ofallthethingsiveloved

[ofallthethingsiveloved]

Can I finish my bagel first?

I wanted him the most when I was fifteen.

My parents were both semi-professional bowlers for most of my early teen years. Every weekend was spent at bowling alleys across the state, watching one, if not both, of them compete. This also meant that my weeknights were spent at the local 8-lane bowling alley, because it was, surprisingly, more fun than staying home alone. Growing up in a small town had its perks, as the bowling alley was right in the center of town, surrounded by any fast food I could possibly want and the freedom of walking there.

On Tuesdays, my parents would drop me off at my guitar lesson and I would walk to the bowling alley afterward, my Washburn acoustic strapped to my back. They had the co-ed league that night, which was one of my favorites to attend. My mom’s Thursday night women’s league was all older matriarch types and Sunday nights was mostly grumpy middle-aged men. But Tuesday, for some reason, held the younger crowd. Teams made up of young men in their twenties seemed to be the majority and fifteen year old me was all about it. At that age, I was right in the thick of my most awkward phase. I wasn’t sure if I hated my body or if I had one at all. Despite my best efforts, my skin was always greasy and my hair would not lay flat. Tuesday nights were all about observation. These men all knew me well and treated me like their homely little cousin. I was so uncomfortable that I didn’t even bother to do the feeble teenage girl flirting that my friends did with the servers at Chili’s. Mine was a fact-finding mission. I wanted to know what kind of music they liked, which movies they were quoting, how did they feel about women that didn’t wear make up. I wanted to fit in with them, because if I understood grown men, I could surely figure out teenage boys.

I developed tiny crushes on all of them for different reasons. One looked like Rivers Cuomo, one gave me my first MxPx CD, one let me have the kills of his cigarettes. One guy had the most precious smirk and perfect green-blue eyes. They were all perfect in their individual ways. As I got older, so did they. They got 9 to 5 jobs, which meant that they couldn’t spend their weeknights knocking down pins. By the time I was in college, they had lost interest in the bowling alley and I had mostly forgotten them.

Skip ahead a few years. I’m twenty-seven and I’ve walked out on a seven year relationship. I had survived my ten year high school reunion and was starting my first summer as a single woman. I had gotten my groove back, so to speak, and was slowly shaking off years of being held down by a man that made me doubt that I could be loved by any person other than him. My best friend and I decided that this would be the greatest summer we had ever lived. For the first time, we were of legal drinking age and neither of us were in relationships. Her family owned an income property down the shore and one of the units was being left empty for us to use for three months. We were pigs in shit that summer, entirely unstoppable. If we weren’t at the beach, we were working our way through every bar in the county and daring each other to speak to men we didn’t yet know.

One Friday, we were watching a cover band in a bar three towns over. I had already switched from Jack Daniels to Shirley Temples and went outside to smoke while a middle-aged man spoke to my best friend about local politics. On my way out of the bar, I thought I saw a smirk I recognized. It wasn’t impossible to see someone I knew, but I couldn’t figure out exactly why I knew him. I blew smoke rings on the patio as I worked my way through the Guess Who? game in my head. Did we go to school together? Am I just recognizing him from his profile on a dating app? Why do I know that face? As I walked back in, I heard his voice and I knew exactly who he was. I told my friend that I wanted us to walk past him, so I could re-introduce myself. As we approached, I made eye contact and tilted my head, as though I was recognizing him for the first time. 

“Oh hi, I know you. You probably don’t remember me, but ohmigosh how are you!?”

He stared at me for a few seconds before I let him off the hook.

“I’m S--------. L------ and W--------’s kid. You used to bowl with them. P-------, right? You look great.”

“Oh holy shit! S--------, I didn’t recognize you at all.” He looked me up and down, but not in the creepy way. “You grew up. I mean, we both grew up. But you, you look like an adult now. Wow, yeah, hi. Where have you been?”

