Note: These are not the twins spoke of below. Just a visual representation of twins.

Once when I was six years old, I really wanted to borrow the Nintendo game Kid Nikki again. I had previously taken it off the hands of Aaron and Dan, the neighborhood identical twins and promptly held onto it for 4 months. When I requested to borrow it again, they were understandably put off. However, a bargain was struck. If I were to show my weiner to my also six-year-old girl neighbor while they watched and laughed, I could have it for as long as I wanted. I agreed and Michelle was thoroughly embarrassed (though she later told she wouldn’t have minded the show had those two twins not been cackling at us. So it goes.)  I didn’t speak to the twins much after that as they refused to lend me the game despite fulfilling my end of the deal.

That is what I had in my head when I would read about the twins in the newspaper some six months ago. But, more on that later…

I like to think I’m pretty good at judging people. I know that its considered taboo to say that you judge people at all, but the fact is we all do it. We all have our biases and our particular tastes, and when confronted with a new person in a familiar circumstance, we all want to place them into a category. This is much more for the sake of ease, rather than intolerance: if we had to learn someones entire life story, personality, and corroborating testimonies from his friends and family, it would take months before we can say that Joe Blow is a nice guy or not. So, like everyone else, I make judgments on people.

Coming from a family of sales people, I like to think my judgment is innate. Moreover, my family likes to say that our snap judgments (our assessment of you after meeting for only a moment) yields 75% accuracy for your personality. We’ll know if we like you, how you’ll probably respond to our quips, and if we can sell you the product we’re selling (or if I were selling it). Oh sure, we’ll miss the minutiae of what long conversation or a fine night of drinking might unearth, but the pertinent stuff is right there.

Everybody judges, and while some take more time than others, at the end of the day, we use the information we have at our disposal to decide our trust level of a person. So, here is the information I had at hand from the newspaper six months ago.

Aaron, of the twins fame from earlier, had been arrested back in my hometown. Not a big deal really, small towns with slow news days will pump up any criminal charge to fill column space. However, his crime more than justified the publicty.

Aaron had been caught in a child pornography ring. Owning, distributing, and very sadly, producing.

While disgusting in its own right to know that I knew someone at any point in my life who would do such a thing, there was another disturbing angle to this story: his twin.

Aaron’s brother Dan had nothing to do with it.

Since graduation, the twins had gone on very separate life trajectories despite their identical appearances. One twin worked odd jobs and had a horrific side hobby. The other? He worked for the CIA.

And this was why the twins angle made the story so disturbing.

Apart from the many lives ruined by this pornography ring, a completely outside person was ruined too. Dan the twin, by all accounts, was and is a fine upstanding member of the international law enforcement community. He has passed multiple security clearnances and background checks to get to where he is. But now, until the day he dies, he must share a reflection with a man who has committed some of the most unforgivable crimes a human being can commit.

Now you might be asking yourself “Does this ruined life really make the story that much more tragic? Isn’t it possible, even probable, that Dan shares some of those thoughts with his brother?” Here’s where we face the dilemma of the twins. The dilemma  isn’t theirs, its ours.

Knowing Dan the twin as I did, what conclusion was I to make about him now? I only know information  about his brother and a fleeting memory about a time he dared me to expose myself. Should I extrapolate upon that memory to suggest that more sexual deviancy dwelled in his head? Or should I just chalk it up to vicious youths simply laughing at younger, dumber kid? But, his twin brother was there too, and look what happened to him. That must tell you that even if the thoughts lay dormant, they are somewhere in the man’s psyche.

The truth of the matter is these anecdotes don’t tell us anything. There are myriads of twins across the globe and no two’s relationship is exactly the same, just as no two people are exactly the same, regardless of shared genetics. The only concrete thing we know about Dan is that he has the misfortune to share a face with a sex offender. Anything else we decide to apply to him is simply speculation based on our own experiences.

How do we judge this man? The most liberal of us would love to say that you can’t judge a man by factors beyond his control. But, with a crime so heinous, and a personal connection so profound and unique, to say that you weren’t considering those factors is a lie. At the same time, no man is his brother’s keeper. No matter how similar, each and every person responsible for their own decisions and actions.

There is no right answer to this. It is for each person to make up his or her mind given this very strange situation. I have my experience and prejudices. You have yours. Does Dan get a clean slate upon meeting him, or does he contain the seeds of evil?

This would make a great hypothetical question if it weren’t actually a true story.

The post The Dilemma of the Twins appeared first on Rookerville.

Being that for better part of human existence, we have been in hot pursuit of these sometimes elusive, sometimes abundant creatures, it only makes sense that we drop the pretense of civility, full faith and credit in a union, or even a gold standard and base our society on something that we all agree is unequivocally true: orgasms are good, and we’d all like more.

