pensively rang her doorbell. She lived a few blocks away from the party in a student-infested area of town next to campus filled with dirty party houses and liberal campaign signs. She opened the door and stepped onto the porch.
“Hey.” She smiled.
I've never used this word to describe a woman before, but she looked... delicious. I almost fell over. It seemed like even the porch light turned to face her and she was the only object illuminated in the night.
She stared at me for a second. “Want to go?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I blinked a few times and regained my composure. That is, until she took my arm and started down the steps with me.
There's something about bringing someone to a party that makes you feel more secure. It implies possession, a delineation, a message to others that a connection has already been made, a relationship could already be established. “Fuck off, assholes, this one is mine,” it seems to say. It also secures a greater possibility that you'll get laid.
We entered the apartment. Harley saw a friend and ran into her arms, letting out a screech. Left alone in the entryway, I surveyed the carnage. It was a veritable den of hedonism. The usual array of bottles and cans were strewn about; nothing out of the ordinary. What really struck me was the complete lack of sexual demarcation: men kissing men, women kissing women, and the more typical combination of the two. But it wasn't limited to just two people. As I moved deeper into the living room, I moved away from a corner containing two guys, two girls, and a stuffed cartoon dog all sucking face at the same time.
Out of nowhere the hostess appeared, dragging along a small, underfed hipster kid. “URBAN!”
“Hi Nikki.”
“Ed, this is Urban. Well, his name isn't 'Urban', his screen name is 'Urban Contra' so we call him 'Urban'.”
I shook his emaciated hand, and I barely had time to pull my hand back before Nikki hugged me.
“I'm sorry, I'm totally trashed.”
“It's understandable, it's your party after all.”
“Hell yes! Come have a drink!” Nikki led me to the kitchen, which was completely covered in either mostly or completely empty alcohol containers.
“Sure, 'when in Rome', right?” I looked around. “As long as you can point me towards the vomitorium.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Nikki bounded off with the poor kid's wrist in her grasp. I grabbed the half-gallon of vodka. There was only about a half-inch in the bottom of the bottle, so I resolved to take what was left and fill the rest with cranberry juice. I began to pour. I kept pouring. I began to worry.
Halfway through the pouring process I realized that I had forgotten my basic geometry. There was a half-inch of booze left in the bottle, but the bottle also had a larger diameter than that of a fifth, making the volume significantly greater than what I was used to. I kept pouring. I added a splash of cranberry. It diluted in the alcohol like a drop of food coloring.
Suddenly, Harley rested her hand on my shoulder. “Pour me a drink, tiger?”
My eyes widened. I paused, then turned to face her. “This one's all out, you want something else?”
She grabbed a bottle from the opposite counter. “I'm more of a tequila girl anyway. Got anything to mix this with?”
“Anything citrus will do. There has to be something around here.” Nikki had some orange juice in the fridge. “Tequila sunrise?”
“Mmm.” She smiled. “Play your cards right and I might keep you up that long.”
Startled, I spilled a little too much booze into her cup. I handed the drink to her.
Harley took a sip. “Damn, are you tryin' to get me drunk?”
“Maybe.”
She gave a smirk. “How's yours?”
I put the cup to my lips and took a healthy, manly drink. Pure, shitty, bottom-shelf vodka flooded my gastro-intestinal system. I could have puked right then and there.
“It's good.” I tried to hold back a facial expression that showed just how much pain I was in. A small wince made it's way across my brow. Harley giggled.
“I'm gonna go find Carla,” Harley said, moving out of the kitchen. “I was telling her about the break-up.”
“Okay. I'll catch up with you later.”
She smiled and winked. I took another drink to keep my mouth from dropping open. The prospect of sleeping with Harley to make Aden jealous completely left my mind; now, the desire was unilaterally animal. My brain and penis had met at a neutral location, the butterflies in my stomach, but peace talks had become delayed indefinitely after supporters of the penis car-bombed the brain's limo. Riots broke out, and the forces of the passions took over any rational territory left in my body.
Looking around the kitchen and trying as hard as I could to avoid social interaction, I found a bowl of chips. I ate one, then another, then many in rapid succession. I caught myself eating them three at a time and remembered: I had forgotten to eat. I looked at my half-empty cup of pinkish vodka and swore to myself. This would be a night I would fail to remember.
