“I miss all you guys, I’m really looking forward to when we’re all together again.”
While rummaging through a closet in connexion with a long overdue commitment to clean it out, I came across a number of boxes with letters, postcards, car rental statements and brochures for cross country trips, along with various work related material, as I have outlined previously. Among those plant-based sheets that caught my eye were a few colorful letters, including envelopes with rainbow motifs on the front. On the outside of one from Lisa was the snarky comment “nice stationery, huh,” and on the inside the candid assessment above. There were letters and postcards from dozens upon dozens, friends and relatives, man and woman (there were only two recognized genders during the period of reference), young and old, including some electronic communication which was in my possession by (big, bad) mistake, such as this frantic tirade and concise response:
“Apologies in advance for the epic nature of this email, but if Alex is out then I’m afraid I am too….if this is to work we all have to work together to make it happen. Alex has only my best interests at heart and is doing the whole project for free. He was excited to do it …and then he was sacked just as the project was finally starting to feel like it was coming together … now it’s all such a mess and I’m the one whose face is on it looking like a clown ! Was really frustrating to witness as I would have thought they would have thought it through first … never mind use someone’s precious instrument without asking.”
Thank you for sharing, QED and love DC, I will always remember that no matter how bad things may get, there will always be at least one person who is certifiably “crazier than thou.”1
I was naturally drawn to Lisa’s multihued stationery, although unfortunately there were only a few of these needles in the haystack. The quote above was related to our splintering across the country once we graduated from high school and Lisa, to her displeasure and disapproval, was younger than us and had to wait until she was legally old enough to herself splinter.
However, every so often our extended crew would return to our rural home town when a long weekend beckoned. We’d gather at a restaurant or designated residence to share stories about our times away, and reminisce about the old days. She had the pleasure of formal membership in our crew for only two of the five years of its existence, and I’ve only ever been in touch with her for a small fraction of my adult life. Nonetheless, of the basis of my discovery I decided to see whether I could locate her on the internet, and as her name isn’t very common this wasn’t difficult.
It was on an “info@” screen that I said hello, and she replied within a few hours. She was, however, really busy with work, and thus for the first few days our back and forth mails were succinct. Still, I must still be as memorable to her as she is with me and as a result, she suggested we meet for an across the decades recap in place of the firm arrangement that didn’t happen decades ago, and didn’t happen thereafter either. The logistics for the proposed Columbus Day de facto reunion didn’t ultimately gel, but better late than never?
‘I can’t get out of here, though,’ I declared.
‘What does that mean?’ she asked.
‘It means I can’t leave, I have to stay here,’ I clarified.
‘Why, where are you?’ she asked.
‘I’m in London. England that is, not Ontario,’ I explained. Unbeknown to her when she made the suggestion, the recap would have to be across the water as well as across the decades.
‘Oh OK,’ she said, ‘we’ll have to do it by phone.’ She was apparently not expecting that.
‘OK with me,’ I consented, ‘who’s calling who?’
A short pause ensued, after which I took a turn. ‘OK, I’ll start, but when I can get out of here, I’m going on a big trip across the East Coast, and your town will be one of the first stops.’
I didn’t tell you about former high school classmates such as Lisa because I only just realized we lost contact somewhat before I found my first job; therefore, I told her this poignant tale. Thereafter, calls or email threads and chains would be open ended.
Standoff in the Village
One evening in the Village, bar hopping with three former college dormmates. We met at the Peculiar Pub, though that hole in the wall is its own legend. After the first couple beers we went for a meandering and directionless walk, to do some people watching. We strolled through Washington Square Park, taking in the chess players and roller skaters, and groups who were straight laced on the inside, but outwardly extrovert, or edgy, and barter traders. We landed on Waverly Place, facing north, and began to open up for proposals about where to go next, and whether to have a traditional dinner at Caliente, or fast food at the end of the session, burn the roof of your mouth chicken fried rice or souvlaki. Aside from me based in New York was Norm Chivas, intense as usual. Visiting from out of town were Doug and Russ. We were chatting and joking amiably and gregariously and avoiding the topic of where to go next when all life stopped.