Initially, you might think that a system like this would be male dominated. That is not so. This would be a system based on PROVIDING orgasms, the value amassed by the giver, not the receiver. Since orgasms could not be stock piled at home to create wealth, masturbation would become the finance equivalent of lighting a cigar with a hundred dollar bill: an exhilarating if somewhat empty gesture that will probably make you feel better but can really cause damage if you do it too much in a short period of time. The ability to provide orgasms would immediately rearrange the social hierarchy placing women firmly up top, followed by gay men, then lesbians, leaving poor power hungry straight men at the bottom.

One might think that this system then favors the bisexual and it is a fair conclusion. Then again, most bisexuals I’ve met have been very affable people. If the most power in this world was concentrated into a group of people with a philosophy of “Hey, why not?” then I think we’re already starting off on the right foot.

The simplest way for the system to work would be like so: A man enters restaurant owned by a woman. He offers to please her in exchange for a delicious sandwich. If she approves of him, the arrangement is made and they get to it. If it’s a good orgasm, he might have free sandwiches for a week. If it’s a poor one, he gets what he ordered. If she gets no orgasm but he does, he is now in her debt and will have to wash dishes for a duration based on how disappointing his performance.

Female entrepreneurship will flourish in this economy as will personal experimentation depending on just how bad you still want to eat at a Mario Batalli restaurant.

The same principle will apply to all goods and service based industries from automobiles, to electronics, to agriculture to military. The armed services will immediately have an open door policy that respects anyone that it can get. The prostitution industry will be devastated, making it even harder out there for a pimp.

The idea of credit will be completely reversed. No longer will you be able to purchase something on the promise of return. Everyone pays upfront and is delivered their credit for services rendered. Most women can tell you that orgasm futures is a very shaky investment indeed.

But what about the awkward and the unattractive? Wouldn’t this system unfairly favor the gorgeous?

Not as much as you might think.

Though the attractive will have the luck with sex and success that they always have, reputations for satisfaction go a long way. The meritocracy that evolves from the system’s word of mouth will blossom quickly. The unattractive learned a long time ago how to make up for their inadequacy in the dark. As reputations spread, so to will pleasant surprises of accepting payment from the homely.

Ultimately, I’m sure there will some cracks in the system. However, all systems are flawed. It’s just that this one really seems like its worth a try!

The post I’m For an Orgasms Based Economy appeared first on Rookerville.

Download Link (right click save as):  Amsterdam

Nicole and I had already been living in London for four weeks when her privatized student loan finally came through. I had paid her end of the deposit on the apartment we were now sharing with two other students from the Ithaca London Program, but a place that size comes with a high price tag. She needed money if we were going to enjoy Europe to the fullest, and now, she finally had some. We already missed out on the school-sponsored trip to Ireland due to the past lack of finances. Now, it was time to make up for lost experiences.

We went to Amsterdam.

And we had a simple goal. Rather, I had a simple goal. I’ve never been much for breaking laws, which went a long way towards keeping my range of experiences tame. This time, I wanted to get wild. And the Dutch, God bless them, have many outlets in their fine country to legally get wild.

I also wanted to see things that weren’t there. I was going to do psychedelic mushrooms!

We arrived at an airport that had three syllables and too many double ‘O’s’ and took a train to a station that had four syllables and too man double ‘A’s’. I bought a map from a vendor catering to young college kids looking to buy local frivolities, and headed out into the story.

It was snowing so heavy then, good Noreaster snow, like a little taste of home. Flakes the size of baby hands making walking down the street like looking through the scramblers when you didn’t pay for Cinemax. The map got wet and hard to read fast, finding the hostel was going to be more challenging than I had anticipated. Taking a cab there ended up also being difficult for all the wrong reasons. We hailed a guy outside the train station as cabbies are wont to be, but he told us that our hostel was only a few blocks away, and he couldn’t take our money in conscious, which cabbies are not wont to be.

We walked on in the snow over the bridge of the first of many water channels that give the city its Monet quality, and separate its many subtle neighborhoods. The streets on the other side were narrow but cozy, the buildings short and lived in with windows and roofs in the classic style that suburban homes steal but can’t replicate. The old city confidence from hundreds of years of occupants let the streets rest easy while strangers like us meandered through them, admiring their house faces and trying to catch glimpses of a moment in the life.

One window box in particular caught my eye as, I came to realize, it was designed to do. It wasn’t much different than any other ground floor window box I had seen. About ten feet across and protruding roughly a foot out from the wall it was built in. Antique curtains hung inside next to lazy green plants that let their leaves and branches stretch well past their pots to the floor. But, the pink neon sign was unique. As were the words I couldn’t read that it spelled. And the window didn’t show me a living room, just another wall with a door, and a cushy chair in front of it. It was an odd sort of small room, like a closet turned office with a glass wall. Then, the door inside opened.

