so very alone…

Before I begin the main topic of today’s post, I want to address the frustration some of you are bringing up about my being a “tease” in my last post. I am sorry. I don’t like the idea of holding back, especially with everything we did and talked about. And part of me wishes Jane didn’t know about this blog, because then I’d be able to be as open about this as I’d like to be.

On the other hand, if Jane hadn’t been reading this blog, I wouldn’t have ever been able to reconnect with her. It’s a weird Catch-22, and I’ve said too much.

Anyway, there wouldn’t be any news about Jane for this weekend even if I were able to talk about our developing relationship, because I’ll be out of town, visiting my sister for the weekend. It’s time to see whether our relationship is worth salvaging, which basically depends on her making some very obvious and factual concessions about reality and her insistence on deviating from it. I will also be prepared to make some concessions, such as that I was not entirely stable before. I’m still trying to decide whether I should make that concession in the form of an apology, or as a simple fact. To me, it doesn’t seem like I should have to apologize — it’s like apologizing for having had the measles. But I’m sure my sister will expect an apology, or at least some statement that amounts to, “Yes, you were right all along.”

Shit, I’m arguing with her already and I’m not even there. I know how this is going to end. Why am I even going? Maybe just to get it over with, once and for all.

OK, now onto my lunch yesterday with Mary. We talked about politics. I, of course, am firmly behind John McCain, because he won’t pull out of Iraq just because that’s currently the popular thing to do. I admire that kind of resolve. I also like that he doesn’t pretend like he has a solution to fix the economy (except for that gas tax holiday, which I think he was just kidding around with). Hasn’t anyone noticed that the President can’t really impact the economy? I mean, think about it: if the president could make the economy good, wouldn’t President Bush be doing so right now?

Anyway, I figured Mary would be for McCain too. Of course, with Mary, it’s not that simple.

Try to follow along. It won’t be easy.

Mary is publicly for McCain, since he is republican and she is an Evangelical. But even as an Evangelical, she has doubts about McCain. He is, she says, not a religious man. And his desertion of his first wife because she got injured, not to mention rampant adultery before and after aforementioned desertion, seem like they fly in the face of everything Mary believes in.

I told her these were the indiscretions of a younger man, and should not be counted against him. I am confident that John McCain does not cheat on Cindy. I wouldn’t, and you wouldn’t either. For one thing, she’s beautiful and I confess to having had lustful thoughts about her. For another thing, if I were her husband I would be cowed by her eyes. I suspect that those pale blue eyes are not human, but rather robotic, equipped with pale blue lasers that can set human flesh ablaze.

Mary didn’t think my joke about Cindy was funny, and remarked that Cindy wasn’t really her type anyway. I just assumed that lesbians would find the same women attractive that a straight guy does. I’ll have to take a closer look at what kind of images Mary’s hunting down during work hours.

So I asked Mary who she really wants for president. “Hillary Clinton,” she said.

My brain did a backflip.

“How is that even possible?” I asked. “She’s against everything you as an evangelical stand for, unless you buy the whole ‘working class protagonist’ bit she’s been pushing lately. Which is total bullshit, by the way, as everyone who doesn’t live in West Virginia can tell.”

“I know.”

“Is it because of her stance on homosexuality?”

“A little. Not really. I’m not coming out no matter what anyway.”

And then it occurred to me. “You’re not attracted to her, are you?”

She blushed.

So when I got back to work I tried to order a button for Mary from Hillary’s website:

Unfortunately, they’re no longer available.

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After I finished my quick blog update last night, I took the time to shower, shave (for the second time that day, which gave me a little bit of a razor burn), and change into clean clothes. (I wanted to mention, by the way, that since I’ve started the Celexa, I’ve lost nine pounds. I don’t think my eating habits have changed, but I have cut back on the drinking by a lot. So I’m back into my old pants.)

And I put some condoms in my back pocket, just in case.

On the drive over, I ran through a huge gamut of emotions.

Excitement: someone I had pined over for who knows how long had finally called me and invited me over.

Ambivalence: She hadn’t called until I had resolved I was over her.

Confusion: Was I over her for real, or not?

Lust: It didn’t really matter whether I loved her anymore; if I had a chance for sex, I was definitely going to take it. As someone who has had sex with exactly one person in my life, I am not interested in passing up opportunities to add diversity to my portfolio.

Curiosity: So why was had she called me? Certainly it wasn’t to find out nitty gritty details about why I had stolen her plant.