He was probably in his mid-thirties, but the only thing giving it away were the small wrinkles forming around his eyes and the handful of gray hairs mixed into his already fair hair. We spent the better part of the next two hours swapping horror stories. We talked about how rocky the road to the present had been and resolved ourselves to hang out again. As I was walking out the door, my best friend reminded me that he was really quite cute and shouldn’t I invite him down the shore? I immediately ran back in and told him he was going with us to the beach in two weeks, rain or shine. I saved his phone number and made him pinky promise not to cancel.

I texted him two days before we were supposed to all go out on the boardwalk. He solidified the plans and I sent him our address. He would meet us down there after work on Friday and we would all head back home Saturday afternoon. My best friend and I took bets on what his car would look like. She thought it would be a small silver SUV, I put my money on a dark metallic red or green sedan, probably a Toyota. When a green Camry pulled into the driveway, she did a shot. The three of us walked to the bar, where we met up with some more people we knew. He and I took turns buying the drinks until I couldn’t light my own cigarettes.

He refused to ignite a Newport for me and handed me an American Spirit. I protested, I wanted my chemical steeped tobacco.

“I’m trying to save your life. Just say thank you and smoke it.” 

We laughed and talked more until I made him hold my arm as I walked down the steep stairs from the rooftop bar. 

“Look at you, saving my life again.” 

The walk home was about four blocks and with every block, we fell more behind the rest of the group, more focused on trying to quietly continue whatever drunk conversation we were having than keeping up. 

At some point shortly after entering the house, I lost track of him and started preparing myself for my hangover. I made a bagel and dug one of my hidden Gatorades out of the back of the fridge. We had no furniture, so I sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter, eating my snack. He came in and made a faux-outraged remark about not being offered a bagel. I held out my own bagel for him to take, which he refused, opting instead to kiss me. I pulled back abruptly.

“I’m going to hate myself for saying this, but can I finish my bagel first? Also, I like the color of your eyes. They’re blue but not blue, green.”

“Uh... Sure. Yeah. Finish your bagel.” He proceeded to stand there and watch me eat my bagel. Yes, this was really as uncomfortable as it sounds. When my precautionary carbohydrates had been consumed, I hopped off the counter and pulled him by the wrist to the room that held my twin-sized air mattress. 

What happened after that is, admittedly, blurry. I know that at one point, I dislocated his shoulder and had to help him pop it back into place. I was horrified but he explained that it happened often as a result of an old soccer injury. The next morning, I slid out of the room to take a shower and throw up all of the alcohol that was left from the night before. I was beyond sick and afraid of waking him up. My best friend had left very early that morning for a prior engagement that she had completely forgotten about, which meant that I would have to ride home with him. I laid in bed for what felt like an eternity until he started to stir. Within 15 minutes, we were in the car, quietly driving toward home. It was one of the most solemn commutes of my life. 

A week or so later, I reached out to invite him to a trivia game at a bar. He responded that he never meant for that type of thing to happen between the two of us. I admitted that it was my every intention that things transpire as they did. He said he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. I didn’t reply and we have not spoken since, but I’m still appreciative of that night. It was fun in those moments. But, it also taught me some situations should be left alone, though I would make the same decision multiple times in the coming years.

[ofallthethingsiveloved]

“I’m moving to Germany with her after graduation”

It’s late-May, 2008. I had just finished my sophomore year of college, flailing and panicking through the entire second semester because I could not stand living on campus any longer and my neighbors have been watching the same Family Guy DVD on repeat for three months. I came home for the summer and returned to work at the local grocery store that I had worked at since I was sixteen. I didn’t hate my job, but only because I’d been given some authority and could essentially do what I preferred to do, as long as I was working. In the three and a half years that I had worked there, I’d dated three of my coworkers, none of whom still worked there. I had developed a bit of a reputation and people that had not slept with me would tell people that they had. I was not particularly attractive but I am smart and funny. It’s also believable to say that I blew you in the backseat of your friend’s Jeep after you smoked me out, because a solid six with an outgoing personality is likely to do those types of things.

As a reward for surviving a real struggle of a year, I’d decided to do the common girl thing and cut off all of my hair and dye it. My waist length jet black hair was now an edgy sangria colored inverted bob. I dressed it up with little toddler style barrettes, pink poodles and blue turtles clipped in the side, keeping my bangs out of my eyes. The aesthetic I was reaching for is somewhere between emo and goth. Thankfully, my uniform at the grocery store allowed me to wear black skinny jeans and band shirts under my bright red smock.