The girl who walked through had black skin and smooth hair, a friendly face and a come-hither body. She wore lingerie and wore it well, the intentionally complicated kind with garters and stockings and bodices that make taking it off unwrapping a Christmas present you’ve always wanted. Both her hands were full: in one was an old time hand fan, and in the other was a watering can. She coquettishly gave herself some air while she sheepishly gave the plants a drink. I watched bluntly.

As she finished, she looked out the window and met my eyes. Nicole and I had been staring, and honestly, why wouldn’t we? The girl smiled at us and then at me.  In one motion she was heading back through the door from whence she came, pausing only briefly to point her perfect thong wearing buns at me, clenching them slightly instead of turning to wink, and disappearing from our lives to never be seen again.

Welcome to Amsterdam, she didn’t say.

We got to the hostel shortly thereafter and were promptly given towels, having been drenched by the snow in our London appropriate fall clothes. Our room was on the third floor. There were no elevators. With wet clothes and carry on bags, the trek up any stairs would be taxing, but these stairs were special. They were much closer to a ladder than they were to stairs. They were steep enough that I had to put my free hand on the step past my head so I could have the leverage to bring my bag up the next, unless I just wanted to let it hang in the breeze. Hanging on to the railing or the next step was less about balance and more about self-preservation. After much sweating and grumbling and far too much elapsed time, we were in our room and quickly asleep.

The next day was to be our tourist day, and tour we did. The canals, the tulips, cheap cuisine, and local beers filled our time nicely. There was still an hour or two of daylight left and one place left to visit. Nicole was not the most confident person in the world, and had apprehensions about going to our final stop after dark so we rushed to get it in now.

The Amsterdam Red Light District is separated in the middle of the street by one of the many canals. And, like the good little Londoners we were, we walked down the left side of the street. The window box I had seen coming in was by no means unique. Every building on the block had one, and most were filled and open for business…

But, it was daytime. Apparently, the prostitution industry is not so different from the restaurant industry, as you seem to want your best employees for the evening rush, rather than the stragglers during the day. The most memorable of the day-shifters was in the first window box we saw on the block. She had to be at least late fifties, and I imagine with a gravelly voice (the cigarette gave that away.) She was perched on a tall wooden stool with her legs spread wide. She had the shape that is traditional for Latinas of her age who have had several children, but this was the first time I had seen that stereotype in a sheer teddy. She took the cigarette out of her mouth so she could curl it better as she tossed me a hearty wink.

“I think she likes you”, Nicole said.

I think she liked everybody.

Across the canal on the other side of the streets were window boxes aplenty, all filled with other girls who liked everybody. From my distance, they looked significantly younger, in far better shape, with much more energy and much less clothing. I think they would have liked me too, but Nicole was not interested in finding out such. At the time, three years into the relationship that I thought would be my last, the sight of new nubile bosoms seemed a remote possibility and I was happy to take an eyeful. Nicole rushed me through the rest of the block before I could have any great ideas and very helpfully pointed out our destination: the Smart Shop.

Smart Shops are where you go to buy drugs in Amsterdam that are harder than marijuana, though they have that too. Through the doors I was reminded of going to a sex shop when I was a teenager: the staff was friendly and the stock was fascinating but the smell was too unique and you can’t help but feel like you’re getting away with something just by being there. The wares were all under glass and dolled up for maximum visual appeal, but still gave the same subtle warnings of drawbacks as a brownie that sits in a coffee shop display case for nine hours. Where there weren’t drugs, there was luggage that you could buy. The bags weren’t anything special, but they helped to fill out the store so it wasn’t just hallucinogens and empty space.

And there was a fern. How quaint.

The man behind the counter asked us politely what we were interested in.

“Mushrooms”.

“Excellent,” he said. “What kind?”

“What do you got?” I inquired pretending I knew what I was looking for.

“Well, we’ve got Local, London, Thai, Taiwanese, Hawaiin, Aussie, Afgan, Cali. Whatever you want, really.”

Playing cool clearly wasn’t going to cut it. “Yeah, I’ve never actually done them before, so I’m not really sure what I’m looking for.”

“Oh, no problem at all. What are you looking for from the experience? Would you like a mellow trip? Something exciting? Do you want to run around shouting? Do you want a spiritual experience? Or would you like to see things?”

I weighed my options excitedly where Nicole got progressively more nervous with each permutation of druggy good time.

“I always wanted to see things that weren’t there,” I said enthusiastically.

“Then you want Thai.”

“Of course I do. Give me enough for two”

With a flick of his wrist I had a bag in my hand, and a small bag it was. He explained to me that they were dried out for potency and you didn’t need much for a good time. The bag looked exactly like a Pop Rocks bag down to the font and color. Except, instead of “Pop Rocks” with graphics of little rocks flying around the words, it said “’Shrooms” with the graphics of little mushroom caps flying around the words.

