CHAPTER THREE

Beatnik writing crap: Explosions are not expositions; you need not explain pains felt deeply, sometimes there’s nothing to say. So go the other way. It’s good to see you, pretend to know you, I think I love you, what else is there, well nothing I guess, burn all tests what do they matter, nothing; we are the power that fuels all love in our world let all the rest of the world burn it is madness; our gladness only can save us from the insanity around us; my god what would I do without you. Rubber and glue bond, to right all wrongs, and we’ll sail away to better days while towers fall behind us, remind me again while anything else matters but you; all the matters and all that matters could only be you; I liked it that way, wanted it to stay, let no bad days happen anymore and when they do my god at least I’ll have you.

I’m not completely friendless. Tess was my best friend. She still is I suppose although she has a new best friend, her boyfriend Roger. They banded together to fight and survive the bull shit world around them, high school and parents and everything else that doesn’t penetrate this bubble they created of this world of themselves. “Us against the world” is a romantic sentiment. Rebel outcasts who no one understands but they understand and have each other and that’s all they need, forget the rest of the world and everything else. Of course that’s not really the reality; they’re both middle class kids living in suburbia Washington; what “struggles” do they really have; what’s really so obscene about their lives that they deserve to “rebel” against? Her dad owns a motor boat and she has a trampoline in her backyard for god’s sake.

But within their little bubble everything outside their bubble is corrupt and everyone’s a video game zombie plugged into their pre-set programs. What this means is that they make themselves feel superior and smart by ridiculing the jocks and cheerleaders and popular culture and mainstream fare, while they embrace lost past pop culture oddities and artists together. They are pretty smart actually; I often can’t keep up during their discussions, as I play the part of third wheel, lagging behind. She’s traded in all the inside jokes she used to share with me for inside jokes shared with him. And I think they do make some good points about commercialism over quality and popularity for popularity’s sake, lemmings and bandwagoners, propaganda and social pressures, conformity, and real art and suffering and drones and music and surviving and junk, in ways that can be pretentious and silly but not necessarily all the way wrong.

She likes him a lot more than he likes her I can tell. She mimicked his style and personality and began to like everything he liked while refuting things she used to like that he didn’t really like, me included, despite all our elementary and middle school pledges of being friends forever and planning all these grown up trips and shared weddings and adventures and dreams together; childhood friendship can be this intense magical thing that ends up not holding the weight of the way the world really is and the way people really are. Pledges and promises made while in “kid world” stay in “kid world”, once you enter “teen world” you come to realize.

She didn’t cast me off overnight; dissolving is always at least a semi gradual process, unless a person is just utterly clueless. They let me enter their little club house on occasion, being the third wheel, letting me eat lunch with them, or participate in one of their Mystery Science Theatre 3000 marathon movie nights, but I could tell Roger (her boyfriend) didn’t want me there because I disrupted his plans to woo her into sex that night or on the lunch table or whatever. I’m a weed in his sex garden he’s trying to cultivate and he wants to pluck me and throw me rootless on the cement where I’d shrivel unnourished.

Funny how Tess and Roger would claim people are easily manipulated when, in my estimation, Roger manipulated Tess into doing things that maybe she otherwise wouldn’t want to do, like sex and shoplifting. She didn’t tell me right away after she lost her virginity, despite her supposedly being my best friend and all of our once diverse conversation topics becoming only about him; if we were characters in a rom-com, after Roger entered, we wouldn’t pass the Bechdel test. But I could tell when she lost her virginity anyways because she and Roger treated me as even more of lame-wad stupid-head that they had both just evolved beyond. I suddenly became very little kid to them. They also got way more grabby with each other, with whatever sexual teasing tension they had, such as her slight blush and smile and tuck her hair behind her ear trick when he’d look at her a certain way, broken and replaced by more unabashed, less cutesy PDA sessions, even making Public Displays of Affection become a part of their raised middle finger to the rest of the world, including me, outside of their bubble.