On this specific afternoon, I was sitting on the floor of the aisle five, blocking the cans of enchilada sauce, when I heard a voice behind me say, “You changed your hair.”

Without looking up, “Yeah, about three days ago. It was time.”

“Oh, I didn’t recognize you at first.”

I turned around and noticed an unfamiliar boy in an identical uniform, right down the the black jeans and AFI shirt. He was almost too thin and he hadn’t quite learned how to flat iron his swoopy hair without leaving crinkles in it. 

“You’re new right? I’m surprised, they didn’t let me block for like three months when I started.” he said, jamming his hands into his front pockets, a nervous habit I would eventually find endearing.

“No, I’m back from Philly for the summer. I’ve been here for years. You must have started right after I went back in January.”

I turned back to my shelf. I knew that he would ask around about me and hear what I already knew people say. They would tell him that the last guy I dated at work, a thirty year old with a coke problem, got fired for stealing $200 out of a cash drawer and cheated on me with the only girl that was easier than I was. As desperate as I was for the attention, I was also still afraid of the judgment.

I paused as I listened to him continue pushing his cart of returns down the aisle. He was cute, but probably a lot younger than I was. I could tell that it took a lot for him to start that conversation. I started to feel a little bad about brushing him off like that, but I just wanted to do my hours and leave. I didn’t need the dramatic work life that I had experienced the summer before.

A few hours later, I was sitting on the bench in front of the store, smoking a cigarette. I read a Palahniuk book, it doesn’t matter which one, because this is my life before a smartphone. I could feel someone standing near me and looked up, only to see the boy from before.

“Can I bum one of those?”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen”

“Smoking age is nineteen. I’m not trying to give cigarettes to a minor.”

“It’s okay, my parents buy them for me. I just left my pack at home.”

“While I’m sure that’s true, I’m still not giving you one. Sorry, kiddo.” For the record, a few months into our relationship, his father caught him with two Newports and beat him so hard he couldn’t even catch his breath when he called me, begging to be picked up so he could sleep at his friend’s house that night.

“I love that book. Have you read anything else by him? Everyone says Fight Club is the best, but I like Diary.”

“Pretty much everything. Twice. Sit down.” I hand him my lighter and open the pack toward him.

We spent nine months driving to hookah bars and listening to A Perfect Circle. I took him to see MSI for his seventeenth birthday and fought a girl in the crowd for pushing me out of the way to be closer to him. I grew to love the gap in his teeth and his acne scars. He was broken, the runt of four boys and his parents’ least favorite. Even his younger brother, only twelve, tortured him and made him feel small. He spent holidays with my family and cried in my arms more than he kissed me. I started to feel like a therapist and switched my major to psychology that October. If I could make him feel whole, imagine what I could do for the rest of the world. In all of the time we were together, he never added me as his friend on Facebook. This was a point of contention and I was convinced he liked talking about his older girlfriend, but didn’t want anyone to see that I was plain and overweight. We never hung out with his friends, only by ourselves in my Ford Taurus, after dark. Parking in the small lot two blocks from his house to talk about our feelings and see if we could harmonize over “My Last Serenade” and “Swing Life Away”.

When it was over, I was back at school in the late winter of 2009 when I woke up to a text from him. He said he loved me but he loved her more. She was a German au pair that he had met at a concert in the city. She was pushing thirty and her work visa was expiring in the fall. He told me he was moving to Germany with her when he graduated that summer. I thought she was sad and gross.

I didn’t leave my bedroom for another three hours after that. My roommate knocked on my door to make sure I was okay, he could hear me quietly sobbing. I told him what had happened and that I wasn’t sad, I was just really angry. That afternoon, in the middle of a snow storm, I got so stoned I couldn’t speak or move. Later, I stood on the fire escape and screamed into the rare quiet that blizzards brought to the city. 

