Hiding from my Date

At a company function in the summer of 2011, I met a girl. To be more specific, my buddy and next-door-desker Hank convinced me to join him for the breast cancer charity dragon boat races on the Burlington waterfront. This isn't so much about that day, so suffice it to say, Hank, this girl, and myself had lunch and generally hung out all day.

This was all right before my diagnosis in late August.

After my diagnosis, maybe because of it or possibly in spite of it, I sent her an email and asked her to dinner. She said yes, which I now see was a bigger positive than I realized, because an email shut-down would've been the easiest of her life.

I met her at The Daily Planet, my choice; I thought that seemed hip, fun. I got there, looked around and grabbed a seat at the bar for a beer. I ordered a Wolover's Oatmeal Stout (sign of the times, and duh) and was a few sips in when she arrived. I don't remember what night it was, but it must've been a weekday because we were immediately shown to a table. 

I grabbed my mostly-full pint glass and we made our way to the table. Let me tell you, from my current prospective, smoothly carrying a glass full of liquid is a marvel. At that moment, as I walked staring at the sloshing liquid, I first felt the pressure of hiding.

You see, I never even considered telling her of my recent diagnosis. I didn't even believe it myself, how could I tell her, a near-stranger. 

Without spillage I made it to the table and our first date began. I think it went pretty well. I don’t particularly remember what we talked about. There were a few of those awkward silences, but you'll have that. 

After we finished I offered to walk her home, as she had previously told me where she lived. She had driven. I was dumbstruck. When I lived downtown I never drove anywhere. I thought, Is she one of those people who won't walk across a parking lot?! and was judgingly bummed. I should have thought nothing: Young woman would rather not walk alone across town at night, is not a story. I had a little aww-shucks moment to myself, walked her the twenty feet to her car, and said goodnight. 

I didn't try to kiss her goodnight. I of course thought of it, but the moment didn't seem right and it didn't worry me; I had made it through the night without embarrassment, that was enough.

Soon after I asked her to meet me for a drink after work. We met at The Reservoir, down the street from my apartment in Waterbury. Around 5:30 on a weekday, it was pretty dead in the bar. We got beers and she asked if I wanted to play pool. Normally I would love this, and I had spent a lot of time on the pool table at the Monkey over the last few years, but now things were different. I had played some pool with friends the previous winter, and found that my skills had evaporated.

And so I was very nervous about it, but of course I said yes. How could I say no? 

I set up the table and told her she could break. That would've been the biggest giveaway, at least in my mind, that something wasn't right. I could just see myself winding up and missing the cue ball completely, or grazing it just enough to send it into a corner, missing the entire rack. 

Together we could've made one passable pool player in that she could physically hit the ball but didn't really know what she was doing, and I knew what I wanted to do, but couldn't physically do it. I somehow made it through, excelling at the short, touch shots while struggling mightily at anything across the table. Just like what had happened to my golf game. 

We quit after the one painfully long game. Maybe she sensed my need for mercy. Or maybe she didn't want to watch my pathetic, awkward game anymore. 

If I can step back for a minute: It killed me (still does) to struggle at those little athletic activities that you do around regular people. That is to say people who are not experts at whatever the activity. Things like golf or bowling or horseshoes or ping pong or volleyball or anything really. I always did well in those situations. I had recently won a ridiculous cantaloupe-sized rubber band ball trophy in a Law and Compliance Dept miniature golf tournament. I almost fell over several times picking the ball out of the hole. I remember going down on one knee several times. I believe I won by four strokes. Weak competition. Weak.

Back to our hero. I mean fool. I don't remember much about what happened after that. I think she was on her way soon after. A quick drink after work didn't turn into anything more. Except plans for another night. Dinner at my place, oh boy.

Dinner at my place oh man what should I make? What does she like? I don't know. I make a mean mac & cheese, I know she'd like that. This is where the stupid, self-destructive Natty takes over. I could have bought the groceries the day before, two or three days before, but I didn't. I waited until the last minute and though I emailed her a heads up that I had to stop at Shaw's, I still made her wait in her car in my driveway. Smooth.

I grabbed my grocery bags and led her up the stairs to my door. I took them two at a time as I always did at that time. Forever I had been one of those people who ran up and down stairs, but I had adjusted to a railing-assisted two-stair approach on the way up. This is what was going through my mind.

I put the groceries on the counter, welcomed her to my apartment and excused myself to change out of my work clothes. I wasn't always one to immediately shed my shirt and tie for jeans and a hoodie, in fact I enjoyed wearing my work clothes out in the world. But I was all sweaty, also a new phenomenon after a day of sitting on my ass, so I applied a fresh coat of deodorant and changed my shirt, pants, socks, and underwear. Yes, I think I even changed my underwear.  

I reappeared in jeans and a zip-up sweatshirt because I was both cold and sweaty. So there she was in her sexy accountant outfit (trust me) and suddenly her date is dressed like a slob. It didn't really occur to me.

As I started to get everything together for dinner, I asked her to help me out by opening a bottle of wine. Quickly and expertly she had the cork out and had poured two glasses. I didn't ask her because I was busy with dinner. Having not recently used a corkscrew, I didn't know how it would go. In the years to come I would learn to hold the bottle steady between my knees for the uncorking. 

As soon as I put the groceries on the counter, mac & cheese stuff, bread, salad fixings, and the aforementioned wine, she asked and helped herself to a few hunks of bread. I was a little annoyed that she couldn't wait for my glorious meal, but she was "starving". I know I haven't given her a name, needn't worry, she has one. 

