The time I learned regret, part three

Arnold was not so villainous as these stories have made him out to be.  While true that he would grow into more vile acts of betrayal, at this point in our history, it should be noted that he acted primarily out of jealousy, rather than true malcontent.  Did his jealousy drive him to some pretty poor choices?  Yes.  Did I buy into his every excuse and hardly plausible lies?  Yes.  He was more than a best friend to me, he was a brother; not of blood, but of bond.  I revered him, and in many ways, I envied him.  He was smarter than me, stronger than me, better looking than me, more comfortable around women than me, better at Goldeneye than me.  He was just about everything I wanted to be at that point in my life, and I looked at him through the eyes of a younger brother idolizing his college-bound older sibling.  Sadly, as a result, I was blind to the machinations his jealousy had wrought, and so I trusted in him for guidance, much to my shame and dismay.

Time has robbed me of the particulars of the third date with Pandora; all I can recall is that it was a rather awkward affair (the last time I really remembered feeling uncomfortable in my own skin) that ended shortly compared to our previous dates.  The heart of everything, as it were, came in what happened the following day.

I received a call from Pandora asking if I could come over to her place to talk about “us.”  Naturally, I was nervous.  Despite how ludicrous it seemed, I could not help but think of the article mom had shown me the other day, and how I was about to be sued for breaking a prom date promise.  Unable to quiet the riot in my own mind, I called Arnold and asked him if I could get a ride to Pandora’s.  Arnold bartered that he would do it only if he could stay in the car while I talked to her.  I did not think anything of it, so I agreed.

Before I relate to you the events that happened that night, I would like to thank you for reading this far.  The retelling of this monumental event has taken much longer than I had originally anticipated, as I underestimated how much background information was relevant to properly appreciate the gravity of all this.  I could not just jump to this point in time, say “there was this girl I really liked that my best friend also liked, and then we had a conversation that changed the very nature of who and what I am,” and call it a day.  That is the essence of it, yes, but to appreciate the scope, you need to understand the gravity.

Pandora was not just a girl.  She was the one who opened up the forgotten jar, the chest in which all the woes of mankind were stored, but in doing so, she left me with one remaining emotion: hope.  Yes, she introduced me to pain and heartache, envy and anger, shame and regret, but she also introduced me to the life-saving tenacity of hope.  She was many emotional firsts, but she was also someone I never fully grasped the entirety of.  These stories told so far suggest our outings were counted four times: three dates, and the night we all played pool, but the truth is that I gathered many subtle cues of body language, speech patterns, and other such habits in the class I shared with her for an entire school year.

We exchanged casual non sequiturs as often as we spoke of anything of importance; even after she dumped me the first time, circumstances required us to speak from time to time, and it was always pleasant and more than a little cryptic.  To put it simply, she fascinated me.  I was as enamored with her as a young boy in what he thought was love for the first time can be, but perhaps more than that, I was intrigued by her.  It was not a latent mystery she harbored so much as an alluring sense of… insanity, I guess.  It was clear from the way she talked and the way she acted that she was operating inside her own world most of the time, and that sense of fantasy and wonder was intoxicating to behold.  Being a part of Pandora’s life was like being transported to a realm where the rules were what you made of them; she proved to me that “sanity is the playground of the unimaginative,” as it was once famously said.

I also needed you to understand that I hung on Arnold’s every word.  That is very important for what comes next.  And without further delay, let us recount the conversation that changed my life.

Pandora is waiting for me when I arrive; we have the conversation on her porch, and as best as I can recall, it went something like this:

Me: “Hey, you wanted to talk?”

Pandora: “Yeah, want to sit down?”

Me: “Okay.”

Pandora: “You’re a pretty nice guy.”

Me: “Thanks.”

Pandora: “I wasn’t finished.”

Me: “Sorry.”

Pandora: “It’s okay.  Can I finish?”

Me: “Please.”

Pandora: “You’re a pretty nice guy, but I’m scared.”

Me: “Scared?  Scared of what?”

Pandora: “Of you.  Of liking you, because I couldn’t stop, even when I wanted to be mad at you.”

Me: “Why were you mad at me?”

Pandora: “Because of what Arnold told me.  I didn’t know he was lying until it was too late.”

Me: “He lied?”

Pandora: “To me, yeah, he said that you said things that didn’t sound like things you’d say, but I know you two were thick as thieves, and why would he lie?”

Me: “He wouldn’t.”

Pandora: “Well, he lied to me.”

Me: “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Pandora: “If you say so.”

*long pause*

Me: “What’d he tell you?”

Pandora: “That you were only dating me to scout it out for him.”

Me: “That’s not true!”

Pandora: “I know.”

Me: “So what happens, now?”

Pandora: “I don’t know.  I’m still scared.”

Me: “I’m not scary.”

Pandora: “You are to me.  My other boyfriends, they didn’t play along like you do.”

Me: “I like the way you see things.”

Pandora: “I think that’s why it’s scary.  I like that you like it.”

Me: “Why is that scary?”

Pandora: “You’re not very good at this, you know.”

Me: “I know, sorry.”

Pandora: “Me too.”

Me: “I wish I had something worthwhile to say.”

Pandora: “I love you.”

Me: “I love you, too.”

Pandora: “No, you don’t.  You only said that because I said it, first.”

Me: “No…”

Pandora: “Yes, you’re lying.”

Me: “I’m sorry.”

Pandora: “I know.”

*long pause*

Pandora: “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

Me: “Okay.”

Pandora: “That’s it?”

Me: “Whatever you want, I want to give you.”

Pandora: “Of course, of course.  You can leave, now.”

Me: “Okay, goodbye.”

Pandora: “Goodbye.”

I left, slowly, while she sat on the porch, watching me go.  I made it to the car where Arnold was waiting, and before I opened the door, he rolled down the windows and we conversed as quietly as we could:

Arnold: “Hey, did you do it?”

Me: “Huh?  No, she dumped me again.”

Arnold: “I’m sorry, man.  Hey, could you go over and put a good word in for me?”

Me: “I don’t think she likes you like that.”

Arnold: “Alex, no offense, but you don’t know women.  They never make it obvious when they like you.”