I got there, and she opened the door before I knocked, explaining that she didn’t want the neighbors to complain about loud sounds late at night.

I noticed she was no longer wearing the sweats, and that her makeup looked fresh. She smelled good, too.

And then she asked me if she could trust me. I wonder if any person in the history of the world has ever answered “no” to that question. I doubt it, which goes to show that it’s an extremely dumb question, since a person you shouldn’t trust will answer “yes” more readily than someone you should trust.

Anyway, I told her that of course she could trust me.

She asked me if I would promise not to write about our meeting in my blog.

I told her that I was surprised she even remembered that I write a blog. She said that she’s read it a couple times.

I have to say, I really hated the idea of her reading my blog. This blog is where I come to say exactly what’s on my mind, even if there’s egg on my face at the end of the post. I’d prefer to keep my personal communication and my blog communication separate.

So I made a deal with her. I wouldn’t talk about her or about our relationship (whatever the kind of relationship it either is or may become) if she wouldn’t read my blog, so I could have a place where I could say whatever I want (except about her, of course) without worrying about whether I sound like an asshole to her.

I wish I could tell you what we talked about (and / or did), because it was pretty interesting.

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Without giving away what time zone I live in, it’s definitely too late for a phone call right now. Especially on a work night. But I just got a call.

From Jane.

She asked me why I stole her plant, even though I’m pretty sure she knows why I stole it. So (and I cannot believe I said this), I said it would be easier to explain in person.

She said, “Fine, explain it in person.”

“Now?”

“Whatever.”

So. I’m leaving to go talk to Jane. More soon.

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I had my first recurring Thursday lunch appointment with Mary yesterday. And get this: apparently, I am now Mary’s confidante.

She explained why, but it took a long time and sometimes my mind wandered. In fact, a couple times I told her when she was starting to repeat herself or had already made a point. It is a freaky and wonderful sensation to find myself with the confidence to say things like this.

Celexa, I love you.

Mary explained to me why she felt she could confide in me. She was long-winded, so I will boil it down to the essentials:

1. She finds me entirely unattractive. I asked her if this wasn’t the case with all men, seeing as how she was a lesbian. “No,” she replied. “Some men are still somewhat attractive to me, but not you. No offense.” Of course. How could my feelings possibly be hurt by that?
2. I know her secrets. I know, for example, that she is a lesbian. I also know that she goes in for hardcore girl-on-girl amateur porn. And I know that she hates herself for loving porn more than her church, which she also loves.
3. I don’t care about her secrets. She sees me as being non-judgmental, but really I just find her secrets to be funny. Like she’s punching herself in the face while saying, “I wish I would stop punching myself in the face!”
4. She doesn’t feel obligated to convert me. With most people, Mary feels like she needs to approach every conversation with the end-goal of saving their souls. We have agreed that she will not save my soul, so she can now say whatever she wants.

We traded stories at first, until I realized she is one of those “toppers” — people who start their stories with “You think that’s bad? One time I….” Except she was more of a “bottomer” than a “topper.” When I told her about my brother and his wife and how I still get an erection when I think about our time together, she told me about her pastor (or preacher or priest or whatever — I don’t know the difference) and how she’s married and everything but Mary is still certain that she (her pastor) secretly wants her (Mary), and that she is both aroused and horrified at the thought.

I told her that I steal at Walmart because I’m good at it (I didn’t tell her about the getting caught part) and because it’s a good release valve; she told me she masturbates while watching Rachel Maddow on the Keith Olbermann show. I am not sure how she saw those two things as connected, but she sure did.

I told her that I once traveled to Vegas to hire a hooker, but then spent the entire time alone in my hotel room. She says she has gone to Atlanta for the same reason at least thirty times, because she figures she doesn’t have to worry about seeing people from her church there. Although she points out that she at least isn’t afraid to pull the trigger.

I’m tempted to share my Celexa with Mary, because I think it could help her. But I only have enough for me.

What caught me off guard, though, was that toward the end of the lunch, Mary asked me what she should do. She was that general. “What should I do, Harlan?”

“About what?” I said.

“About life.”

“I think you should stop punching yourself in the face,” I said. And I started laughing again, because it’s such a funny image.

I thought that would offend her, but she did a little ha-ha laugh too.

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Mary, the evangelical at work asks me a question about my relationship with Jesus practically every day I come into the office. I was starting to take it personally, until I notice that she spreads it around.

