Abject Reality- First Two Chapter edits

XI

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Just what I had been afraid of. Two days before the New Year: 1997 and my best friend said I needed a new outlook, a new lease on life. So she dressed me up like a doll and dragged me off to the sketchy bar on the corner that we usually reserved for late night amusement from the comfort of our own third floor porch. Now she’d abandoned me to a club full of rabies-ridden college boys for the one halfway decent catch in the whole place. So much for fake Ids. On top of that, now I had to fend off the advances of one of these frothing-mouth assholes.

“Why? So I can feel obligated to let you walk me home? No thanks.” Before I could stop the words from slipping past my lips, Adam met my eye. He was supposed to be in London for the semester. He was supposed to be out of my life. I was supposed to be over him.

“How have you been Janie?”

“Sorry. I’m fine. How are you?”

“Well I’m a bit taken aback by your allegation, but other than that not bad.”

“I thought you were going to London.”

“I’m leaving in a couple of weeks. You know, I wouldn’t expect you to be here.”

“It was Carrie’s idea.” I tried not to inhale too audibly, but deeply enough to restore my shaken confidence. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re doing well. I should be getting home.”

“Let me walk you.” He grinned mischievously.

“I think I can manage the one block. Besides, you didn’t buy me that drink.”

“Well then why don’t you let me?”

I winced, knowing that I would let him. His bright blue eyes pierced right through me still, and there was always something about the way his glasses sat on his Woody Allen like nose that pulled me into unorthodox fantasies. A friend of mine once told me that there is a fine line between endearing and repulsive. I don’t know what it is about Adam that kept him on the endearing side, but a mere half an hour later we were back in our familiar routine: laughing, talking, flirting, touching. I pleaded internally with myself to stop, but the message was intercepted somewhere in between my mind and my fingertips, which were inching their way toward Adam’s carefully worn in jeans. I used his knee to steady myself as I leaned closer to him.

“I’d like you to walk me home now,” I whispered, slightly slurred, and regretted it before I’d even finished.

I woke up the next afternoon with a massive headache and an empty bed. When I went into the kitchen to scrounge up some nourishment, Carrie was sitting at the table with a mug of hot chocolate and a disapproving look on her face. I grimaced back, wincing through the pain.

“Oh, don’t give me that.”

“What? I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. It’s all over your face.”

“Hey, if you want to fuck yourself over again, that’s fine. Just don’t come crying to me next time he sneaks out in the middle of the night, non-committal bastard.”

“Hey, I’m the one that broke up with him.”

“Rightfully so. He wanted the best of both worlds. You to cuddle up with, and any other girl he could get-- and he’s a charmer-- to fuck on the side.”

I sighed. She was right, and I was in no mood to argue a losing point.

“Do we have any ibuprofen?”

“Top shelf.”

“Thanks.”

I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I knew he was leaving in two weeks, and he’d made it very clear that nothing I had was enough to make him a one-woman man. I wanted to think that maybe he’d changed, but that was impossible, we’d only broken up a month and a half ago, and his psychosis was too far embedded to solve in six weeks. Mine as well is apparently going to take years of therapy. I still can’t even look at another guy without instantly comparing him to Adam.

So I let my charade go on for two weeks, each night hoping that he’d stay until the morning. Maybe we could go for a jog or I could make pancakes. Read the paper together over breakfast and coffee, and go back to bed just to hold each other a little bit longer... But every morning I’d wake up to find that he’d carefully untangled himself from my sleeping death grip and made a safe and speedy escape. Three days before he left for London, I caught him in the act.

“Where are you going?”

“Babe, I have to finish packing. I’ve got tons left to do before Sunday.”

“You’re going to pack at…” I glanced at the clock. “Four thirty in the morning?”

“I have to get some sleep.”

“Why can’t you get some sleep here?”

“Because it’s not familiar. It’s not my bed, okay?”

“You’ve spent nine out of the last twelve nights here.”

“But not to sleep.”

“Yeah…”

“Oh come on, Janie, don’t pull this.”

“Don’t pull what?”

“You knew what this was, you knew I was leaving.”

“Yeah, but…” He was right, but there had to be something. Didn’t he feel anything at all? “Don’t you
feel anything at all?”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“For me.”

“Janie, you know I care about you.”

“But not enough.”

“What’s enough?”

“Enough to spend the night. Enough to stop sleeping with other girls. Enough to miss me when you’re gone for a whole semester in fucking London.”

“Do you think I won’t miss you? Do you think I haven’t missed you? The month that we spent apart was hell, but now I remember why I didn’t stop you the last time you told me to fuck off. Why I didn’t come after you when you got on that train.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I care about you, but we fall back into this too easily. This co-dependent shit isn't good for either of us.”

“Co-de-fucking-pendent? You think I’m co-dependent? Fuck you Adam. Get out of my house.”