Me: “I don’t know, Pandora made it pretty obvious she liked me.”

Arnold: “And then she dumped you.  That worked out so well for you.”

Me: “True.”

Arnold: “Look, I can tell you’re upset.”
Me: “Yeah, I did just get dumped.  Again.”

Arnold: “Why don’t you get a little revenge, then?”

Me: “What kind of revenge?”

Arnold: “If you make her cry, that means you get the last laugh.”

Me: “Why would I want to make her cry?”

Arnold: “Because she hurt you.  I can see it in your eyes; you want to cry.”

Me: “Yeah, it hurts pretty bad.”

Arnold: “Then make her hurt, too.  That’s all you can do in situations like this.”

Me: “Are you sure?”

Arnold: “Trust me.”

So I did.

I made my way back to where Pandora was sitting, my heart thickening in my throat.  If ever there was a time for words to fail me, this was it.  Unfortunately, I chose this moment to discover my hidden talent for verbosity.

Me: “Pandora?”

*Pandora smiles* Pandora: “You came back.”

Me: “Yeah, I had something I wanted to say.”

Pandora: “Please, say it.”

“Please,” she had said.

“Please.”

Me: “I don’t love you.  I wanted to, but you made it impossible.  You hardly ever spoke a sensible word to me when we weren’t talking about school or the weekend or music.  It was like you enjoyed the confusion your obscurity created, and I don’t know if that’s how you manipulate people, but I’m sick of it.”

Pandora: “Manipulate?  What are you talking about?”

Me: “I wasn’t finished.  Can I finish?”

Pandora: “I’d rather you didn’t.”

Me: “Now I’m talking too much?  You weren’t complaining when you left me grasping at straws in the coffee house damn near a year ago.  Who does that?  What kind of freak would ask someone out on a date and go mute for the entire thing?  Were you playing some kind of trick on me?  Were you making fun of me for all the ridiculous things I was saying?”

Pandora: “No, I love the sound of your voice, and you were amazingly creative with all the things you brought up.  The story you told of how the stool got so red was really great.”

My tirade stumbled for a moment, here.  In that instant, I realized Arnold had it wrong.  Pandora really did like me, she was just frustrated that I wasn’t showing more emotion.  In an effort to give her what she wanted, I was playing off her every comment like it was gospel.  I did not understand how to read between the lines, or what it means to be passionate about something, but in that moment, it all became so painfully clear.

For the briefest of moments, it looked like I might be able to salvage all of this, but then I caught a glimpse of Arnold out of the corner of my eye.  He was nodding in that grave manner that an executioner wields just before coming down with the ax, and the look he gave me said louder than words ever could: finish it.

Damned fool that I was, I ignored the part of me that was excited to hear Pandora say she loved the sound of my voice.  I choked down the elation I felt when she said she loved me.  I swallowed every reason I had to make this moment beautiful, and I painted it as ugly as I could.

Me: “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

It did; oh, god, it did.

Pandora: “I don’t understand what you want me to say.”

Me: “Stop treating this like some abstract equation or logic problem!”

Pandora: “Okay.”

It took the wind out of my sails to hear her say that, her voice thick with defeat.  I had just torn down the very core of her personality and laid it bare against the harshness of my venomous words.  The pleading in her eyes made what she said next cut with the sharpness of a thousand knives:

Pandora: “I love you.”

Me: “No, you can’t.”

Pandora: “I can, and I do.”

Me: “It’s Arnold’s birthday soon, you know.  Why don’t you love him instead?  Maybe saddle on up and give him a lap dance?  Surely his birthday is good for that!”

She cried.  I watched.

This went on for about three minutes, both of us silent except for her sobbing.  The worst part, despite all that I had said up until this point, is that when she was done crying, she looked up at me, eyes red and as earnest as any I’ve ever seen before or since, and asked:

Pandora: “Why can’t you love me?”

Pandora was beautiful.  There is a reason most of my friends made plays for her affections, after all, and it was not all as a result of her unconventional personality.  It blew my young teenage mind to see such a pretty and popular girl appear so vulnerable.  A girl that could have had any guy at school she wanted, but here she was, broken down because I would not love her.

No, it was not a question of “would;” it never was.  It was always a question of “could,” and the simple answer was “no.” 

I wish, I truly wish I could write here that I said something tender, or polite, or at least humane.  Anything would have been better than what I chose to say, instead, which was nothing.  I stood perfectly still and stared right through her.  I did not look at her; to do that, I would have had to acknowledge her as a person, but in that moment, I stared right through her.  Like she was a piece of smoked glass with the strangest of cracks developing around the contours, its entropic pattern a hypnotic dance of fissures.  In a moment where saying anything at all would have been but the smallest token of kindness, I gave her silence.  I gave her less than nothing; I could not even be bothered to acknowledge that she said anything at all.

I turned around, and I left.

The drive home was quiet.  Arnold could feel the anger rolling off me like a building summer storm, and he knew better than to be the one to let its rage loose while in the car.  So we drove in a silence that was not much of a silence at all.  It was thin and threadbare, fragile, as if the slightest distraction could have unraveled it all, shattering in thunder and hate.  Not like the silence that followed Pandora’s unanswered question.  That was a silence thick enough to choke on, the kind of silence that chains itself to a conscience and haunts it for years to come, the kind of silence that has eyes that judge.

Yes, if I had to sum it up succinctly, I would say that it was the kind of silence that has eyes.  Eyes as red as Pandora’s, so rich and full of tears you cannot help but drown in.  Accusing eyes, eyes that forever ask “Why can’t you love me,” eyes that point out each and every missed opportunity.  The worst kind of silence.

I wanted to hate Arnold.  I wanted to hate him so badly I felt like I could actually feel my blood flowing in my veins, but for as much as I wanted to hate him I knew I could not.  He was an asshole and an opportunistic jerk at every opportunity, but the person I really hated was myself.  Every time I had a doubt, or a question, I asked for everybody’s opinion but my own.  Even when I felt I was doing the right thing, I always bowed to the wisdom of others, and it drove me to one of the cruelest things I have ever done, even to this day.