So you know how when someone keeps bugging you in a certain way you start thinking of what you’re going to say to that person the next time they do that thing? Well, last night I figured out what I would say to her.

And then this morning, when she asked me if I had “thanked Jesus for this glorious day,” I replied:

“I wonder what Jesus thinks about all that porn you look at during working hours.”

She walked away without saying a word, fast and stiff.

I consider this the proudest moment of my entire life.

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Today I finally met with my probation officer. My sentence is supposedly largely suspended, except for the two days jail, the fine, restitution, community service, and probation.

As before, I found that one of the great drawbacks of dealing with the justice system is boredom. I had an 9:00am appointment to see my probation officer, but didn’t end up seeing him until about 10:10. How could they get that backed up that early in the morning? Do probation officers somehow end up providing informal therapy, like bartenders or something?

Anyway, when I finally got in, after having spent a bunch of time filling out some forms (I had already filled out a couple that I got in the mail, but there were more waiting for me once I got there), I met my guy, and it turns out he’s unbearably chipper. First he wanted to explain to me his philosophy of "crime and punishment" (he actually used that phrase, though no air quotes or anything) and probation. He proceeded to fill me in on his view of the rule of the law, social mores, the justice system, and how I could use this experience as a stumbling block or a stepping stone. I could see why he was all backed up. Then he seemed to want me to do more or less the same. Which is to say, spill my guts, I guess. I felt kind of pressured to say something, so I said that I knew I had done something wrong, and I wanted to make it right. He was cheerful, but also, expectant. And? And…nothing else. He kept asking me questions to draw me out, but I wanted no part of it.

Because really, come on, you don’t go into this situation without wanting to do anything to get it over with and just move on. The weird thing is that I might have expected this kind of behavior from some fresh-faced kid just out of college with his social work degree or something, but this was a middle-aged man. He must drive his family crazy.

Anyway, when he could see I wasn’t going to play along, he finally gave up and we got down to business, which basically consisted of a) when do I want to serve my time (because as a non-violent offender with a weekend sentence, they want to work around my schedule) and b) what type of community service would I like to do. Also he gave me a chance to pay my fine and restitution in installments, which I declined. I chose to do the jail time ASAP basically. I have to call in to the county jail to coordinate with them, because I guess they get pretty crowded, and he gave me the 411 on that. How did I best think I could contribute to the community? Um, whatever, basically. He never stopped being chipper, but I could tell he was disappointed with me. Finally he just chose something for me: cleaning up trash in public parks. I have to do 80 hours of that on a work crew. He gave me all the contact info for that. I’m so excited. Someone pinch me.

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Driving to work today, I pulled up at a stoplight and looked across through the window of the car to my right. The driver, alone like me, was singing. It looked like she was enjoying herself, so I kept watching.

After a few seconds, she turned and our eyes met. She could see that I had been watching her sing in her car. Now, if someone ever saw me singing in my car, I would be so mortified I’d probably drive full-speed over the next convenient cliff, just to end the embarrassment.

But she just smiled, nodded, and kept on singing. She didn’t care if someone saw her singing in her car. Why should she? She wasn’t bothering anyone, and she was enjoying the song.

I would give anything in the world to be able to do that.

Isolation Score: 8.9

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I just assumed that B. and I would be going out last night. I mean, we’re in love. Of course we’d want to be together. So maybe I took her time for granted when I called Friday afternoon. “How about we go back to that great pizza place tonight?” I asked. And then, I assumed, back to her apartment for sex!

Assumed, assumed, assumed.

“I’m sorry, Harlan, but I’ve got other plans tonight; I’ve had them for a while,” Bertha said.

“Oh, OK, no problem,” I said, even though it was a huge problem. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing special. Going out with some friends from work. But one of them’s my manager, and it wouldn’t be good for me to change plans.”

There was something about the way she said it. The way she said “Nothing special” very slowly, with a pause before she continued, like she was stalling while she made up her story.

“I didn’t ask you to change plans,” I said.

I was being mean on purpose. I’ve been ditched enough times that I know when it’s happening. And I knew for sure that’s what was going on, because she didn’t acknowledge the slight or engage in a fight. She was too busy being relieved she was off the hook without additional questioning.

The only question is one I am afraid to ask her: who does she prefer over me?

Anyway, this morning I called her up and she said she had plans again for tonight. “Do I need to make reservations a week ahead now?” I asked.