Shortly before Jan shot herself Tess called me up. Wanting to talk about him of course. Valentine’s Day was coming up after all.

“It used to be, when I was with him I’d like, be scrapbooking the moments in my mind,” she said.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Like, I’d be envisioning, on, like, our 5^th or 10^th anniversary how we’d be reminiscing on this moment, and whatever picture would come of it. Rather than just enjoying the moment, being in the moment, you know?”

“You do take a lot of pictures of him, and selfies of you two together.”

“I know, which brings me to my point,” Tess said.

“You have a point?”

“Ha ha, very funny. Anyways, I’d imagine this web picture essay where we’d each write a paragraph of what this moment meant; even little things like him sleeping on a couch.”

“You took a picture of him sleeping on a couch?” I asked.

“Well… maybe… yeah.”

“The history of your great love story,” I said.

“Yeah, right, exactly,” she said through giggling. “All our sunsets and sunrises.”

“Sunrises?” I said teasingly. “Sexy.”

“Shut up,” she said then giggled again. I could practically hear her blushing over the phone. “Like, I’d caption the pictures with this is the moment I knew he was family and this is the moment I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.”

“Yeah? It’s that serious? You feel that way?”

A few seconds of rare dead air passed between us.

“Well I didn’t say that those moments, those pictures were taken yet,” she said nearly inaudibly.

“But you’d be thinking about how these moments would be perceived through filters of reflection and nostalgia,” I suggested.

“Right, exactly,” she said. “You say what I mean to say so much better than I do.”

“But you want to just be in the moment, rather than think of how the moment will be recalled later,” I said.

“Right, exactly,” she said. “I think I was afraid of being fully engaged with him in the moment before.”

“Afraid?” I asked. “Why?”

“I don’t know. The potency. The power. The intensity. Have you ever been in love?”

I hesitated. “I…um…”

“I’m sorry…”

“No, it’s okay,” I said. “You need to be in love, really be in love, to understand what you’re saying. I admit, I don’t really understand… what you mean by fear.”

“Well… yeah you do.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I mumbled.

“Okay, but I just mean, like, his eyes… staring at me. Just turning me into like this… gurgling melted ice cream that he’s stirring. That’s the power I’m talking about. Makes my heart pump.”

“Heart soup? Gross,” I teased.

“But, yeah, I mean, there’s fear there, like staring back at a predator. But it’s intense, it’s a good fear. Life affirming.”

“Okay,” I said. “Is that like… what is that? What base is that?”

“It’s not even…like… it’s not even…”

“I’m sorry, you’re being serious and I’m being flippant,” I said.

“It’s like… mental foreplay…”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I interrupted. “Did my best friend just use the word foreplay in a sentence?”

She giggled. “Did I?”

“Wow,” I said.

“I wish you’d have something in your life like what Roger and I have,” she said with a sigh.

“Yeah I guess,” I mumbled. I knew, rationally, that I wasn’t really in love with Seth-Rem; I mean, not real love, like what Tess and Roger shared. “I mean, I do too. I really am happy for you.”

“You’ll have it someday,” she said, somewhat condescendingly. I hadn’t told Tess about my embarrassing crush on Seth-Rem. The her before Roger would have noticed. The her after Roger was deliriously happily oblivious to anything outside of their bubble.

Tess brought Roger to Jan’s funeral. Roger had never met Jan. He wore blue tennis shoes. Frankly it pissed me off. I called her a few days later.

“Why’d you bring him to the funeral?”

“Who?”

“You know who.”

“Why do you sound upset? Why are you upset?”

“I’m not upset.”

“Come on, I know you too well. Look… I know I…”

“At least you came,” I mumbled.

“Of course I’d come. Why would you say that to me? Look, I don’t think I want to talk to you like this, so…”

“You don’t want to talk to me anymore anyways.”

A pause.