I wanted to hate anybody.  Everybody.  I settled on hating myself, and rightfully so.  The hate was a spark, however, and it lit something inside me.  Something that had lain dormant for the entirety of my relationship with Pandora: passion. 

“Never again,” I mumbled as Arnold dropped me off.  He did not seem to hear, which was just as well.  Those two words were strong, but not strong enough to measure what I had just done.  I needed something bigger, something that would shield me from making that mistake ever again.  That is when I strung eleven words together that changed the way I viewed my heart, my mind, and my world:

Follow your heart, for regret is the heaviest of all weights.

I carried that regret with me for ten years.  Ten years of self-inflicted emotional duress.  Every dating fiasco that followed, I blamed myself.  Every time a woman betrayed my trust or played with my heart, I convinced myself I deserved it.  Through all the torment and the torture, however, there was a beautiful light guiding me through, for never did I lose sight of those eleven words.  Through it all, I learned what it means to love without fear.  Over the years, I grew into a man who truly embodies the expression “love like it is never going to hurt.”

Too late for Pandora, the girl who opened my eyes to what it means not to live, but to be alive.  She changed everything by unlocking the passion inside me, that remaining sliver of emotion that was spared by hope.  Like the jar of Greek mythology, she opened it up and purged it of all its wickedness, all its evil, until only something beautiful remained.  I am sorry beyond any capacity for words that I had to unleash all that evil unto her, but I truly emerged as something better for it.

In a way, I am fortunate; my regret became a catalyst for the most important change in my life, but that, dear reader, is a tale for another time…

The time I learned regret, part two

Time does strange things to memory.  Most suggest that, if given enough of it, time will erase the memory, but Pandora is too strong for that.  Time’s pendulum cannot cut her like the Reaper’s scythe, but it has carved in her features a myriad of half-truths, misremembered conversations and a blurring between what was real, and what was imagined.  It has been over a decade since then, and though I try to tell the story as it happened, I am all too aware of how strange it has all become as a result of the time passed.

As such, please forgive me if any of these timelines seem skewed.

When last we spoke of Pandora, I had just been surprised with the offer for a second date despite what appeared to be my best efforts.  It is to be noted that I was certainly excited about this development, but also confused in the kind of way that only the foolish and the lucky can lay claim to; fortunately for me, I am both.

Emboldened by my unexpected success with Pandora, I was a veritable cauldron of excitement and astonished pride when lunch came that day, and when Arnold sat down beside me, the good news all but exploded forth from my mouth.  I rambled relentlessly on all that I did wrong and how crazy it was that she wanted to see me again and what do you think we should do for a second dateandifyoureallythinkaboutitispropergrammarevenimportantohmygodthatishowexcitedIam!

You get the idea.

If only I were more observant, I could have seen it coming.  If only I had paid half an attention to Arnold’s glowering countenance, I could have seen it coming.  If only I could have acknowledged in that moment that something existed besides Pandora, I could have seen it coming.  As it stands, however, I did not see it coming.  Through my dramatic re-telling, Arnold was not rapt with awe or delightedly amused by my bungling or ecstatically enthused on my behalf; to the contrary, his brow furrowed and his lips tightened while his eyes narrowed.  It was not an intimidating gesture, but the sign of a man who is weighing personal motivations against the happiness of another, and in that moment, though I could not see it at the time, Arnold made a decision that he was playing for keeps, now.

Sadly, despite all that, I continued to gush about Pandora, none the wiser to Arnold’s darkening mood.  The rest of the school day went by without event, and I got a call from Arnold that night.  Memory suggests it went a little something like this:

Me: “Hey, Arnold, how’s it going?”

Arnold: “Good.  Say, what are you doing on Friday night?”

Me: “Whatever you’re about to suggest, I’d say.”

Arnold: “You’ll like it.  You have a pool table, right?”

Me: “I do.”

Arnold: “What do you say to inviting me, Pandora, and maybe a fourth over for some pool at your place?”

Me: “Arnold, that’s brilliant!”

Arnold: “You talk to Pandora, and I’ll find us a fourth.”

Me: “Sounds great!  Oh, anyone but Warren; I don’t think that would be wise.”

Arnold: “Sure thing, buddy.  See you at school, tomorrow.”

Me: “Have a good night.”

The next day, I invite Pandora over to my place to play pool with a few buddies.  She casually agrees in that excited way that suggests she is trying to sound less nervous than she is, but she agrees all the same, and I spend the rest of the week with my head in the clouds.

Friday night arrives, and I come crashing back down.

Arnold is the first to arrive, than our fourth, and then Pandora.  I make introductions to my parents, and we head downstairs to the basement for some pool.  We were not assembled for more than ten minutes when it became clear that Arnold had ulterior motives.

It is Pandora’s turn to shoot, and she says she has never played pool before.  Without missing a beat, Arnold slides on over to her, puts one hand on her hips, one hand on her forearm, and shows her the proper “stance” for holding the pool cue. 

Romeo would have blushed at the seamless ease of it all.  Don Juan would have envied at the grace of his charm.  Casanova himself would have bowed before his swagger.  It was as if the floors were made of ice and he just glided up behind her, and she invited him in to show her the proper form.  He lingered, and though her shot missed its mark, I knew Arnold’s aim was true.

Or should I say I knew what his true aim was.

What charms I possess to this day I most certainly did not command back then, and so I watched, powerless, as Arnold enamored Pandora with his suave body movements and the casualness of his touch.  My first date with Pandora was to be my last, I thought, for the gal that Arnold fancies is the gal that Arnold gets.  I reminisced fondly over what little there was to be proud of in my dealings with Pandora, and resigned myself to once again being swallowed by Arnold’s shadow.

Then the night came to a close, and something curious happened.  After all of Arnold’s careful flirtations, Pandora’s eyes were on me as I led everyone out the front door.  Before I could say goodnight, Pandora asked in a voice loud enough for Arnold to hear, “Are you free to go out with me tomorrow night?”

I nodded dumbly for a few seconds before, by some miracle of mercy, I remembered how to speak, and stammered out, “Uh, yeah, sure.”

