A worthwhile life is spent asking questions despite a person not necessarily liking the answers. Do you have the courage to do that? In the search for truth don't let honesty get in the way. I thrive on posing uncomfortable queries to myself. So here is one question I can't seem to find an answer for. Why don't they ever have polygamist Mormons on the New Price is Right? I think it is because when they come to the part of the show when they spin the big wheel and Drew Carey asks the contestant who they would like to say hello to, they don't want the person to say, 'I want to say hello to everyone back in my home town. To my sister and my brothers, to my Mom and Dad, and my other Mom, and my other Mom, and my other Mom, and my other Mom.'
Throughout the history of man, mankind, humankind, cis-peoplekind, transgenderkind (Whatever the current approved politically correct, all-inclusive designation of the homo-sapiens race is) we have searched far and wide for the rewards of myth. The fountain of youth, King Solomon's mines, the sunken continent of Atlantis, the lost Nazi train of gold. Explorers have died in the search for proof of these perplexing mysteries. This has gone on for centuries. At one time in my life I thought all the great mysteries of the world had been solved or written off as being fake. There was nothing left for anyone of my generation to discover. No opportunity for me to cast off to find the elusive western sailing route from Europe to the East Indies. Done. Pinpointing the location of the sunk Titanic on the ocean floor. Accomplished. Determining the mysterious forces at play behind the disappearance of ships and planes over the so-called Bermuda Triangle. No one cares anymore.
The greatest mystery that man now faces is discovering who we each are as a person. Not easy amongst the endless barrage of information, advertising, and calls to consumerism that humans are subjected to. To me, every day becomes an adventure to uncover the lost city of Simon. How much more irresponsible can I be today? I find there is always room for growth. Once I was roped into doing something so stupid it still sends shivers down my spine when I think about it. It was the time one of my oldest mates, Sheilds, and her boyfriend Jim are visiting me in L.A. I love to have a beer with Sheilds. Except she wants to drink Margaritas. So, we will be travelling together to Tijuana in search of mythical treasure.
The fact that Sheilds and I are still in communication with each other after university is no small feat. The age of the earth is measured in millennia yet sometimes it is the minutes that are most important. We met during O-week at the University of Queensland. She lived in Women's College and I was in St. John's, two of the church affiliated, campus residential colleges of the University of Queensland. I took a bit of a liking to her. She seemed to like me, because she talked to me. Let's see where this goes.
The story of the romance of my parents was about all I had to work from at my first year of university. In 1986 Pretty Woman was still four years from release, so I had no idea I would have been better off trying to sweep a prostitute off her feet. My Mum and Dad were the blueprint for love and marriage. Dad met my mother when he needed to have his final thesis for his engineering degree typed up. Someone suggested he ask Mum to do it as she could operate a typewriter and lived in the next town over to his university campus in the north island of New Zealand. That is how they met. Two lines on separate trajectories that one day intersect and become parallel.
Half way through first year I asked Sheilds to type up my first Psych 101 assignment and she obliges. Next day I ask her out and she laughs in my face. In her defense it wasn't one of those loud, spiteful cackles where gobs of spit are showering me in the face and everyone within a two-mile radius rushes over to ask what the commotion is. It is a completely caught off guard, tried to hold it in but in the end just couldn't, quick burst of laughter that still showers me with her spit. I have tasted rejection before, still waiting for a call up for the Wallaby training squad, but this hurt particularly bad. In the classic love triangle story of me, a pretty girl, and a typewriter. Sheilds chose the typewriter.
Don't worry I tell myself, there will be plenty of others. And I was right. Hundreds of other women have rejected me since.
One night at a random party Sheilds and I share a moment of passion where our lips lock. It is a completely spontaneous and unexpected moment, lasting 4.6 seconds. The least exciting thing to happen to me at this party. I dismiss this as her merely taking advantage of me while I am drunk. Despite her attempts to win me back I resist and instead concentrate on being lonely and single. We stay mates throughout university, although I know little of what goes on with her. She is thrown out of the university and I have no idea. Probably thinks I am being a douche every time we catch up and I ask her how her studies are going. Trolling. Her payback for rejecting me.
When I move overseas any remaining threadbare ties we had are completely severed. Then we run into each other in Boston, MA. It is three or four years since we last saw each other in Australia. Sometimes you need to be miles from home to find the time to talk to your neighbour. I can see she is still tormented by her inability to come to grips with losing my affection. She is wandering through life. In this case excitedly moving to England to seek out work. I can tell it is a cover. We swap addresses and like ships passing in the night go on with our lives.
Three years later we run into each other in a beer garden back in Brisbane, Australia. I stepped in to sit down for a moment while Mum went to pick up a prescription for me at the Chemist. Sheilds walks in during that three-minute window. She is on a brief vacation back from England to see family and needs to stop into the pub for a tinkle. We swap addresses again and she introduces me to her boyfriend, Jim. The anguish of living for years knowing she had screwed up big time by letting me go had finally driven her into the arms of another man. Poor girl, life must have been a nightmare for her. God, or whatever supreme being there is pulling the strings, has timed it perfectly so that we could run into each other again and I could be comforted by seeing the anguish I had left her in all those years ago.
We part and don't communicate a word for another year. Then one day, as I am making plans for a round-the-world trip, I send a letter to the address she had given me. It arrives at her job on her last day of employment. She immediately calls me up and tells me she is flying out to L.A. in two days, where I live, for an interim week between jobs. Ah the chickens have finally come home to roost. Then she tells me Jim will be coming too. Ah yes, old Jim. The fill in. Her second option. I can't wait to reacquaint ourselves.
They arrive at LAX and I heartily welcome them to the city of dreams. I dream Jim will soon be dead. Then I will be free. Sheilds and her boyfriend will be staying on the small boat that I live on illegally in Marina del Rey while I will be crashing with Jonesy. We all go to the Baja Cantina on Washington Ave. for a celebratory margarita. Jonesy is captivated with my mate from home.
As I am responsible for getting Sheilds and Jim back to the boat safely I avoid touching the drink. I do keep an eye on Sheilds and her consumption. I have seen how messy things can get when someone gets a little tipsy and old feelings start finding their way to the surface. Don't want her to embarrass herself. At some point in the evening Sheilds comes over and asks to talk to me in private. I knew it. Still harbouring feelings. Couldn't avoid it if I tried. She is nervous. Come on dear, it has been ten years, four months, and six days since your last flirtatious attempt to kiss me. When will she get it into her head that I have moved on?