“I was on my way, if you’ll recall.”

“Good. Have fun in London.”

“I will…” He turned on his heel, then paused a moment. “You know, I haven’t slept with anyone else
since that night in the bar.”

“Wow, congratulations. You kept your dick in your pants while all the little freshman girls were home for break.”

“God, Janie... I just... wanted you to know that. Goodbye.” And he left, without ever turning around or meeting my eye.


I

I remembered the first time I met him. It was easier than sleeping then, to just reminisce. Sometimes thoughts are all you can get. Sometimes it’s easier to deal with the idea then the person… sometimes it’s better, no fuss no muss, and there are nights that I look forward to those quiet moments between awake and asleep. Sometimes… sometimes I worry that I could be content with that. I wondered if maybe I was sub-human. Co-dependent??? Was I really co-dependent? Well he’d been gone three days now and I was still sleeping with his shadow, careful not to roll onto his side of the bed, where he couldn’t be bothered to sleep. Nine days of not sleeping there, and his imprint still remained. I was tempted to stack pillows there to sleep a little better.

The first time I saw Adam he was in the cafeteria, talking with a group of sorority girls. He was always surrounded by girls. It never seemed threatening somehow, though, as if I were being silly to even imagine that he would think of trying to nail any of them. Of course that’s how he nailed me… he snuck right into my comfort zone, and he didn’t even want in. He didn’t want me so bad that I couldn’t sleep at night without clawing my pillows and wishing they were him.

We met our second semester at school, at a party at a mutual friend’s house. “Mutual friend” is a rather vague detail. It was one of those girls that we both would say “oh yeah, I remember her,” but would never really be bothered to call up and see how they were doing. Even now, I can remember distinctly the vibrant colors of the apartment, the Pulp Fiction and Trainspotting posters adorning the narrow hallway between the bathroom and the living room, the prayer flags in the kitchen, Radiohead's “Fake Plastic Trees” pouring out from an open bedroom door. I cannot, however, remember her name. She invited Adam to the party because she wanted to nail him. That was not to be. In fact, I’m almost positive she never slept with him. That night, specifically, I know she did not, because I did. Not screwed, not shagged, not fucked… but for the one of the few times ever, slept with him—next to him at least, on the lounge sofa in our freshman dorm after staying up all night talking.

Despite having spilled most of my tequila laced orange juice on him (and the vague-nameless friend’s sofa), I was feeling a pretty heavy buzz. Enough of a buzz to want to take him back up to my double single and have my way with him. I held myself back then, somehow, between spilling my dinner and my thoughts and dreams, and after about a pack and a half of Parliament Lights we knew more about each other than anyone else at that party.

I knew that he was a chain smoker for one, but rarely when not in my company. I had the same affliction with him, and as such, much of our early relationship revolved around wildly flailing cigarette-laden hands in the middle of the night on one empty quad or another. We found a common ground in entertaining each other, and told rich stories of former “loves,” (neither of us really had any idea what that word meant), miserable classes, and unbearable roommates. We shared books, movies, music, and food. Soon, our middle of the night deviations led into daylight excursions to share in each other’s many passions. I introduced him to the wonders of tofu, and together we dipped into the many neighborhoods of Boston and Cambridge, seeking out the hole in the wall places that everyone talked about but no one seemed to know how to get to.

We toured the world in one week. Monday we went to India for Samosas, Tuesday we had Pad Thai in Thailand, Wednesday to Greece for goat cheese and spinach quiche, Thursday to Italy for wine and dessert, and Friday night we had sushi in bed with Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca. That night we made love for the first time while I introduced him to Sarah Vaughan. We had Summertime in the dead of New England winter and never fell asleep that night, just sat on the steps of our dorm, smoking our Parliament’s and staring silently at the full moon. We’d never run out of things to say to each other, but somehow none of them fit into that moment. It was big enough with just the two of us, inches apart, feet grazing each other lightly, as though making sure of each other’s presence.

When the sun came up he went back to his room and napped for the day. I went back to my room too, and stared at the ceiling for many hours. I made a list of all of the books, and movies, and albums he had recommended to me, and made him a list from me. I read Sexual Perversity in Chicago, watched Fellini’s 8½, and went to Newbury Street to rifle through crates looking for an old Nirvana bootleg. When it started getting dark out, I took a pill that the girl across the hall had given me to help with studying and a shower, and figured he’d be calling soon. He was sitting on my bed when I got out of the shower, and we spent the next twelve hours locked in my bedroom.

Two weeks earlier, however, on our first official date, both of us had acquired a nervousness that prevented us from even reaching for the other’s hand in the theatre. We had dinner at a hip café just across the river in Cambridge. It had recently been revamped, painted bright shades of cantaloupe and honeydew, as the formerly dark green cave-like walls were no longer “in,” the mourning period for grunge had officially been ended. We ate and drank quietly, as though we’d run out of things to say after sharing so much the night before. He was the perfect gentleman, holding the subway door so that it didn’t close on me, and then offering an old woman that got on with us a seat that could have easily housed both of us.