“How do they work?” I inquired.

“You eat them and hallucinate,” he explained.

“Ah”, I said.

Once his smile to himself was finished, he did explain. “Try not to eat anything for several hours before you have them, they work best on an empty stomach. You should each take half the bag and that will keep you good for about 5 hours. It’ll take about 30 minutes to work. You can ride a bike or drive if you want, but I wouldn’t recommend it, especially not for you first time. Having a safe space to go back to and relax wouldn’t be a bad idea. If you’re having a bad time, eat some chocolate or oranges. The food will dull down the reaction, and the strong flavor gives you something pleasant to focus on. Otherwise, relax and enjoy the visuals.”

It was very informative.

Nicole and I thanked the nice man and returned to the hostel, and prepared.

Empty stomach, check.  Safe room at the hostel, check. Chocolate bar, one trip to the drug store downstairs later, check. The last ingredient, a Pop Rocks bag of potent drugs, Big check.

After some last minute jitters and a few deep breaths, we tore the packet open and emptied its contents into our hands. The tiny blackened parcels look much closer to dirt than a religious experience, but I’ve seen “Indiana Jones and The Holy Grail”, so I know that special artifacts can look very humble.

Time to eat.

We decided to count to three. And agreed, we would say three and throw them into our mouths.

Another deep breathe.

One…

Two…

Three…

Head snapped back, hands slapped over mouths and chewing.

And chewing.

And chewing.

Those things tasted awful. Not enough to stop you, of course, but enough to wince more than a few times, like imitation beef jerky from an odd health food store, with the texture of a torn off fingernail. That thought, which I had at the time, made it all the more difficult to swallow down, especially as the stems scratched at my through in protest of their consumption.

The deed was done. So, now we played the waiting game.

15 minutes… nothing.

30 minutes… nothing.

We put on a documentary about Johnny Cash.

1 hour… nothing.

The documentary ended. Johnny Cash was dead.

At two hours, we decided to walk around outside to jump start the trip. We followed the canals so that we wouldn’t get lost. Another hour later, we were lost but not because we were high, just uncoordinated and amongst many canals. When we asked the nice 6’4’’ gentleman with the cist on his eyeball for directions back to our hostel, I tried to convince myself that he wasn’t actually there and I was hallucinating the cist because, how random is that? Sadly, truth remained stranger than fiction. The cist was real, the directions back were solid, the ascension up the stairs was steep, and the sleep wasn’t restful.

We awoke the next day with an agenda: to go and complain about our lack of mushroom trip and to see the Anne Frank house. First thing’s first.

We went back to the smart show after the free continental breakfast at our hostel. Belly’s full with fire and soft boiled eggs, we politely but firmly demanded an explanation for our poor evening.

The man asked if we ate the entire bag, and we had. The man asked if we abstained from eating anything else before the ‘shrooms, and we had.

“Hm”, he speculated aloud. “Try again.”

He presented us with a free bag of psychedelic Thai Pop Rocks and sent us on our merry way. Halfway through the door, I asked if it was dangerous to have this many mushrooms on consecutive nights.

“Probably not,” he assured me.

Skipping some details (we went to the Van Gogh museum instead of the Anne Frank house because his life story was less of a downer), we found ourselves back at the room in our hostel ready for round two. I offered them to Nicole first. She declined. She was nervous that some how the new mushrooms would join up with the already digested mushrooms in her belly, and launch some sort of hallucinogenic uprising from deep within. Since that was actually my goal, I had no problem gobbling down the entire bag of foul tasting fungus myself.

Once again, time for the waiting game.

15 minutes… Nothing.

30 minutes… Nothing.

One hour…. “Fuck this,” I said. “We’re going to a coffee shop.”

I’ve never been a big drug guy. Even at my druggiest, I got high about four times a week during the summer after my second year at college, two years removed from Amsterdam. Pot never really did it for me. But at this point, after two failed ‘shroom trips in the most relaxed drug law country on the planet, I was going to get destroyed come Hell or high water.

In Amsterdam, they sell pot in coffee shops. They also sell coffee there, but who cares? We’re American tourists and we wanted marijuana. I believe those were akin to my words upon going into the quaint brick storefront with the large windows and confronting the barista.

She casually handed me a three-ring binder filled with laminated pages, covered, front and back, with at least 30 different types of weed. This was at the same time helpful and not in the least bit helpful. I might have gotten upset but the low lights, mahogany tables and pleasant mix of pot and coffee aromas forbade any irksome. It felt like the kind of place where you would find a beatnik but he wouldn’t judge your clothes or style. In that spirit, I asked the pleasant barista woman what I should get for two people.

“Well,” she said, “do you want marijuana or hashish”

“Hmmm. Marijuana, please.”

“Okay, do you want mild, medium, or strong?”