“Don’t be an asshole,” she said. “I’m going out with some friends from my book group tonight. You’re more than welcome to join if you like.”

“Great. What time should I come by?” I asked. I knew she hadn’t expected me to take her up on it. What guy in the world would want to go with a bunch of women, all who know each other, when he knows only one of them?

“Come by at 5:45. We leave at 6:00.”

So I’m about to meet B.’s friends over dinner. I leave in half an hour. Unless I decide to kill myself first.

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I spent most of the weekend trying to decide which job I should take: the safe one, or the interesting one? It was not fun churning it over and over, because it’s not like a puzzle.

When you do a Sudoku puzzle, for example, you enter into it with the knowledge that there’s a solution (well, once I did one that didn’t have a solution, but I have to say that I still enjoyed the seven hours I spent on proving there wasn’t one. It was still a puzzle, just a different one than it had started out to be.)

My point is, life is unfortunately not very much like a puzzle, with an identifiable and correct solution. No, a more appropriate analogy for life would be that you’re barefoot on a rocking boat, wearing a blindfold, and you have to find your way from one end to the other. Except the bottom of the boat is covered with fish hooks, and every time you take a couple steps, a sailor on the boat either punches you in the kidneys or spin-kicks you in the solar plexus.

Except, at least in this one instance, my job choice has worked out to be a puzzle. And I’m fucking good at puzzles.

Here’s how it unfolded.

By Sunday afternoon, I was sick of thinking about which job to take. I was also, to tell the truth, sick of thinking of B. and Wednesday. By having sex with her, have I fully committed myself to her? Have we taken an important toward marriage, at least in her mind? Because I know for sure that I do not want to marry her. Except, right as I typed that, I realized that’s not true. I know that I want to be married. I want to relax and not worry about being alone anymore. And maybe B. is as good as I deserve. For that matter, she’s probably much better than I deserve. I know I’ve described her quirks, both facial and behavioral, but the truth is she’s been kind to me and has offered herself to me. That’s not something I should take so lightly.

I’m getting off track. I wanted to talk about how I solved the job puzzle. You can probably tell I’m kind of scatter-brained right now. So, Sunday afternoon, I went to the challenge court for some racquetball. I had to wait for a few minutes, watching a man and woman play (the challenge court has a glass wall). The woman was clearly better, and so it wasn’t a big surprise that the man left the court, saying, “Good luck” to me as I went in.

Her name is Janet, and she kicked my ass, two straight games. She destroyed me in the first game: 15-7. I started figuring out her style by the second game and closed the gap. She eventually beat me 20-18 (we were playing with the must-win-by-2 rule, I don’t think everyone plays that way). There was nobody waiting for the court after our two games, so we just swatted the ball around for a while, and I told her that I was trying to pick between two jobs, and I had to decide by the next day.

I have to say, it felt good to be able to honestly brag that I had to choose between two jobs. I explained the basics of my decision, and then Janet asked me a very smart question: “Why decide tomorrow?”

Yeah, why decide tomorrow? Just go into the small company and accept the job, but also call the safe company and accept the job there, too. Ask for a start date of May 1. By the time I get to April 20 or so, I’ll know whether I want to stay at the small company, at which point I could call the safe company and tell them I’ve had a change of heart. Or, on the other hand, if by April 20 I’ve decided the small company is screwed up, I can quit and go to the safe company.

Pure genius.

So that’s what I did. I sent email to the safe company saying I accepted the offer, and would like to begin May 1. I haven’t heard back from them, but most companies like starting employees at the beginning of months, so I expect that will work for them.

And then I went to work at this small company. It turns out I’ll be reporting to the company president, which isn’t all that strange when you consider that there are fewer than twenty people working there. And I won’t be in IT. My title is “Director, Special Projects.”

Which means I do whatever the president (let’s call him Devin) wants done. Devin’s one of those idea-a-minute guys, who has only a vague idea of whether his ideas can be executed or how. Most of his ideas have to do with multilevel marketing, with an emphasis on finding new customers via spam and short-lived websites.

Here’s the thing, though: so far everything he’s asked me to “look into” is ridiculously simple. They’re all things that other people have done before, and in most cases there’s open source code already in place. In other words, I am going to be able to be this guy’s genius go-to guy, overdelivering for him by doing about ten hours of work per week.

And here’s the best part: he asked if I mind working from home. It was like I had died and gone to heaven.