“Call me,” she replied, and we all went our separate ways.  Arnold glared, but I could not be bothered to care; a second date with Pandora!  Immediately my mind raced to match pace with my ever-skipping heart, and I found it difficult to sleep that night.  Afraid of repeating the same mistake as last time, however, I took a swig of Nyquil before bed, as I did not want to risk falling asleep during another date.

The time for the date comes, and Pandora wants to go to a coffee shop.  I do not care for coffee, but I would have danced on hot coals if that is what she felt like doing, so a coffee shop it was.  We get there, she orders a chai tea and I a hot chocolate, and we proceed to have what is, to this day, the most unique date I have ever had.  I do not know if she was shy, or if she had lost interest and just asked me out to be polite, or perhaps was conducting some sort of social experiment (she was an aspiring scientist, and from what I am led to believe, she is a successful one at present); whatever her reason, she did not initiate conversation for the entire time we were at the coffee shop.  That proved an interesting hurdle as we were there for three hours.  One hundred eighty minutes.  Ten thousand eight hundred seconds.

Three hours where “I’m so lucky to be here I’m practically speechless” was in charge of all conversational topics.  For as maddening as the pressure was for a young lad bent on impressing the girl of his dreams with his wit, I am remarkably thankful for the opportunity.  If I had to pick a single point where I began to grow an affinity for the conversational arts, I would say this is it.  With that in mind, despite my shyness, I excelled.  Not only did I manage to fill all three hours with conversation, but I managed to do it with a wide range of topics including, but not limited to, the style of music playing at the coffee shop, the oddity of the couple sitting on the opposite side of the barista, the strange hue of the colored leather on the stools, and the weird crack pattern on the hardwood floor.  If I observed it, I said it.  Nothing was too trite or banal or pointless, and through it all, she would offer curt responses, but never directing the conversation anywhere other than where I was set on leading it (which is to say around and round in circles).  Nor did she ever make any sign of boredom or desire to leave; in fact, she seemed quite interested in not only what I was saying, but what I was going to say next.  Looking back, I think it surprised her that I fought as furiously as I did against the baying of the silence, but at the time, letting a pause creep into our conversation felt like a defeat I could not recover from, and battled ardently against it.  In that respect, I succeeded.

Our second date concluded, and I wish I could explain it in such a way as to help clarify exactly what had happened, but I spent the drive back home equally as confused as you are for having read it, just now.  I did not know what to make of it, or even if I should make anything of it at all.  Though I was new to the dating scene, I did have interactions with the fairer sex in general, and none of them had confounded me as thoroughly as Pandora had.  She was more than just a mystery, she was an enigma born of flesh, and I was hooked.

To top it all off, as she dropped me off, she said, “So, are you going to take me to the prom next year?”

The question was so unexpected I could not help but agree.  I nodded, and her smile was a bright and beautiful thing as she pulled away.

The next day I call Arnold to ask for his advice on what happened.  In case there was any doubt remaining, his response made it clear what his intentions in all this were.

Me: “I have no idea what to make of it, Arnold.  What do you think?”

Arnold: “Honestly, man?  I don’t think she likes you.”

Me: “You think so?”

Arnold: “Yeah, I mean, three hours and she hardly says anything at all?  She just… listens?”

Me: “That did seem pretty disinterested to me.  But it’s not like she seemed bored or made to leave or anything.”

Arnold: “That’s because she was being polite while hoping you might steer the conversation somewhere more worth her while.”

Me: “Hmm, I guess that makes sense, now that you mention it.  What should I do, now?”

Arnold: “Well, she’s probably going to dump you, soon, so I say just beat her to the punch.”

Me: “Wait, what?  You think I should dump Pandora?  She didn’t do anything wrong!”

Arnold: “She practically snubbed you on that date by not talking.”

Me: “I don’t know… it’s kind of hard to explain.  The way she listened, it was just… she didn’t talk much, but her eyes, it was as if they were speaking where her lips were not.  It felt really natural.  I’ve never been able to talk like that, before.”

Arnold: “I only want what’s best for you, but I don’t want to see you get hurt is all.”

Me: “You really think she’s going to dump me?”

Arnold: “I’ve seen it before.  Hell, I’ve lived it.  Girls are like that, man.”

Me: “Wow, I wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t told me.  Thanks, Arnold.”

Arnold: “No problem.  See you tomorrow at school?”

Me: “Yeah, have a good night.”

I ignored Pandora at school for the next three days, warring with myself on whether or not Arnold could be right.  Pandora did not go out of her way to talk to me, which only strengthened my phantom fears.  All was to be revealed, however, as on that fourth day I got a call almost immediately upon getting home from school.  It was Pandora.

Me: “Hello?”

Pandora: “Hey, I’m glad I got you.  I talked to Arnold today, and I have to say that it’s pretty shitty that you couldn’t just tell me, yourself.”

Me: “Wait, what?”

Pandora: “I thought our last date went really well, but I guess I was wrong.  I don’t want to talk to you ever again.”

Me: “Pandora, wait, what did Arnold-“

Click.

I was upset.  I was hurt.  I was confused.

In hindsight, I should have called her back, but at the time, I took her at her word that she did not want to talk to me, again.  So I called Arnold, only to get the runaround.

Me: “Arnold, Pandora just called and dumped me because of something-“

Arnold: “She dumped you?  I thought you dumped her like three days ago?”

Me: “What?  No, I hadn’t.”

Arnold: “I told you she was going to dump you, man.  That’s why you had to do it, first.”

Me: “But she only dumped me because of something you said!”

Arnold: “What?  I would never do something like that!  Why would she lie like that?”

Me: “You mean you didn’t say anything to her?”

Arnold: “You’re my best friend, why would I do anything like that?”

Me: “You’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry.  I can’t believe she lied to me just to make it easier to dump me!”

Arnold: “Women, man.  You can’t live with ‘em, you can’t live without ‘em.”

Me: “Amen to that.  I’ll talk to you later, I need to figure this out.”

Arnold: “I’m here for you if you need me.”

Me: “Thanks, Arnold, you’re a true friend.”

It could have been ironic if it were not so cruelly pitiful. 