“That’s not true,” she said.

“My sister died. Where were you? You never called.”

“I… I didn’t know what… or how… I thought you wanted space. You, like, remember in the third grade…”

I interrupted her. “You were with him. Like always.”

“Alice, you know… well it’s like we’re married already.”

God you’re so stupid I thought. “You’re supposed to be my best friend.”

“I am,” she offered, sounding offended. “And you’re supposed to be mine.”

“Best friends don’t treat each other this way,” I said.

“No they don’t” she agreed with an accusing tone.

“Not one call,” I scolded.

“God Alice. You don’t think it hurt me? You don’t think I cried?”

“I don’t know,” I said shrugging. “I imagine you’re too busy making out with your husband to feel or think anything anymore.”

“Why are you being such a bitch to me?” she asked.

“You’re a victim here? I’m supposed to feel sorry for you?” I asked.

“Look, I’m sorry. Didn’t I say I was sorry?”

“You didn’t. In so many ways you didn’t. Why’d you bring him? Just another date? Did you have a dinner picnic at the graveyard later? Does death turn you on?”

“Alice, stop it!” she yelled.

“My sister shot herself over a boy!” I yelled back.

“I’m hanging up on you,” Tess said.

“Why, so you can call him and talk about what a bitch I am? I know you do that.”

“Because sometimes you are Alice,” Tess said. “I’m sorry.”

“Wait,” I said with a softer voice.

“What?” she said sternly.

“It’s just… whatever, I don’t care but… you remind me of them. He reminds me of him.”

“Who reminds you of who?”

“You and Roger remind me of Jan and… him. And I don’t want…” my voice trailed off. Dot, dot, dot.

“Jesus Alice, you can’t be more transparent. We knew you were jealous of us from the start.”

I sighed.

“We don’t have a fucking suicide pact. We’re not insane. Are you morbid?”

I covered my eyes with my hands. Dead air between us. After about a minute she hung up.

And that’s how I broke up with me best friend. Or she broke up with me. The erosion started long before that call. A best friend breakup has to be bitterer than a young romance breakup, I think. It’s expected that boys will come and go. They teach you that through pop culture. All the beautiful breakup songs by Adele and Taylor Swift. Some angry, some vindictive, some girl power anthems, some just bitter and sad, some just made up for money. What’s sad is I think I can name all, or most, of Taylor Swift’s ex’s: Joe Jonas, Taylor Lautner, John Mayer, that Kennedy teen that one summer, Harry Stiles. I can name the songs she wrote about each ex. A romantic comedy template is that the girl has to go through heartbreak right before finding Mr. Right; the walk through hell to get to heaven motif thing.

But losing your best friend? The one who you baked cookies with, sold Girl Scout cookies with, picked blackberries with, made Barbie and Ken dolls get naked together and have plastic orgies with, wrote stories with, made hate and love lists with, talked and laughed for hours over nothing with, watched both classic Disney animated movies and cheesy stupid horror movies with, made plans to travel and conquer the world and start a band and fashion line together with; there are no movies or songs about that. It’s not supposed to happen. The best friend is supposed to be there to lend a shoulder to cry on after bitter breakups… or family deaths. Losing a best friend is too much of a stupid bitter thing to try and make any lovely art from. (I wrote that before I saw “Bridesmaids” which I guess is a movie about potentially losing a best friend, but it’s a comedy and of course the friendship is just made stronger in the end).

It’s true I was jealous of her and Roger’s relationship. Jealous of him taking her away from me. Jealous that she had a boyfriend and I didn’t. That she was living, experiencing things, sex and deep discussions and new feelings, passionate feelings, and I wasn’t; I only had to guess what passion was and felt like vicariously still living through Taylor Swift songs. She accused me of being jealous and I got defensive. More hurtful words were said. Boys, despite their violent reputations, don’t fight their former friends the way girls do. Girls take it to a higher level. Maybe that’s because, it seems to me, girls are able to hate themselves faster and easier than boys are able to hate themselves. And self hatred breeds insecurity and jealousy which is projected out like venom. Boys don’t really have “frenemies”. That’s a girl’s thing. How can a friend be your enemy? If she’s your enemy why is she your friend? It’s the stupidest thing.