There are, however, three things I remember from last night. One is the three-way make out with the hostess and her best friend for playing bartender (while I could still stand). The second is a girl named Nicole. Nicole and I had a conversation about how no one can ever remember other peoples' names at parties, so we resolved to shout each other's names as loudly as possible whenever we saw each other. It worked, apparently, except her face is a bit fuzzy in my mind.
The third is waking up next to Harley in Nikki's bed.
I looked up from the pillow. The room was still spinning, but at least I could see instead of trying to make out blurry shapes like how I was the last time I remembered being conscious. I propped myself up on one arm, and instantly regretted it. Collapsing back onto the bed woke Harley.
“Hey tiger.”
“Wha...” I held my head in my hands.
Harley giggled the same way she did back in class, back when she was hurting.
“It's good to know someone can fuck better than my ex.”
I instantly sobered up.
“Huh?”
She turned to face me and smiled. “You stay pretty damn hard for a passed out guy.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, it's too bad you couldn't feel it.”
“No, the first thing.”
“Oh. Sure, now I know I'm not missing out on anything. I can get on with my life.”
I stared at her. Was this the same girl?
She put her hand on mine. “Maybe we can do it again sometime.”
My heart sank. “You just wanted to... see how it was?”
“Yeah. And you're pretty good.” She put her head back on her pillow, staring at the ceiling. “Now I just need to find a guy I like who's that good.”
What. The fuck.
I started to put on my clothes. “You want me to walk you home?”
“Nah, I'm a big girl.”
“Bigger than I thought.”
She sat up. “What's that supposed to mean.”
“You just used me for sex, what am I supposed to say?”
“You're a guy, I didn't think that would be a problem. I thought you were trying to get me into bed anyway.”
I would have been offended, except that's exactly what I had been trying to do.
“Whatever.” I tried to leave in the biggest huff I could muster.
I was home before the sun came up. I saw my computer, and instantly thought of Aden.
My pride was too damaged to talk about Harley, but I told some of the night owls in my chat room about what had happened with Aden. Most of those guys like to play it tough. “Fuck her, man.” Others tried to get me to talk to her about how I felt. And I know some began to plan their moves to snatch the highly coveted “Geek Girl” out from under me. Socially inept people can be fucking evil.
Staring into the night sky, I thought of her little mountain town. How there were no skyscrapers, no sirens, no trains. How she could see the stars, and how city's the light pollution ironically made the heavens more inky for me. I thought about her and Cameron as the sun rose, and a renaissance aubade briefly came to mind. I thought of how silly she would think I was. Then I thought of how silly I was being. The distance was immense, the differences between us substantial, and the attraction... completely indescribable.
And that just about brings us up to speed.
The noise from my instant messaging program wakes me up. It's a little after noon. I must have fallen asleep at my desk. It's Aden.
waxmoronic: hey you
UrbanContra: hey. how was your night?
waxmoronic: it could have been better.
I smile. A little icon in the corner tells me she's typing again.
waxmoronic: what about you? conquer that girl you were on about?
UrbanContra: I think she conquered me.
waxmoronic: ...didn't she just get dumped?
UrbanContra: yeah. fucked.
waxmoronic: yeah.
A long pause.
waxmoronic: I thought about you when I was with cameron
UrbanContra: dont tell me you screamed my name
waxmoronic: LOL
waxmoronic: no, he didn't get below the waist
waxmoronic: i didn't let him
waxmoronic: i don't think i could have.
waxmoronic: damn you.
Simply euphoric. But the show must go on.
UrbanContra: sorry to ruin your fun
UrbanContra: i fell asleep at my desk. you woke me up.
waxmoronic: don't tell me you were waiting for me
UrbanContra: nope. i did it completely on purpose and with full consent of the will.
waxmoronic: lol, riiiiiight
waxmoronic: go to bed.
UrbanContra: k. night kiddo
waxmoronic: don't sleep too long, i'll be bored.
Content that I was warmed inside by something other than alcohol, I put up my away message:
"Our generation has a unique problem: it's hard to follow your dreams with the internet in the way."
Happy?