We decided to see what was playing at the Brattle Street Theatre, and caught this French film all the kids in my film class had been talking about. I was glad that he didn’t try to kiss me, I was so wrapped up in the movie, which turned out to be every bit as good as the too hip kids in my classes were saying. Two hours and three Kleenex later, we were on an empty late night train back toward campus. He finally got up the nerve to lace his fingers in between mine, somewhat unsure of himself, but I was sure enough for both of us. I rested my head on his shoulder, and could have fallen asleep right there. My mother always told me that was when I would know it was right. I was sure that Adam was “the one.”
We stepped off of the train into the deserted station next to our school, and in my three quarter length skirt and vintage shoes, I felt like Vivien Leigh under the skilled guidance of an older man. I was so lost in my own dream world, that when my heel caught in a subway grate and I lost my balance I almost missed him sweeping me safely into his just strong enough arms. In that perfect moment we shared our first kiss and I surrendered any chance I had of ever getting out unscathed.

We were much too much for each other right from the beginning. It was foolish to think that either of us would be bound to the other anymore than we could be anyone else. Looking back on journals I’d written at the time, I know that I was just that foolish. I believed in love for a brief moment, and that it really could conquer all, even two neurotic minds, manic depression and a fledgling speed habit. Then again, at 19 we all think we can have the world. It truly is that year, that odd year where nothing seems to change, that it all really does, right behind your back while your waiting with bated breath to be a grown up. It’s like when you’re 13 and all of a sudden you have hair where you don’t seem to remember it being. It had to have grown at some point, but it seems to have just sprouted up out of nowhere. My infatuation for Adam seemed to grow overnight and after I, foolishly, tried to trim the unfamiliar growth away, it quickly returned, more feverishly than before.

The first month that we were together was, I assume, much like anyone’s first month together. All we wanted to do was have sex and gaze longingly into each other’s eyes. Despite neither of us being virgins, we seemed to be under the unflappable impression that sex had never existed outside the context of “us.” It was our very own special discovery, our dirty little secret, and for a month I didn’t even tell Carrie that I was seeing anyone.

Our freshman year was my first time away from home, but like every other 19 year old in the world, I was sure that I was more grown up then the rest of them. I had my own dorm room (my roommate had left just late enough to secure me a single for at least one semester), a clear cut path to my dream career, and the perfect boyfriend. All of my pillars were in place, and I felt like a strong, solid structure. This was also around the time that I had started getting into pills. Some people call it crank, speed, meth, which I guess makes me a speed freak, but to me, it was Desoxyn, and to my naïve 19 year old mind, it was just something to help me stay up and study from time to time. Soon time-to-time became a daily ritual, and that’s where it got messy, and the girl across the hall with ADHD was no longer able to satisfy my need with a fraction of her weekly meds.

Two weeks after our first kiss and our first night together, Adam surprised me by taking me to see my favorite band, which I’d tried to get tickets for months earlier, at no avail. I remember, It had been a particularly neurotic, first month kind of week where I questioned everything about us and whether or not we would make it because he had three solid days of exams, so I didn’t see him and barely heard from him for that time. On the afternoon of the third day, at which point I was religiously checking my voicemail every hour on the hour in case I’d somehow not heard the phone ring in my nine by twelve high rise cubicle, he knocked on my door.

When I answered the door, he was wearing the same thing he had been three days earlier, and despite the fact that it was rumpled, messy, didn’t match, and smelled of three-day-old dorm room, it is still my favorite memory of him. That night answered any questions I had about us. As was customary of crowded club shows, we held hands to weave our way through the crowd without losing each other. Once we’d found a place, he rested one hand in the small of my back (it fit just right, like the two pieces were molded to fit together), and the other on my left hip, leaning a bit so that his chin rested just on the top of my head. He said I smelled like candy. He made me feel sexy and interesting and wanted and loved, and that was what my fragile writer ego needed. Similarly, his stage-hesitance (he wouldn’t call it fright, he wasn’t afraid), was eased a bit by a few encouraging words before and after a play reading or a stand up routine. I even set up all of my stuffed animals one night so that he could practice with a real audience. That night, at the club with it’s purple swirling smoky lights and clove cigarette air, we were the only one’s there. Crammed in to regulation like sardines, we felt like we were at our own private show. Speaking strictly for me, it was the most perfect night of our young lives.

In reality it was one of the many stages we shared. We were both performers, both artists, and both required too much attention to pay enough to a lover and ourselves. We liked the attention we were able to give each other for a short period of time. An affair of such intensity cannot last for long, however, and soon we were plagued with more troubles than our lack of experience had equipped us to handle.