I have a suspicion (much more than a suspicion, actually) that I’m an under-the-table employee. I deduced this by the way Devin offered me an additional 10% to my income if I would take care of my own benefits. I told him it would need to be more like 20% and we settled at 15%. Also, I have not (and don’t expect to) fill out a W2 form. So I don’t know if I’m technically even employed. Maybe I’m just a contractor, but I’m getting a certain amount every two weeks.

So here’s a question: is there any reason in the world why I shouldn’t also take the safe job? I can’t think of one. I have a few debts to erase, and I think this could be an interesting way to do it.

Like I said, puzzle solved.

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I should state up front that this post may be offensive to some. It deals with matters of a sexual nature in frank language. If this kind of thing bothers you, you should stop reading immediately after the paragraph that ends with “Luckily, she loved the pizza place. Everybody does.”

You’ve been warned.

I was caught off-guard by B.’s assumption that I was in charge of what we’d be doing on Friday night. Since she had decided other times we’ve been out of what we’d do and where we’d eat, I expected I would be along for the ride this time, too.

I was wrong on that score. She picked me up around 6 and said, “Where are we going?”

“Wherever you want, I guess,” must have been what I said, because she made a point of saying something like “I want to do whatever you have planned for us. And what do you mean by ‘I guess?’”

To me, it seemed like she was spoiling for a fight, though in retrospect I think maybe she was just looking to see if I would take charge, which I’ve made a mental note to do. Anyway, with no time to plan and not a lot of money to spend, I made a brave decision. I told her what I really wanted to do. Which is, I wanted to go see No Country for Old Men (it’s still playing at a second-run theatre nearby, I’d seen it three times already), have a big tub of popcorn and a Coke while I watch it, and then go to a place I know of that makes the best pizza in the city. They bake inside a hardwood-fired oven, which gives the barbecue chicken pizza a smokey flavor that I could eat every day of the month.

A moment ago, I wrote the name of the pizza place, but then I Googled it and found out they have a website and that it’s strictly local (there’s one here, and one in an adjoining city), so I had to remove the name of the place. Which is too bad, because I would give these guys free advertising if I could.

To my surprise, B. had never been to the movie or to this pizza place, so while she teased me a little bit on my originality (”Movie and a pizza? Is there a more whitebread date in the whole world?”), she didn’t give me too much shit, because I had the courage of my convictions this time.

“No, not a movie and a pizza,” I said. “An extraordinary movie by the second best filmmakers of our generation, and the first best pizza in the whole world.”

“Oh, you really did put some thought into it!” she said. Which isn’t true, but I do stand by that claim. I really do wish I could tell you the name of this pizza place.

I’m not going to get into the movie experience except to say that it was like we went to different films. At the beginning, I was uncomfortable because we were holding hands, which seemed incredibly erotic to me: a woman, in a public place, unashamed to be showing me affection. I admit it gave me an erection.

But as any of you who have seen this movie know, as soon as you watch the first scene, you get sucked in. I can’t point to a moment, but before long I was carried away by the movie and forgot that anything else even exists. At some point we stopped holding hands, though I don’t know when, because I didn’t notice until the film was over.

As we were walking out, B. said, “Well, that was interesting.” And she put that little tweak on the word “interesting” that lets you know she’s being ironic.

I honestly didn’t know what to say. It’s a crushing moment to share something you love and find out someone doesn’t get it or like it.

All I could think of, as she drove us to the pizza place and talking about the movie with her wildly off-the-mark observations was, “I can never watch Lord of the Rings with you, because I would tear your eyes out if you snarked at that movie the way you are this one.”

Luckily, she loved the pizza place. Everybody does.

She drove me back to my home, where we made out. I honestly don’t know how far she was planning to go, but I started wondering whether this was it, and the thought made me ejaculate, even though I was still fully clothed.

I have never been so embarrassed in my entire life. No, that’s not true. It’s more accurate for me to say that I have not been so embarrassed in at least a month.

I excused myself, ran to the restroom, cleaned myself up, and returned. She wanted to go back to kissing, but my interest had waned. I am not sure whether this is due to the refractionary period, or to my lingering question, which must remain unasked, as to whether she had noticed what had occurred.

What if she had? Or (almost) worse, what if she had not?

Eventually she went home. At the time, I couldn’t have cared less whether she stayed or went. We haven’t talked at all today (Sunday), though, and I find myself missing her.

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