[ofallthethingsiveloved]

A Southern Canadian Casino

My best friend and I planned a trip to New York State to see an off-Broadway production of Cruel Intentions: the Musical. We stayed at a casino just outside of the city proper. It was a small place with no spa and two bars. On the drive up, we listened to early-2000s pop music while I researched local bars and what bands were playing in the area. It turned out that there were bands playing at the casino both nights of our trip. Perfect, we didn't even have to leave the safety of that building to have fun.

I am typically not a drinker but I promised her that after we saw the show the first night, I would be getting "white girl wasted" in honor of our trip together. I wore a basic shirt under my favorite cropped denim jacket, the black one with the pins on it, and my oxblood boots with the three inch heels.

Our Uber dropped us off outside of the hotel and instead of going to our room, we made our way onto the small gambling floor of the casino. An unfamiliar band was playing but they sounded good. We drank and people watched. There was something really funny about watching middle-aged people getting trashed and dancing to music from my teenage years.

After their set was finished, I decided I was far too intoxicated to be wearing heels. We went up to the room, where we changed into more comfortable clothes and made our way back downstairs. I needed carbohydrates to soak up all of the Jack and got a solid order of french fries, just before all of the kitchens closed for the night. While I picked at my fries, my friend played blackjack. She was up and then she was down and when she was up again, we decided it was time for a few more beers before bed.

As I approached the bar, I noticed that the drummer and guitarist of the band we had just watched were sitting by themselves. Drunk brain insisted that if we tried, we could succeed in getting them back to our room. Drunk brain turned out to be right.

We casually sat next to them, but one seat between us. She played video poker while I nursed a beer. I made eye contact with the drummer, though it was the guitarist I was really interested in. When I wasn't laughing at the drunk aunts and uncles flailing to a cover of a Sublime song, I had been watching him. The way he played effortlessly and smiled to himself, never really looking out at the crowd. Neither had particularly notable characteristics, both slim and not particularly tall with random tattoos on their forearms. The drummer slid over closer to us and started asking me how the poker game built into the bar worked. He was clearly the more outgoing of the two. We started chatting about everything, from being Libras to photos of homegrown tomatoes that looked like they had dicks. We found out the band was actually from our area. We laughed, it figured the only people any of us wanted to talk to that night were from the same region, four hours away. The conversation escalated quickly and I was spending most of my energy talking up my best friend and trying to direct him toward her. I would have taken either but she only wanted him, fair was fair. The guitarist was quiet during our group conversation and spoke only when spoken to directly, barely participating or looking up from his plastic cup of beer.

The bartender was starting to hover, signalling that they were trying to shut down and clean up. He told us we could leave with the beers as long as we didn't take any of his glassware with us. The four of us made our way into the elavators. My best friend and I pushed the button for our floor and the boys did not press a button for theirs. We clearly had an unspoken agreement with them.

When we walked into the room, the drummer happened to sit on my best friend's bed. She took the opportunity to make clear to him that she would be his by laying on the bed with her head in his lap. The guitarist stood awkwardly by the small desk in the room while I changed out of my jeans in front of everyone. After I pulled basketball shorts on, he asked me show him the tattoo on my thigh. I moved closer to him and pulled up the shorts. I explained that it was only about two weeks old as I leaned in to reach past him for my tube of Aquaphor. It felt as though he held his breath as my arm brushed his waist.

It hadn't taken long before my best friend and the drummer were kissing. They spoke quietly with their faces close together. I was sitting on my bed, legs folded under me talking about music with the guitarist, still standing by the desk, but warming up and opening his posture, little by little. His day job was fascinating. He repaired guitars, a skill not many have. It was delicate work that allowed him to restore instruments older than my mother. Hearing this about him reminded me of the way his fingers slid over the frets, barely pressing down but playing all of the chords with clarity. It was all I could focus on when I had looked up at the band earlier.

I appreciated his quiet demeanor and the Majora's Mask tattoo. He was significantly younger than me, but the drummer joked that it wouldn't be an issue.

"Tell them how old your girlfriend is! I mean, she's not his girlfriend, like officially. He just sleeps there a lot and drives her kid to school. He's not an asshole or anything." The drummer had let slip. Everything made so much more sense. I had felt for a little while that nothing was going to happen and now, having heard that, I understood why. I was content to just talk about Coheed and share snacks with him.