Anyways, since that phone call, since Tess and I broke up, I basically became like a hermit. Stewing in sadness, lingering from Jan’s suicide but becoming a separate entity from that. It was like Jen’s suicide opened a dark portal and I walked through it and kept walking and the portal closed behind me and I’m to blame for continuing to walk into that darkness. Tess hurt things. She’s not faultless. She acted like a bitch also. I know she was upset over Jan’s death although she never expressed anything to me. It’s just hard to know what to say. Difficult to step into an awkward conversation. Hard to talk about feelings especially the non good kinds.

She didn’t realize that she didn’t have to talk about any of that stuff to me. She could have called and talked about anything, like we used to. Anything but Roger, to be honest, and it would have helped. Just the call would have let me know that she was thinking of me. That’s all I wanted from her. People communicate in other ways besides words. A call would have let me know that she’s sorry and she loved Jan and she’s thinking of me and she loves me and she wouldn’t have needed to actually say any of that. She could have told me about the shape and texture of the booger she had just picked out her nose. And I would have laughed or faked a laugh and it would have been nice; it would have helped.

If Roger were the cool guy he pretended to be he would have mediated a truce and reconnection between Tess and me. If he had an ounce of care at all for the best friend of his girlfriend. I don’t know if Tess had any hurt at all from our breakup but if so, if Roger loved her, wouldn’t he want to repair some of that hurt? Boyfriends should want their girlfriends to have friendships and a rich life beyond just the boyfriend-girlfriend relationship if they love them and want them to be happy. But Roger probably convinced Tess that I was unhip, a loser, and that she was better off without me in her life. I don’t really know. I can’t be mad at him though; I recognize that’s an irrational position to take; to expect anyone to do anything for you because you think it should be the obvious right thing to do. That attitude, that expectation, would just bring endless disappointments I predict; and it’s probably the number two cause of spousal disputes. The wife imagining the bond with her husband being so strong that they can read each other’s thoughts, and of course the husband’s not able to read thoughts, because, duh, magic isn’t real, honey, and then she takes offense to his condescending tone; I don’t believe in magic but I thought you believed in our love, in us, or something she’d screech and then go into a mini crisis because he bought the bouquet with the black rose on it or something, and then him being all why don’t you just say what you want! And then she wonders how he could be so ignorant and insensitive over emotions, and men are from Mars and women are from Venus and so on. Actually, the biggest reasons for spousal fights is probably over money, reality interfering with ideals, annoyances, boredoms and actions taken from boredoms and frustrations, and changing philosophies. Him feeling emasculated for piggish reasons so he does piggish things. Her reading too many books explaining the way things are supposed to be and realizing her life isn’t that way, and blaming the husband. I don’t know. I imagine if I asked Roger why he didn’t mediate a truce between me and Tess he’d answer with something like why didn’t you ask me to if that’s what you wanted, in this duh type attitude and I suppose he wouldn’t be totally wrong about that.

So anyways, I was a high school hermit, alone but for my daydreams, blowing my own bubbles of sadness I’d isolate myself in, encased in… whatever. When you get depressed you stop caring, stop trying, give up on working to wring out complex metaphors that might make any sense. My grades dropped because so what why care what’s the point we’re all dumb and death is everywhere and so on. Gray clouds cruelly swallowing silver linings, beauty hibernating… I’d end sputtering sentences in English assignments with dot, dot, dot, whatever, and the English teacher really hated that but I kept doing it anyways and I swear to god he actually drew a red ink frown face on the top of one of my papers and I pinned it up on the home fridge with a magnet and my mom or dad circled the “try harder” scribble my teacher had written under the frown face. He still gave it a C but later told me my works were slightly above par but he expected more from me. I think the only reason I didn’t totally flunk out is either because my teachers took pity on me, concerning Jan, or the male and lesbian ones thought I was cute still, despite being a total loner mope who no longer wore makeup.