Having only smoked dank to this point, I presumed that their stuff would be infinitely more potent. In kind, I figured their mild is my medium, my medium was their strong, and their strong would be batshit insane. I played it safe accordingly.

“Medium, please.”

“Okay, do you want to get high or do you want to get stoned?”

“….” I said.

I shrugged. “Stoned…?”

She opened the book, flipped to the page with the stuff from Afghanistan, and selected one from the brotherhood on the page. I was happy to accept her suggestion and ordered enough for two and some rolling papers.

It was only back at our table that I suddenly remembered I had never rolled a joint in my life. Nor had Nicole. Fortunately, everyone else in the place had and a very pleasant stranger was all too happy to oblige us. Despite not working there, he hopped behind the bar counter, grabbed a filter, made up the doobie, and presented us our plunder in about 45 seconds. Quite prompt and responsive for a pothead.

I placed the joint on my lips and took a long pull. The smoke was smooth from the papers, aided by the filter for consistent flow, my lungs filling up with burn gradually and pleasantly. I breathed out most of the cloud before finally coughing on the tail. My brain started to dull immediately, a fur coat wrapped around my brain, keeping it warm and cozy until it was needed again. We passed it back and forth three times.

This stuff was extremely medium and I was extremely stoned.

I couldn’t tell if I was getting sleepy or if the concept of sleep had eked into my consciousness and wouldn’t go away until addressed, but either way, it was quickly decided that the time had come for us to go home. I put on my coat and stumbled through what minimal crowd there was to stumble through. I pushed open the door and took a breath of the night air…

…And that’s when the mushrooms kicked in…

…

Wow.

The delineation between mind and body had never been clearer to me as that moment when my conscious thoughts nearly fell out of my physical being. Suddenly, I was a spirit entombed in a fleshy vessel, a star child of indeterminate scope anchored to a host body for lessons in human understanding, all visuals a dance of splendor, all sounds orchestral convergence. All matter came to life at once with a pulse to match my own, and a story to share.

My eyes were wide open as my eyes were wide open.

One of my greatest faults is that it’s always been extremely difficult for me to be of any given moment. I typically think too much about anything going on to be 100% a part of it, always at an arms length to offer commentary. This stuff forced me closest to it. Yet, I still couldn’t help thinking how cliché it was of me to be so enamored with the colors I was seeing.

“What’s it like?” Nicole asked.

“I almost said ‘The Colors!” but I think that would be so cliché,” I replied.

Wherever you go, there you are.

Except now, I was about to take another sort of trip. The most frightening part of my life was the next moment. In the time we’d been walking, my mind and spirit had become one, a completely independent entity from my body, and it sought enlightenment. My goals in life to explore the truer natures of existence crystallized a lifetime of questions in mere seconds. I knew what I wanted to know and I felt I could discover it all right then. And you know what I didn’t need to do that? A pudgy human form. So, I decided to leave it.

It’s a very peculiar moment when your soul decides to leave your body.

It’s also a scary one. My eyes shifted upward and I grew feint.

Oblivion awaited…

Right about here, my body hit panic mode and interrupted my stream of consciousness with a command to concentrate on my breathing.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

My soul still desired unrestricted knowledge but the overwhelming commands to ‘watch breathing’ became a soothing mantra. Mantra’s are good when trying to not drop dead in the street from an existential threat.

The thoughts shifted from metaphysical concerns to more immediate ones as the long cold trudge to the hostel continued. I thought about language, about how strange it was that we attribute resonant emotional meaning to a seemingly random series of mouth made noises. I thought how amazing that different regions would produce different denotations and connotations for the noises, and how certain languages don’t have certain words for phenomena that is not relevant to them. I wondered why you couldn’t have a musical language, a society based on notes, where your honesty is displayed by your ease of rhythm.

Somewhere around this point I worried that I had forgotten how to speak English.

“We should turn here.” Nicole said.

“Uh…ch… Yeah… Yeah.”

One crisis averted.

And a new crisis developed.

I didn’t make the turn. Nicole didn’t question my not turning, just allowing me to follow my trip. Little did she know, despite my consciousness still technically residing in my body, the two weren’t really on speaking terms with one another. Adding new elements to our pattern of existence, in this case making a right turn, proved to be an irreconcilable issue. I let it pass.

Soon, we came to the next intersection.

‘Right turn here’, I said to myself.

I kept going straight.

‘Damn.’

Next intersection.

‘Right turn here.’

I kept going straight.

‘Damn.’

Last intersection before a canal. It was now or hypothermia.

Right turn here!

I turned headfirst and the rest of my body followed. It’s the little victories which give life its flavor.

The canal gracefully guided us back to our hostel allowing me to avoid sharp turns with its serpentine curves. We walked through the door, the warm air a blanket that still couldn’t cover the shit eating grin on my face. The hardest part was over…

I forgot about the stairs.