Summer came, and with Pandora out of sight, it made things easier.  She ended up transferring to some special school the next year, as she was something of a genius with numbers and science.  Arnold managed to cement a spot in my good graces by highlighting points of my short relationship with Pandora that explained why she would dump me.  Considering how poorly I felt about each of the dates, he did not have to work hard to convince me that I was to blame for all of this, and that he only had my best interests at heart.

Then came the fall, and with it a new school year.  The first few months went by in dramatic fashion (as is usual for high school), but nothing pertinent to the story, so let me fast forward to winter break.  My mom reads an article in the paper about how some court case finally got thrown out from the year before where a girl sued her high school boyfriend for dumping her right before prom.  The girl’s case was that she accrued certain expenses based on the promise that a prom date was to be had, but when the boy dumped her, leaving her without a prom date but still having purchased a dress and shoes and other accessories for the now cancelled event, that he should be financially liable for those very expenses.  It was ridiculous, but hey, we live in America, land of the lawsuit.  You can sue just about anybody for just about anything and have an even chance of winning.

After having read this, mom calls me down.

Mom: “Alex, read this article.”

Me: “Okay.”

After having read it:

Me: “Wow, that’s pretty ridiculous.”

Mom: “We can’t afford a lawsuit.”

Me: “Um, okay.”

Mom: “Didn’t you say you’d take that Pandora girl to prom?”

Me: “Uh, I guess?  Of course, that was several months ago, before she said she never wanted to talk to me again.”

Mom: “You call her right now and make sure she’s not going to sue us.”

Me: “Mom, she’s not going to sue us.”

Mom: “I’m not asking.”

There will no doubt be a story or two later relating just how typical this behavior is of mom, but for now, take it on faith that this is very much something she would do.

So, mortified as I had never been mortified before, I dig up Pandora’s number and give her a call.  She answers, and our conversation proceeded as follows:

Me: “Pandora?”

Pandora: “Yes?”

Me: “It’s Alex.”

Pandora: “Oh.”

Me: “Listen, I know you said you didn’t want to talk to me again, but I just wanted to clear one thing up so there are no hard feelings.”

Pandora: “Okay.”

Me: “Remember how I said I’d take you to prom earlier this year?”

Pandora: “Yeah.”

Me: “We’re not still going, right?  So no hard feelings?  You didn’t buy a dress or anything, right?”

Pandora: “That depends on how our next date goes.”

Me: “…what?”

Pandora: “You asked if we’re still going to the prom.  I said that depends on how our next date goes.”

Me: “Next date?”

Pandora: “Yeah, you free Sunday afternoon?”

Me: “Um…yeah, I think so.”

Pandora: “Great, pick me up at two.  You remember where I live?”

Me: “Uh, yeah, I think so.”

Pandora: “Cool, see you then.”

I hang up.  Mom senses the silence in the kitchen, and asks how it went.  I reply with “I did not see that coming,” and walk quietly up to my room.

Twice, now, she had turned my world upside down, though in the end, it would be Arnold who would turn everything inside out.

The time I swallowed a fly

Gambling can be a dangerous game, but never so dangerous as when you choose to gamble with a life.  On that particular night, I gambled with three: my own, Ronaldo’s, and a complete stranger.

I was driving Ronaldo to see his sweetheart; if I had to put a timestamp on it, I would say that we were nineteen, or maybe even twenty.  Ronaldo’s sweetheart was going to college some 50 miles or so away from where Ronaldo lived, so it was a bit of a drive.  Due to the abrupt nature of this little trip, the hour was quite late when we set out, and as a result, I was more than a little irritated.  Still, I ferried my friend to the object of his heart’s desire, as good friends are wont to do, and we were making excellent time due to my propensity for speeding. 

There is something about the open road on a late summer night that pulses; if you listen close enough beneath the thrum of the engine and the braying of the wind, you can hear a heartbeat.  It is slow at first, building in tempo rhythmically with the rising RPM’s.  It is soothing in its trancelike melody, almost as if the highway had its own song to share, and as it beats against you while you pound atop it, you can feel it weave its way through the steel frame of the car, aching to burn within your veins.  Yes, there is something about the open road on a late summer night that pulses.  It is bound in asphalt like a blacktop bleached in blood, and in many ways, it feels like home.  That pulsing synchronizes with your own heartbeat, and the road ceases to become a road; it remains a highway, but the concrete strips away, and a network of synapses take its place.  You realize, in that moment, that this is where you were born to be. 

My throat tightened with the feel of it.  My fingers itched with the feel of it.  My mind reeled with the feel of it.

It was a two lane highway at this stretch, with one lane for each way.  I get this burning in my body that screams “faster, faster!” and so I speed up.  Passing a car obeying the speed limit, I feel a momentary thrill that keeps me in the opposite lane.  Even when I see headlights coming at us, that thrill keeps me in the opposite lane.

Even when Ronaldo cries out, that thrill keeps me in the opposite lane.

“Chicken” is a game that waxed and waned in popularity back in the fifties and sixties, but for those who may not have heard, the gist of the game is that you get two cars with one driver each speeding towards each other on a collision course, and the first one to swerve out of the way is the “chicken.”  Variations exist where you drive the cars off a bluff, or towards a solid structure like a barricade or cement wall, but the theme remains the same.

Caged in the moment and enthralled by the thrill, I committed, without thought or care to Ronaldo’s safety, to an impromptu game of Chicken with the driver coming at us. 

The distance between us disappeared quickly, evaporating beneath the passing glow of the headlights.  Ronaldo was paler than the new moon when I cast a reckless glance his way, but he was speechless.  Silently, we charged forth, and in that moment I knew with a grim certainty that I was not going to swerve.  If we were to survive this night, it would be by the stranger’s efforts, not mine.

When we were close enough I could see the whites of the driver’s eyes, I knew we had reached that threshold, that point of no return.  I had half expected time to slow down as it so often does before a tragedy, but it kept pace with the speeding cars hurtling towards each other.  Just then, when you could no longer distinguish one car’s lights from the other, the stranger swerved sharply into the ditch as I sliced through the road he had occupied mere moments, before.  Calmly, I used my blinker to signal a lane shift and merged back into the proper lane.  Ronaldo and I maintained a strained silence for the rest of the drive.