They had all loved popular, bright, beautiful Jan. But they let me incrementally know through subtle then more obvious hints that they were becoming increasingly agitated with me; the highlight being drawing an actual frown face on one of my papers. After either my mom or dad had circled “try harder” on it I had scribbled tears under Mr. Frown’s two dot eyes and then mom or dad took the paper off the fridge, crumpled it and tossed it in the garbage.

The one thing I had to look forward to was that thing Candice had told me at the funeral about taking me on a road trip come summer. I didn’t believe it would really happen any more than a rational person believes she’d win 350 million dollars in the national power ball lottery, yet still like someone who bought a ticket, I held, faintly, some hope in the possibility. What lottery ticket buyers are really buying, more than the practical chance of winning, is the permission to daydream of winning, entertaining the ‘what would you do with 350 million dollars’ question. I’ve heard that a lot of lottery winners end up broke and depressed, overspending, giving it away, being reckless, being fooled by bad schemes and investments. Grandparents give some of their winnings to their grandkids who then have more money and time than they know what to do with, so they use it on drugs and then overdose and die. And then granddad laments that he wishes he had never won the damn thing. I’ve heard that happen a few times, I think.

I daydreamed of the road trip. Is it really happening? If it really happened would I be too scared to enjoy myself? Me, this lame-o dull dead fish flayed with these super cool firecracker cool college kids. Could I fake being cool? Cool is confidence. You can’t feel intimidated, hyper aware that you don’t belong, and still pass as being cool.

But the thing with daydreaming is that you can pretend to be someone other than who you are; someone who belongs with Seth-Rem and Candice and them, exploring America while looking cool and being cool, like you’re inside an extended Ralph Lauren campaign commercial; too much bliss, too much beauty, too much free youth unleashed, squashing all the doldrums, squishing all the doubts, blinding all unsightly blights; and look how fashionable and fun, this, and we all are, jamming across America, fists in air, laugher and tire squeals and endless sunsets and longing looks, stars, kissing, living in a music video in a Kerouac On The Road dream, in the moment, to later create from it all these masterpieces which would inspire wanderlust and a zest for similar quests, a similar awakening and acceptance of adventure and venture into the wide and accepting unknown, to go and to learn and to see and then to know, beauty, vibrancy, zeal, from life, for generations. (Maybe that paragraph didn’t make a lot of sense. On The Road was one of Jan’s favorite novels. Kerouac wanted to only spend time with mad impatient people who are like roman candles bursting, and so on. He wrote On The Road all in one sitting, so legend goes, sweating through his white shirts. Just endless jazz rifts. At times I’m sort of trying to emulate his style, which is why there might be these sections that just read as garbled bad poetic nonsense, because I’m no Kerouac. Still, this is all for you Jan).

Daydreams, daydreams, silly girl, silly daydreams, why bother studying, why bother with real life, loneliness, pain, seeing, over there the basketball players, the drama geeks, the cheerleaders, the artists, Tess and Roger, the choir girls and boys, the fashionistas; all building catalogs of stories that when later spilled elicit guffaws and laugher, making bricks from time to stand and climb ahead on, nothing can be built on the vaporous ether of only dreams, whispers in the head compared with defiant shouts outwards, and I’m over here, not at all happy or comfortable, being alone, heavy, in the dull dank dark replay of things, lightheaded in fantasy, the place to escape to, sail away, far away, might be love, might be life, might be a really good reason to live, might be light and laughter, daydreams, daydreams, silly dumb daydreams, silly dumb little girl, floating, floating away, lost, sinking deeper.