The stairs up to our room were steep before, now they were Goddamn Everest. It’s amazing to actually see the vertigo effect from Vertigo actually happen before your eyes. The sudden flash of horror and Hitchcock made me want to sit on the floor and watch ‘North by Northwest’ right that second. There were no TV’s about and if I wanted to see anything approaching Cary Grant, I would need to get to my room to do it.

Hand over hand, foot by foot, Nicole delicately guiding me, I took the better part of an hour to get up the stairs, apologizing to the steps along the way for their rotten lot in life, assuring them that they provided an important service. I would have saluted them if I weren’t terrified of taking my hands from the railing. Also, the hour it took to get up the stairs might have been one to two minutes, time being quite relative in such a state.

Here was our door. It opened. We were safe. Sleep was coming. It was the end of my trip.

To celebrate, I washed my hands for twenty minutes.

It felt INCREDIBLE.

I came out of the bathroom and Nicole said “You were in there for 20 minutes.” (That’s how I knew definitely how long it was.)

“It felt INCREDIBLE!” I said (It felt INCREDIBLE).

We lay down. My eyes closed. My waking dream gave to my sleeping dream.

We had a flight to catch the next morning. My trip was over.

The post Amsterdam (Kind Of a True Story) appeared first on Rookerville.

In the last few days. I’ve turned into the villain of an eighties teeny bopper flick. I never thought I’d have much in common with the blond haired, blue eyed rich kid named Chad whose father is a wealthy land developer and knows the mayor, but sure enough, here I sit. I didn’t even mean to be in the position. But, as with most, eighties teeny bopper flicks, it all started with a girl.

Kalli and I have a history. One that goes all the way back to high school (we’re in our 30’s now).  We had a brief dalliance and moved on with our lives. Recently, we reconnected and I came to discover that I had to have her. I didn’t have much say in the matter, really. We started talking. I looked at her. I decided that she had to be mine.

I started slowly, dropping hints about her looks, about her tastes, laughing too hard at any semblance of humor. I paid for all her meals and treated for all the movies. I took things up a bit by inviting her to Valentines Day early and kissed her in the park.

Then, I laid it all out.

I told her that I wanted her. I told her that I was ready. I told her that I would take care of her. I told her that we would be a good match.

She told me that she was seeing someone.

Here’s where I discovered that I was the villain in his story.

Domingo had a rough upbringing. From the projects in the Bronx, he learned to raise himself without a father. When things looked rough for friends and family, he wasn’t afraid to let his fists find a temporary solution. And when it looked like his mother was going to be put out on the street, he braved the consequences, at her suggestion, with less legal ways to make money. Sadly, one bad idea leads to another and before Domingo knew it, he was paying hard time for an unfortunate youth. He let bad friends and manipulative family suggest short-term solutions that ended up having long time consequences.

Finally, Domingo said ‘No more.’

Upon his release, he recognized the good friends from the moochers, his true loved ones from the blood bonds that saw him as a means to an end. He moved away from his bad influences. He got his degree and a job that could Sheppard him away from his past. He read books, watched movies, listened to new music, and evolved his own culture of understanding beyond those presented him early on. He learned how to function in a larger community far removed from the bleak affront he was born with.

Domingo saw Kalli on a train. He was struck to the soul and had to talk to her. They talked, and they started seeing each other. He was in love and let it be known.

Somewhere during that phase is when I started to take my chance on Kalli.

What she thought was a friendly flirt turned out to be a calculated grab. I reminded her that we came from the same place. I reminded her that Domingo had a criminal past. I reminded her that I could take care of her financially and he probably couldn’t. I implored her that we would make an excellent couple, something that really had legs.

Whether I knew she was dating someone or not (she hinted but never outright said) is immaterial. From an eighties movie story telling perspective, I’m the bad guy. The poor kid from the projects that never caught a break, dragged himself up by his bootstraps and finally made something of himself is the hero. Out of nowhere, he met a girl that he would never meet where he came from. A strange beautiful girl who didn’t know about his past, and when he told her, she didn’t care. It was someone who he fell in love with and represented a life he never thought he could have. Then, the evil suitor comes along. The snotty upper class kid from the suburbs: his parents sent him to college, he takes trips to Europe, he’s got a fancy job in TV, and, even though Kalli and Domingo were dating and somewhat happy, he decided that he Domingo wasn’t good enough for her.

Kalli told me she had to think. About everything.

When I laid all my cards on the table for Kalli the other night, I thought I was the best friend in a 90’s romcom. I had developed feelings over time that were genuine, and I really thought that if she looked deep down inside, she’d realize that she had those feelings too. The plight of the crushing best friend is a good story. But, the plight of the struggling minority trying to make good on a life of bad choices is better. We’re both the villains in each other’s story, but from all the angles that I can see, I’m the worse villain of a more poignant film trope.