We arrive at the college when Ronaldo makes a phone call and shakily exits the car.  He gives me a look of complete disbelief, as if he cannot be sure if what had happened on the drive here were real, or something he remembered from a dream.  Regardless, the fear and exhaustion on his face is palpable, as though he wore them like a scar.  Perhaps, in some ways, he still does.  It is a terrifying feeling to know that, if even for a moment, you do not have any control over your own life; that, for even the barest moment, someone else holds your fate in their hands.

In that moment, I should have said something to assure him.  Even something flippant to make light of what had just happened would have been better than the silence I became lost in.  No matter how hard I tried, I could not escape a truth I felt I discovered that night.  It seems so simple a thing, but I imagine understanding it like I did that night requires a certain forfeiture of reason, a surrender to insanity that can only be achieved by reckless abandon.  That truth was that you should never gamble against someone who has nothing to lose.

I took a step away from the car, and even though we were miles away from the ditch I chased that stranger into, a collision came.  I was unprepared, completely caught unawares, and all I could do was open my mouth in shock and surprise.  It hit me, then, crashing into me like it never really had a choice.

Hearing me cry out in surprise, Ronaldo called out, “are you okay?”

After regaining my composure, I spat venomously to the ground. 

“Yeah,” I answered, “I just swallowed a fly.”

The time I learned regret, part one

A long time ago, I created a mantra.  This mantra has been an anchor of sorts; more than once, it has been the only thing solid in a life that had lost all form and function.  When my heart breaks, this mantra rebuilds me.  When my confidence wavers, this mantra stabilizes me.  When my life loses direction, this mantra reminds me that “not all who wander are lost,” as J.R.R. Tolkien once said.  This mantra is the core of who I am; everything I am, ego and all, is built around this fundamental concept:

Follow your heart, for regret is the heaviest of all weights.

This is the story of the day I created this mantra, but it is more than just the history of an eleven word phrase.  This is a story of first loves, first heartbreaks, and the power of regret. This is the story of my greatest failure as a human being, and the story of my greatest shame.

Dramatis Personae

Alex (me) – the protagonist, referred to hereafter in the first person

Warren – one of the biggest slackers I ever knew, but a kind hearted and good natured friend

Arnold – more than my best friend, he was my veritable brother

Pandora – the girl

Arnold has not appeared in any of these anecdotes as of yet, but I assure you that he ranks as one of the most important people to have ever graced my life.  He will be the subject of his own story, someday, but for now, here is what you need to know about Arnold:

1. Arnold is strong.  Very strong (so strong his pseudonym for this blog is Arnold).

2. Arnold is older than I am.  At the time of this tale, I was sixteen years old, and he eighteen.  Anyone who can remember their youth can appreciate how important that two year difference can be.  In my eyes, he was so much wiser than I was, so much more worldly.

3. Arnold is a damn good looking man.  It is not just the muscles (though I am sure those certainly help), it is the definitive masculine features.  The cheekbones, the jaw, the way he carried himself.  It was no surprise to me that I almost never knew him to be without a girlfriend.

4. Arnold could do no wrong in my eyes.  He was the first man I ever met that I considered my emotional and intellectual equal (though I would later be proven wrong), and he was very much the big brother I never had.  I idolized him.  I took everything he said at his word, as I had no reason to ever distrust him.

Pandora (the girl) will be better described in the story, but for now, I feel it pertinent to explain why I chose the moniker “Pandora.”  The etymology is directly related to the name of this blog, if that is any indication to how powerful an influence she has been on my life. 

For those who may not be familiar, there is a Greek myth that suggests all the mortal vices were locked in a container that was later opened by a curious woman named Pandora.  When she opened this container, war, greed, hate, envy, lust, all that makes mortal men wicked and vain poured out, poisoning culture with their insidious influence.  However, one thing remained in the container: hope.

I have read many versions of the story, and while most reference the container in question as a chest, the older sources I have found suggest it was actually a jar.  If I am that jar, then she is most certainly Pandora.  I will leave it to your imagination to cultivate any other relevant metaphors; I assure you, mine most certainly has.

I was sixteen, and I was about as shy as they come.  If I got to know you, I was about as wacky as they make them, but I was very self-conscious of myself around strangers.  Doubly so around girls.  Triply so around strangers that were also girls.  Quadruply so around people with X-ray vision who could read minds (we did not have anyone like that at school, but there was this one kid whom I often suspected of having those powers.  I never did trust him, and always covered my loins with a trapper keeper when I passed by him, just in case.  In my head, I would hum every show tune I could think of so as to confuse or befuddle his mind-reading attempts.  The worst part was that, in doing so, I would inevitably get one of those show tunes stuck in my head, singing it over and over and over again.  Then I would think “what if that’s what he wanted me to do!?” and then I would get all paranoid and start singing show tunes in my head again as a defense against his powers, only to get them stuck even further.  High school; such a vicious cycle).

I shared my second period Health class with Warren, and it was in this class that I met Pandora.  I forget exactly why this assignment fell under the domain of Health class, but we were assigned partners to emulate a newlywed couple (I believe the assignment was designed to educate us on the fine points of domestic partnership, but truthfully, I have no idea).  Being a public school, the teacher was very careful as to make sure that every boy was paired up with every girl, and I can already tell what you are thinking.  You are thinking that Pandora and I got paired up, and that is how everything started. 

You would be wrong.

Due perhaps in part to my gender neutral name, or that a substitute teacher was in the day the “couples” were assigned, or the alignment of Mercury and Venus (my horoscope warned me that “strange attractions imminent” that day) in relation to Neptune and Pluto (Pluto was a planet back in those day), but I ended up getting paired with Warren as my partner. 

Two things about Warren that are relevant to the telling of this tale; first, Warren is a boy.  Second, he is homophobic.

Naturally, the fact that we were the only assigned “homosexual” couple in the class made us the butt (anal sex, get it?) of many a joke.  It was plain to see that Warren was very upset by all this, so I did the first thing that came to mind.  I played up every stereotype of a homosexual I could conjure, and yes, I admit it was most definitely offensive if there were any gays in our classroom, but it had the desired effect, which was to turn the class’s insults in on themselves (or, where that failed, at least directed them at me).  The surest way to render bigotry impotent is to trivialize it, after all, and even though I was very shy at this age, I still had a very good sense of humor about myself.  As such, my pyrrhic act of chivalry (if such a phrase can be coined) took the heat off my friend, but more importantly, it got the attention of Pandora.