Shortly after dropping the bomb, the drummer announced that he and my best friend would be spending some time two floors below in the room he and the guitarist shared. They left, giggling, her hand up the back of his shirt, his arm across her shoulders. I got up to brush my teeth and joked that he was now stuck with me.

"You're more than welcome to sleep in her bed. I'm pretty sure she won't be back before morning. She's sweet and clean. You don't have to worry about them." I explained, removing my make up with wipes. I was taking off the cute, knowing that the I need not try so hard anymore. I took off my bra and basketball shorts. I was going to sleep in my underwear and a Daria tshirt. This was no longer an attempt to get laid, but a co-ed sleepover.

I was channel surfing, still very drunk and hyper-focused on the screen when I felt the weight shift on my mattress. By the time my brain registered what was happening, his mouth was on mine. I felt victorious. It was happening and he was far more sweet than I had imagined.

My sleep was restless that night. At some point during one of my many naps, he had slipped out and returned to his own room. During the next nap, my best friend reappeared in her bed. No phone numbers were exchanged and no attempts had been made to contact one another, though we could both have easily found eachother on social media. It was exactly as I had hoped it would be.

[ofallthethingsiveloved]

Distaste At First Sight

Okay, picture me at twenty years old. I'm attending a private Catholic college, just outside of Philadelphia. I'm not Catholic. I think I'm pretty cool. At this point in my life, I've just moved into my first off-campus apartment with two guys I know. I'm dating a seventeen year old who lives two hours away. The only reasons we're together is that I have a car and buy him cigarettes and I like his Mohawk and sharp hip bones. If we were the same age, he'd be so far out of my league. I say I love him because I think I'm supposed to, but really I don't ache for him when it takes four hours to answer my texts. I make friends with a girl in a class and she talks exclusively about her ex-boyfriend and how she's a promoter for some record label. Whatever, take me to Starbucks and I'll listen to all of your drama. She says she's all about spooky stuff and wants to go urban exploring. I know the perfect place: an abandoned mill along the banks of the Schuylkill River. We make plans to go. She shows up with two guys I've never met: a small, flamboyant boy and a larger guy wearing Ed Hardy. I hate Ed Hardy. This is the man I will someday uproot my existence for, but in the moment all I could do was roll my eyes at him. By now, this story has been told so many times, it's practically folklore. I'm doing my best to keep the memory straight, but it's hard. Things tend to morph through time and retelling. The first thing I remember him saying is, "This would be a great place for my band to take pictures for our MySpace". I write him off. Of course you're in a band! So is every other guy in the greater Philadelphia area. I take out a bowl and attempt to hit it while walking into the wind and he looks at me like I'm a mutant. A girl, with her own piece and stash, lighting up in the middle of these creepy woods. I don't offer to share, because I hate everything about him. Later he takes out a cigarette, "Can I borrow a lighter?" "Do you want me to smoke it for you too?" I pass him my lighter without even looking to my right to see his face. I break away from the group to climb into a dilapidated building and he can't believe I'm going in. "I'm a carpenter and I'm telling you that building is not safe. The ceiling could fall or there could be homeless people with knives" "Just get in here, you've got the flashlight." My voice is shaking because I am afraid but I'm trying so hard to be a badass. I'm trying to impress a guy that I don't even like, and I can't figure out why. We're in the backseat together on the ride home. "You should come out to see my band play some time" "I have a boyfriend" "And I have to sell tickets to my show" I'm an asshole. The four of us go up to my apartment, he's the only one that gets in on the blunt my roommates and I are passing. He's bitching that he hates dutches and my eyes hurt from rolling them so much. The three of them leave and my favorite roommate turns to me, "Why the fuck do you hang out with those people?" I honestly can't even answer that question. I throw my Doc Martens in the corner and shake my head. I haven't heard from my boyfriend all night and it doesn't phase me one bit. Our summer of hanging out while I was home from college has fizzled through the fall semester and I can see what's coming.