I got the mac & cheese going, which always seems to take longer than I expect. We talked about who knows what as I gave the necessary (constant) attention to my milk/roux. Needless to say I eventually finished preparing the meal and we ate off plates on my (legendary) blue couch. 

We ate quickly and before I knew it we were in post-meal couch conversation. One thing I didn't do, in that moment or all of the ones since we had met, was compliment her. I never uttered so much as "You look nice." As we sat on the couch and she could see that I was no closer to showing her anything resembling affection, she moved the conversation to tattoos, giving her the opportunity to show me hers. I don't remember exactly what it was, a math symbol or something decidedly dorky. I believe I actually called it dorky. Had she a hammer in her pocket she could've stood up, bashed me on the head and yelled, "That's not the point you thick-headed moron!" 

And it wasn't. The tattoo was on her side under her bra strap. She in effect showed me her bra and still I sat paralyzed. By nerves, by fear, preoccupied with hiding the fraud that I was. I wouldn't have to hide much longer, she soon made an excuse and ran out of there. I half expected a kiss at the door, what an idiot.

I never saw her again, at least not for more than a second in the hallway. I never had the chance to explain. No, I am not repulsed by you. I couldn't let you in. 

But it doesn't work

I often want the things I used to enjoy, I somehow think I'll enjoy them in the same way. But it doesn't work. I drink coffee and enjoy the mental buzz, but I sweat and I shake. I drink a beer or two among friends, remembering that feeling from so many times before, but it's different. It affects my body more than my mind. A drink or two and the muscles I still have give up and I feel even more like a lump of jello. I could go on, but really everything is like this. Nothing is the way it used to be.

Neighbors

There were a couple of guys that worked at the orchard next to my house in Monkton. I saw them every weekday in the fall, picking and loading apples into an old pickup and driving past my house, a couple of miles to the cider house. My neighbors told me they were from Jamaica. I always meant to introduce myself, say hello, maybe offer them a beer after a long day. I never did, mostly because I couldn't walk confidently into the orchard or converse confidently once I got there. 

Baffling

I'm continually amazed (and depressed) that we should be expected to side with the people who look like we do. The fact that it's newsworthy that a white man is standing up for what is right, baffles me. I don't even understand how there are sides to be taken. Stop killing people. 

Fooling Myself

You know when you watch a movie or past sporting event, or really anything where you know what's going to happen? And you still can't help but hope it doesn't happen that way? I think that explains my thoughts. 

I saw an Audi at one of the used car dealers in Hinesburg. It's a silver A3 wagon that's probably almost ten years old. I really like hatchbacks and wagons and it's much smaller than any wagon on the market today. And I find myself thinking, What are the chances it's a stick? And I want to go check it out. 

I do the same thing with Zillow. I look at houses and condos, the types of places I could feasibly afford and see myself in. 

For what? Everyone knows how this story ends. 

I had to look it up. It's a 2013, and incredibly it's a 6-speed manual. However it's front wheel drive; not interested.

Hermiting

I had a friend in high school who would jokingly call me "hermit" because of my occasional propensity to disappear for long periods for no apparent reason. I guess I've always been a bit of a depressive. It used to be more than balanced out with copious amounts of social activity. I no longer feel that balance. 

White Flight - Suburbia in America

White flight was the term coined for the exodus of white families from the urban core to the newly built suburbs starting in the 1950s and 1960s. It's a complicated issue and there were a lot of contributing factors both social and economic. The reasons whites moved away from city centers (such as minorities moving to cities to fill working-class jobs in the booming post-war economy, and the desire to own a home) are perhaps not as important as their ability to do so. The newly constructed suburban paradise was created for middle and working-class white families facilitated by federally guaranteed mortgages under the Federal Housing Administration which recommended the "prohibition of the occupancy of properties except by the race for which they are intended." It wasn't until 1968 that federally sanctioned discrimination in mortgage lending was made illegal.

To echo the words of a radio deejay in the ESPN film, The U, the federal government was saying "If you're black, you're not really first class."

My grandparents bought houses during this period, and I can't help but wonder how different things might have been for them, for my parents, and for my generation if they were denied a mortgage and the opportunity to build long-term wealth.

Most of this is fairly common knowledge. I didn't have to go buy an obscure book or dig very deep to learn of this. The history of any city in America or of the post-war era, discussing anything from road construction to the desegregation of schools will at least touch on the topic. 

If you'd like to read a short piece entitled The Dark Side of Suburbia, check out this link to Khan Academy.

You don't have to have black friends, or gay family members, or female coworkers to understand that all people deserve to be treated with dignity and respect. 

Privilege is having never felt the need to protest.

I'm Afraid that Nothing has Changed

On May 4, 1970, 29 members of the Ohio National Guard fired 67 rounds into a crowd of student protesters, killing four and wounding nine at Kent State University. For several days students had been protesting recent events (specifically President Richard Nixon's April 30 announcement of the start of the Cambodian Campaign) in the ongoing Vietnam War.

Killed were Jeffrey Duane Miller, age 20, shot from 81 meters; Allison D Krause, age 19, shot from 105 meters; William Knox Schroeder, age 19, shot from 116 meters; Sandra Lee, age 20, shot from 120 meters. All four were students in good standing at Kent State.

No criminal charges resulted from the killings. The State of Ohio settled a civil case including financial retribution to the families of the victims.

None of the victims killed or wounded by the government-issued M1 rifles was armed.