Kalli loves stories.  And she’s a child of the 80’s. When we were in high school we watched ‘Better Off Dead” together and she had a poster of ‘Say Anything’ on her wall. And now she has to decide who the right guy is for her.

If you ask me, I’m the better choice. He’s a guy with a violent criminal history, prone to rash decisions with long-term ramifications. I’m the friend who has always been there for her and has a much more stable lifestyle. If you ask him, Domingo has spent a second lifetime paying for early mistakes and making good on promises to himself, and he’s shown he can move beyond. Now, he has a chance to reinvent himself permanently with a mysterious woman he fell in love with at first site. He’s not saying he’s he better choice, he’s just asking for her to take a chance.

No matter choice she makes, one story is a lot more compelling than the other.

This is the only time ever that I’ve wanted my life to be less like a movie.

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You can never say emphatically that there was or is a hottest girl at a school of over 2,000 students. There is, however, certainly a cutoff for where girls go from hot because they’re attainable, to hot because they could be a celebrity, to hot because just thinking about not being with them makes you cry while masturbating to them (that process is called Cry-sterbating.)

Steph was firmly in the crysterbating camp.

She was tall, legs athletic from swimming with an ass like the dot of an upside exclamation point at the end of them. Breasts bigger than a handful, but not big enough to pull her down; good posture makes them seem bigger. Her hair was cut short and blonde, the androgyny somehow accentuating the femininity. Facial features sharp and sarcastic, with eyes that didn’t believe your bullshit for a second. Steph was the punker chick that the jocks, preps, and everyone else couldn’t have. And, she was awesome.

Due to a classic case of being held back a grade for stupidity, I reaped the benefits of my failed public education, as I was the first person in my grade to get a car. Overnight, I went from the awkward nerd without a definite clique or social strata, to the go to man for everyone. I was straightedge before that was thing, but I never let that stop me from hanging with the punkers and wiggers who wanted a ride someplace to do that stuff. I had badass friends doing cool things… plus, sometimes I had Steph in the car.

Occasionally she’d be dating this or that friend, and when this or that friend needed a ride, she’d be right in my back seat. I’d find a way bring her into whatever the hell nerd conversation I was having, doing whatever gymnastics it took.

“Did you ever see Monty Python and the Holy Grail?”

“Nah, I don’t watch movies.”

“Oh that’s cool, that’s cool. Its like… do you watch Beavis and Butthead?”

“Nah, I’m not huge on MTV. Sometimes its fun to get stoned and watch the Xgames though. Its fun to watch the skateboard kids wipeout.”

“Totally, that’s just like Monty Python and the Holy Grail!”

School life goes on sadly (or thankfully in most cases), and sooner or later everyone else had their own cars and the reasons to keep hanging with me were prohibitively low. I saw Steph less and less, each viewing somehow making her grow more and more attractive. By graduation she was just another lost cause, a pretty girl I was afraid to ask out. By the middle of college, she was a name that had resonant boner associated with it but not much else. By the time I graduated and was living with my college girlfriend, Steph was finally relegated to a ‘Hey, what ever happened to Steph?’

Then, a funny thing happened. I broke up with my college girlfriend, found myself back in my hometown, and discovered social networking. Suddenly, any stray curiosity I had about any person I’d ever considered was right at my fingertips.

Growing up as the nerd that I was, I had a few lingering regrets about the ones that got away because they never knew that they were being pursued. Steph was one. THE one.

Nuance was never my strong suit, so I decided to not beat around the bush. I friended her and then I sent her a personal message. It went exactly like this:

Hey Steph,

This is going to be a bit out of left field but bear with me.

So, I’m leaving the Philadelphia area at the end of the summer to try the indie filmmaker/aspiring comedian life in NYC, basically giving myself a new life to start in pursuit of the dream.

But, before I leave the area (not that NYC is exactly the other side of the world, but you know what I mean) I have decided to throw caution away and am now trying to rectify any regrets I may have.

Annnndd……

One of those regrets is that I never asked you out.

So, I’m doing that now:

Hey Steph! Would you like together this weekend for maybe a drink or something in Philly?

The way I view it its win/win. Either we have a good time, or you get a free meal, some drinks, and some decent gossip for the rest of the week.

Okay, that’s what I got for ya. Looking forward to hearing from you.

Jack

I watched when the message went from being listed as ‘sent’ to ‘read.’ And I waited the wait of the condemned. I might have had more confidence than I did in high school, but that pessimistic attitude of the perennial single dies much harder.

Still, despite my poor outlook, it happened. She said YES!

It was the joy of joys. Steph and I were going out! The hottest girl in the school and me!

I did notice one thing though…

The correspondence and subsequent date took a rather long time to set up. There were pauses and last minute engagements and bad weather to beat the band. I was planning on moving to another city by the end of the summer and it was already July without us having met up. I thought she was ducking me; hot girl buyers remorse, I supposed. That was until we set a date and she mentioned a caveat. This, I’ll paraphrase.