The next day, compliments of the return of our regular teacher, the jokes about two boys being “coupled” together were naught but faint whispers in the corner, and to his credit, my friend took to the assignment with a much lighter heart as a result.  The teacher apologized to us for the “mix-up,” we bargained for extra credit out of it only to be refused, and the class went by without a hitch.

At this point, I wish to extrapolate on the notion of my shyness.  Specifically, how it manifested around women.  I was sixteen, and I had never been kissed (romantically), nor had I ever asked a girl out.  I was about as oblivious to the “signs” and subtleties of “the game” that it would be fair to say I did not even play.  It was like everyone was playing Pictionary, only I was blind, had flopping fish for hands, and was only capable of guessing “orange” (orange you glad I did not say banana?).  Still, despite my thundering incompetence at reading the fairer sex, even I could not miss that Pandora was casting many a smiling glance at me when she thought I was not watching.

When I say smiling glance, I want you to know exactly what I mean.  Her eyes had a curious curve when they narrowed, almost as if she were grinning with her gaze.  Combined with the fact that her lips would curl ever so slightly, it made for a wonderful gesture.  Add to it the quick, flittering motion that her pupils made when they would rise up from her work and quickly glance back down, and it made a most dramatic impression.

The closest I can liken it to is when you sit near a colorful flower.  You cannot look at the flower, but you can see it in the very corner of your peripheral vision.  Almost imperceptibly, you notice a hint of vibrant blue, a color you know the flower is not.  You want to look, you want to turn and see, but you know that to do so will be to startle that color into flight.  You do not have to see it to know that a beautiful and radiant butterfly has alighted near your person, so you sit there, and you watch without watching.  You see without seeing, and in your mind’s eye, its beauty truly shines.

When I say smiling glance, now you know exactly what I mean.

My heart raced, but my mind raced faster.  I ran through all sorts of scenarios for what that glance could mean, or if it was even intended for me, and how I should follow up, or should I just play it cool?

I was young and had the self-confidence you might expect from a sixteen year old shy boy with absolutely no penchant for charm or social grace (which is to say none at all), so my initial course of action in response to all this was to seek the advice of my peers.  With that, I went to Warren.

Me: “Warren, did you see the way Pandora was looking at me in Health class, today?”

Warren: “What are you talking about?”

Me: “She was totally looking at me!”

Warren: “Are you sure?”

Me: “No.”

Warren: “Why would she look at you?  I mean, no offense, but she’s like the hottest girl in class.”

Me: “No, none taken, I don’t understand it, either.  What do you think I should do?”

Warren: “If I were you, absolutely nothing.”

Me: “Makes sense.  Thanks, Warren.”

Allow me to beat you to the punch; yes, I am an idiot.  Forget what I said earlier; wherever you would expect an average sixteen year old boy to be, I was about four or five years below that.  As such, I took Warren’s advice, and I did absolutely nothing.

We fast forward to the end of the week, and Warren’s advice makes a little more sense. 

As he and I were walking out of class at the end of the period, he says, “I’ll catch up with you at lunch, I’m going to go talk to Pandora.”  I say, “okay,” then make my way to third period, spending most of the walk cursing myself for not asking him to ask Pandora about me.

I meet up with Warren at lunch, and naturally I am all manner of curious as to how his conversation with Pandora went.   My conversation with Warren went something like this:

Me: “So, Warren, how’d it go with Pandora?”

Warren: “Pretty good, man; I think she likes me.”

Me: *stunned silence*

Warren: “I think I’m going to ask her out.”

Me: *shockingly stunned silence*

Warren: “Some of the guys are getting together for some Smash Bros after school, today, you in?”

Me: “Okay.”

Pitiful.

A few periods later, I’m walking with Warren and Arnold down the hall, all of us anxious that it’s the last period before the weekend, when we bump into a guy that Warren knows, so we chat a little.  Warren brings up Pandora, and this friend of his says something to the effect of “You don’t stand a chance, dude, she hasn’t dated anyone in over a year” to which Warren replies with, “I have this strategy, man.  I know about her bad break-up freshmen year, but I’m going to be like water on stone; I’m gonna wear her down, you’ll see.”

There are times, rare as they are, when luck ceases to become this ethereal concept, and for a moment, brief and beautiful, it is a tangible and physical force.  It can take many forms, but at this moment, it took the form of a rope; a rope Warren was using to hang himself with, as just as he said that, Pandora comes up from behind us, and says, “Water on stone, huh?”

Warren’s shot with Pandora was fired, and it could not have missed the mark worse than if he were actively aiming at his own foot. 

Warren sighed a Charlie Brown sigh, and walked off with his buddy, but Arnold and I stuck around.  I was hoping with every ounce of my being that Pandora had come over for something other than to eavesdrop and catch Warren red-handed in the kind of way that is usually only reserved for fiction, and such hope was not destined to be unfulfilled, as Pandora turned to me and asked “You know, I’ve noticed that we have the same lunch period.  You should come over and have lunch at my table on Monday.”

I impressed myself in that moment.  I kept calm and composed, and replied with “cool, have a good weekend.”  The fact that I did not stand their mute as a ragdoll, or flail about madly like Kermit the Frog, or say something even remotely as incriminating as what Warren had just said struck me as nothing short of a miracle.  Pandora and I locked eyes for but a moment, then she went along her way, leaving me feeling like Alexander must have felt as he conquered his way eastward; invincible, unstoppable, and all powerful.  Then Arnold leaned in close and asked, very quietly, “That’s Pandora?”

“It is,” I said, with just the slightest hint of smugness.

“She’s pretty hot, man.  And you’re having lunch with her on Monday?”

“I sure am,” I said, the cockiness growing ever so slightly.

“Can you put a good word in for me?”

