Real Love Never Has a Happy Ending
I’ve not revealed to anyone a single word she said in confidence. The thing that stunned and embarrassed me the most was the girl’s peculiar, off-the-cuff remarks about my looks–something about muscles and, “He’s so cute,” etcetera. She usually made sure her mother was within ear-shot of her bold pronouncements. And her mother was none too pleased; she often scolded her for it:
“He is not cute!” her mother would scowl. Yes, the whole setup was steeped in bizarre paradoxes.
Out-of-sync behavior such as this aroused my suspicion even more, but the throes of seemingly perfect chemistry between your daughter and I overruled common sense. Then one morning I woke up and found myself sucked into a blender of scrambled amore. And from that day on, any idea of escaping unscathed was no longer within the realm of reality.
You found it all harmlessly amusing. Hell, I even sensed indications that you were more-or-less supporting this…umm…well, I guess you could call it a budding romance of sorts. Especially given the way she would lean all over me every chance she got and hold my hand or arm whenever no one was looking…or was looking, depending on her mood, I suppose. Bear in mind, we never did kiss, much less anything beyond that. Sure, there was plenty of touching, but only appropriately. I was a decent kid (too damn decent for my own good), who never pressed the physical element of the relationship. In fact, the girl did subtly try to kiss me on several occasions, but I quelled her through subtle diversion. She gleefully took the physical lead; I hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to change that. Then I turned sixteen…and worked up the nerve. It was time to stop being a kid; time to initiate things, for a change.
And that year I left her. Abruptly. I had to. What the hell? But why? Well, it’s really very simple. Every time I took that brave gamble and met her flirtatious advances even halfway, she coyly backed off and played the sanctimonious platonic card. And whenever I stepped back, she would again move brazenly forward, all touchy-feely. The girl would not permit me to orchestrate anything; even harmlessly putting my arm around her was rejected. Her crazy game of cerebral ping-pong went on for months, and it was severely compromising my already fragile sanity. What was her motive? Did she find joy watching me flounder like an e’ubazze? (crazy person) Did she really think I would accept the role of modeulle (idiot) indefinitely? But most importantly, how many other poor bastards fell prey to her absurd folly since then, I wondered? Only she could know.
Or could she?
At the time it never occurred to me that maybe, just maybe the girl was acting out a learned behavior. But apprenticed by whom, I wondered? On the other hand, she may have been slightly cuckoo–not really nuts; just a half-finger shy of a North Jersey borgata, maybe. That in her minds eye, she was functioning with absolute purity of intent. But did she qualify for a pass based on that? After all, I wasn’t the one who created and directed the whole facade between us. No matter. Either way, I finally walked on one eggshell too many.
So, “Good bye, kid,” and she cried, but not too hard. The moment I bailed out I regretted it. And even though my hard-earned trust was breeched, I probably should have gutted the relationship out right to the bitter end. But the bridge I impulsively burned could not be extinguished in time. Also, in hindsight, I’ll bet it took her all of about two-days to forget me…if not less. And that assumption is always worth a good chuckle.
We would, by chance, cross paths several times since, but not a word was ever exchanged. There was nothing left to say to each other. I simply failed Adolescence 101: How to Survive One-Sided Love Affairs, for Dummies.
So, what became of me after I quit that job? Ha! Funny you should ask. Well let’s see, about a week after ditching her, I started drinking heavily…at first to escape grief, and eventually to avoid withdrawal. I embarked on a slow suicide mission accompanied by an unforeseen downward spiral of chronic and prolonged depression.
After my expulsion from high school, I continued with what would become a 20-year on-and-off tutelage in Korean Kempo and Japanese Jiu-Jitsu, eventually to the point of expertise.The rest of my time was spent engaging in, hellish, nightmarish hikes on the sands of bleak February beaches and self-punishing marches in snowy woodlands to wallow in self-loathing, while second-guessing myself, thoroughly unable to get the girl out of my head. Over and over I played the sad tune: How could I have blown the opportunity? Or did I completely misconstrue her intentions? What did I do to destroy the whole thing? I would wrestle with that bitter ‘what if’ residue for many years to come.
Charming, isn’t it? But there’s more.
One day, at age seventeen, while in a