Across the street was another group of four, though they were clearly fixed to their spot, intending to stay there and chat for some time before heading off to a party. They behaved in a relaxed fashion, whereas on our corner of Waverly Place we came across as transient and touristy. One of the group of heretofore presumed strangers was Scotty, dressed and carrying himself differently than I’d seen him before. Without asking permission, I crossed the street to say hello and he smiled as he always did, but the situation quickly became uncomfortable. I could sense the dirty looks behind my back from Norm, Doug and Russ, whereas the Scotty trio was glancing at him awkwardly. The conversation was necessarily short. I shook hands with Scotty, wished him a nice rest of the evening and walked back across the street.
‘He’s changed since college,’ Russ said via instant induction, implying I shouldn’t have done that, walked up and said hello, that he, Doug and Norm wished I hadn’t, and probably Scotty’s team felt the same. It was bad luck that we ran into them. Maybe he hadn’t changed, but rather ‘there were eternally two sides to him, and he only showed us the straight side at college,’ I tried to reason. He seemed different to me on the Pink Floyd night, but I didn’t take unusual notice, and this was the last time I’d see him, this accidental meeting on Waverly Place.
I later, much later, searched for what I could find about Scotty, from the web. Not much in the end, only a few interviews with his boyfriend at the time, his soulmate at the time, whose experience converted him into a full-time activist against the unjust. In one page view, his soulmate was gazing at photos and sighing with fondness at the memories, although he became dejected when he recalled the discrimination he and Scotty faced, even in Manhattan. When Scotty was sick, although he went by Scott to those newly met, he bore the symptoms associated with the disease, including drastic weight loss and facial lesions. They sat at a table and began to study the menu in one previously tolerant dinette.
However, as soon as Scotty picked up the glass of water in front of him and took a sip, a waitress ran over and grabbed the container, wiping it clear. She snatched the silverware and angrily threw it in the trash, before yelling at the couple “Get out!” while adding a “hateful slur.” In another, his special friend remarked that “with losing so many people to AIDS the reservoir of grief is so deep and so many people were dying, one after another, that we were never able to grieve enough.” Scotty spent the two visible years of his illness being cared for at home, because he couldn’t bear to experience the humiliation of so-called hospital treatment, with doctors and nurses afraid to touch him.
His partner suffered severe survivor’s guilt, but he had to endure, he had to outlast the scourge, in order to tell his side of the story and to act as the source of remembrance for those who perished.
I had to change the subject 270 degrees.
‘I should have grasped how good this job was for me, but when you’re in the midst of a battle, every little thing gets to you, and you can’t see how to get past it.’
‘No,’ she replied simply.
‘However, I did last a long time, I had a good run, it was the next job that was ill-conceived. A former colleague, a minor public figure with a good reputation, recommended it to me, and after I passed the point of no return in terms of acceptance, she cautioned that everything about it was wrong and nothing was right, and I wouldn’t like my new boss at all. Now she tells me, now she told me, when time has run out. It nearly set me on the road to ruin, and I can just about laugh about it now.’
‘Oh, do tell,’ she indicated, as if she was already able to laugh about it.
‘They were a bunch of pedantic paperclips stackers – no offense to paper, that is, or paperclips.’
‘You’re funny,’ she interrupted.
I should have said thanks for the compliment, but instead ‘I always was, if you’d been listening’ exited my mouth.
‘I was always listening to your dramas,’ she countered. ‘If you’d made an effort to tell jokes, ad-lib, make fun of people-’
‘While being non-malicious,’ I added.
‘Non-malicious,’ she continued. ‘If you made more of an attempt, perhaps you would have made me laugh more.’
‘You liked listening to our dramas, and they were dilemmas, not dramas,’ I clarified. ‘Should we have a break?’ I asked. ‘My voice is getting dry.’
‘Yeah, good suggestion,’ she said. ‘And I have to stop soon. I have to prepare for a client.’
‘And you can tell me about your clientele,’ I said. ‘When you have time.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘When I have time.’
My high school wit and dramatic self-restraint. At least I wasn’t resting on my laurels like the 1516 Beer Purity Law, or the person who discovered How do you get back what you once had when you realize it was what you wanted, and it’s now just beyond reach. How do you go back to the day before? They’re both resting on their laurels, and keeping the secret to themselves.