And it all collapsed.  Twice now in less than a week, friends of mine had sought after the girl I was obviously crushing on.  To make matters worse, Arnold’s friendship meant the world to me; so much, in fact, that I was prepared to build him up to Pandora, even if that meant knocking myself out of the race.  I was selfless to the point of self-destruction back then, and this was one of the more dramatic examples thereof.

Monday comes, and I have lunch with Pandora and her friends.  Arnold had spent the night before drilling me on all the things I should say about him, and I felt like I was ready to ace this conversation.  As I make my way to Pandora’s table, I see that she had saved a seat directly next to her.  She pats it playfully, and about a quarter of the things Arnold told me fly right out the window.  I take notice of the Superman shirt she’s wearing; a blue baby doll T with the characteristic Superman emblem fit snug around her form, and another quarter of what Arnold told me slips my mind.  She says, “You’re Al, right?” and another quarter is gone.  By now, about all I remembered of Arnold was his name, and that he wanted me to say SOMETHING.  The conversation with Pandora went a little something like this:

Pandora: You’re Al, right?”

Me: “It is; you’re Pandora?”

Pandora: “Very good.  What’d you bring for lunch, today?”

Me: “Lunch?”

Pandora: “Yeah, lunch.  You don’t seem to have a bag from home or a tray from the cafeteria.”

Me: “Oh, I must have forgot.”

Pandora: *laughing* “How do you forget your lunch?  Here, have some of my fries.”

Me: “Oh, thank you.”

Pandora: “You’re welcome.  So, how’s your Health project coming?”

Me: “The domestic partnership thing?  Not great.  Warren’s pretty lazy, so I’m doing most of the work.  I’ve been struggling with this petition I was going to mock-up to play on the whole ‘gay couple’ thing, but can’t find a way to make it funny, rather than insulting.”

Pandora: “Being gay is funny?”

Me: “It can be.”

Pandora: “Warren didn’t seem to think so.”

Me: “He’s just not used to it, I think.”

Pandora: “Well, maybe your continued jokes will be like water, and his ignorance stone.”

At this point, I was growing a little uncomfortable.  Partly because it was becoming obvious she was a bit sore over what Warren had said the week before, but mostly because I had been actually participating in a conversation with Pandora in a more or less traditional fashion.  It was going so well I was beginning to freak out.

Me: “Yeah, sorry about that.  I don’t think Warren meant it.”

Pandora: “Meant what?  Meant for me to hear it?  I’m glad I did.”

Me: “Oh, well, great, then.”

Pandora: “Who is your friend with all the muscles?  He keeps looking at us.”

Me: *turning to see Arnold very conspicuously looking in our direction* “Oh, that’s Arnold.  OH, that’s Arnold!  He’s a pretty great guy, actually.  My best friend, in truth.”

Pandora: “He’s cute.”

Me: “Yeah, and he’s really nice, too.  Friendly, smart, good natured.”

Pandora: “You’re cuter, though.”

Me: “He plays chess, he’s big into engineering, and he’s-“

Pandora: “And he’s not here.  If I wanted to talk to Arnold, I’d go over and talk to him.  I’m talking to you.”

Me: “Oh, right.  Sorry.”

Pandora: “It’s okay.  So what do you do for fun?”

The conversation carried on from there in a fairly banal flow, so we will skip the rest of it as I realize this is already a rather lengthy tale. 

To summarize, I had two friends interested in Pandora who made plays for her affection, and from all outward appearances, Pandora had rejected them.  I was bungling my way, awkwardly and clumsily, into her good graces.  Another week of this, and we had our first date.

Our first date was to go see a movie I had already seen twice, but it was something she wanted to do, so I was not going to question it.  In my infinite wisdom, I had stayed up the entire night before playing video games with Warren and a few friends (Arnold opted out; he was not so happy I got a date where he could not), so when the lights went out on a movie I had seen twice in the last week, even my excitement to be with Pandora could keep me from doing what I cannot believe, to this day, I did.

I fell asleep.

The movie we were watching in the theater was the first X-Men movie.  I remember the scene where Sabertooth and Wolverine first encounter one another (roughly 10 minutes into the film), and then the next thing I recall is the credits.  We followed it up with a trip to Rainbow Foods, where we wandered the grocery store for an hour, ultimately purchasing quirky toys for each other found at various end-caps in the store.  She behaved as if she had not noticed that I fell asleep during the movie, though I knew it was impossible for her to have missed it.

We finished with dinner at the Subway I worked at.  We ordered our food, I got some playful ribbing from a few coworkers, then Pandora and I sat down.  As I was beginning to eat, one of my less liked co-workers called me over.  I excuse myself, and head over to see what he wants.  Loudly enough for everyone to hear, especially Pandora, he says, “Dude, I can’t believe you ordered onions on your sandwich.  Now she’s not going to want to kiss you!”

Awesome, thanks for that, asshole.  I felt that sleeping through half the date was a good enough reason for her to never want to kiss me, ever.  But thank you for adding my choice of sandwich toppings into the mix; maybe they can fight it out for who gets to claim the honor of being responsible for the greatest act of sabotage on a first date.  It’ll be great; we’ll film it, and I can sell it as a “dating do’s and don’ts” help video. 

I sarcastically thank him for the advice, and head back to the table, trying my best not to literally die of embarrassment, when I see that Pandora had not been idle while I was away.  On her napkin, she had created a face out of a tomato, a pickle, some black olives and green peppers.  It was actually a pretty good likeness, considering.  Once I sit back down, she pushes the napkin over to me, and says “His name is Habib.  He likes you.”

For those who know me, you can imagine how “up my alley” that was.  For those of you who do not, simply know that she was knocking my socks off with her quirky antics.  This was the kind of girl I had been dreaming about, and it was twice as painful to know that I would not be getting a second date out of this. 

We finished up, and went our separate ways.  For all that happened that night, I can honestly say that the greatest surprise came the next school day when she talked to me just before class.

“I had a nice time with you the other night.  When can we do it again?” she asked.

I wish I could say that I had something smooth to reply with, or at least something sensibly polite, but instead, my mouth just hung agape for a full three seconds before I, and I kid you not, said “I did not see that coming.”

If I could go back in time and visit the “me” in that moment, I would chuckle softly to him and say, “buddy, you ain’t seen nothing, yet.”