“I feel compelled to tell you that I don’t look the same way I did in school.”

I told her I appreciated her honesty, and that I still wanted to go out with her. I know that time changes people, and but a few pounds wasn’t going to change my resolve. The date was on and we went.

Then I saw her.

WOW.

To quote on oldie but goodie from my father, Steph had sat on an air hose.  The sharp features had been filed down to VW roundness. The breasts that had protruded proud from her tall frame now hung as albatrosses under their own girth. She still had the ass, but plenty more of it and thighs to boot. The androgynous hair was still there too, but the childbearing hips that had borne no children betrayed its effects.

This was what the warning was about.

In full disclosure, I had been told by various friends that Steph had gone through a rough patch and didn’t quite come out the same. The term ‘hot mess’ had been bandied about with relative abandon.

My friends had not steered me wrong. Steph had had it rough.

The drug culture of the punkers drove her to work at a pharmacy specifically to bring home discount party favors. Addiction bred addiction to various pills and powders ill gotten from work, or ill gotten from the ill gotten. At some point, she dropped her boyfriend of a few years with whom she seemingly had settled down, and went on a tear with who could get her what. STD rumors abounded but none were verified (or true). And just when things seemed they couldn’t get bleaker: her father died. He was always the one she was closest to, so of course, he was the one who took his own life when he found out that her mother was cheating on him.

All the habits she had before shot a dose of steroids, doped their blood and took off for the Tour de France. She was accessible to anyone who was interested for the right price. Never an official handshake agreement, but it was understood by anyone who knew her how to go about it. Steph, despite her snowballing failings, was never stupid. In a misguided defense, she took to fast food for protection. All the boys who had lusted after her were now being faced with the dilemma of her own concoction: who wants to fuck her now that she’s not the hot chick anymore? Unfortunately, with loss of looks goes loss of self esteem, whatever might have been remaining. Her bar for validating her looks lowered to who ever might be willing. Plus, the guys who were willing before stayed surprisingly willing still. Apparently those who bribe chicks into sleeping with them with drugs aren’t the pickiest lot.

By the time Steph sat herself down at my table for a drink, she was on the other side of a year of therapy, a stint in rehab, and reconciliation with her mother. She still had issues aplenty, but at least she had far fewer habits.

After her life story, she wondered if I asked her out, out of pity. She knew I had a reputation for being nice. Frankly, at times I also wondered the same.

That’s not how the date felt though. That’s still not how it feels.

What it felt like was the hottest girl in the school was going out with me. ME!

I felt like I was lucky to be there, and I brought that feeling to the table where we shared drinks and talked about our lives since days gone by. I brought my school boy crush along with me.  When I fell for her the first time, I didn’t know much of Steph, beyond the gorgeous and the sarcastic. That part was ingrained in me, and that’s all I saw when I looked at her. Under the extra marble was the statue, still the masterpiece it ever was for those wanting to look. Now with her story, I was seeing the art take on new meaning. A meaning with troubles and demons, but a meaning with strength and will to battle.

She was the unattainable. She was the awkward conversations in the car. She was the tearful sessions  spent alone hoping for what might never be. And here she was.

And she could see it in my face.

She saw herself through my eager but nervous smile. She saw herself through all the jokes I was catering just to make her laugh. She saw herself when I was too nervous to kiss her at the end of the first date.

I hadn’t followed Steph’s reputation. I only knew the girl I knew. That was the girl I longed for and missed. Steph missed that girl, too.

For a few dates, she was that girl again.

Steph knew I was moving away, and we talked about how we were going in different life directions. We were adults and knew where things were headed.

On the third date, things came together physically. We only did it once. It was affectionate and slow. I looked her in the eyes the whole time. She was embarrassed by the looking, but enthusiastic. When it was over, I smiled from ear to ear. So did she.

I moved away shortly thereafter, and she moved on. We’ve stayed in touch and hang out when back home for the holidays. Sometimes we talk about our current loves and sometimes we giggle about our one time affair. In a peculiar quirk of fate, its made our genuine friendship that much stronger.

I’m not a blind man or saint. I sometimes wonder how much better it would have been if this had happened back in high school: She at the peak of her hot, and me at the valley of my awkward. Though, I think ‘better’ is the wrong word. It would have been a victory for me, for sure. It would have been future masturbation fodder without a doubt. It might have been just the confidence booster I needed to carry on to a more successful future, but that’s pure speculation.

The fact is, for us to happen in the glory days, I would have needed to be a different person or she would have too. Instead, it happened when we were different people. We were grown ups. But, for a brief moment, I finally got to be the nerd that got the girl, and she got to be the sought after hot chick everyone wanted again.

Fair enough.

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