WE MEET AGAIN (Part Two)

Getting out of an abusive relationship brought an obvious sense of relief but the freedom I’d gained sometimes felt tentative. So many times during our final year living under the same roof—no longer technically together, yet still living side by side in separate bedrooms as renovations sloooowly got done—he’d pleaded for me to give us another shot. Those moments felt as out-of-left-field and (almost) as unpleasant as his abusive tirades. I’d finally broken things off; I didn’t want to think or talk about “us” anymore. I didn’t like having to sound like a cold, callous cad, as if I were responsible for everything falling apart. 

 

I moved to a rural area a ferry ride away. I could afford a house there, but my daily commute to work took five hours (two and a half each way). Most of the year, I only saw my home in daylight on weekends. The water between my ex and me wasn’t exactly a moat filled with crocodiles, but it created distance. 

 

His mother once told me he’d come over on the ferry and “staked out” my house. (Her words, not mine.) For six years, he would periodically send me emails—more apologies, more begging to get back together. This correspondence concerned me greatly. What might happen if and when he accepted the fact there was were no more chances?

 

I never deleted the emails, thinking that if he murdered me, the police would go through my laptop and find a trail that would lead them to him. (How’s that for dark?) I know that people who’ve never been in an abusive relationship would say I should have gotten a restraining order. Sometimes that does work. Sometimes it only enflames matters. I’ve read too many times about people being killed by an ex for whom they’d taken out a restraining order. In a variation of the Rock, Paper, Scissors game, rage beats paper.

 

I have no doubt he’s Googled me many times. I started this blog anonymously and created a Twitter account using a pseudonym, in part, so I could express myself more freely without him getting any personal updates. For all I know, he could read this post. (He works in the tech industry. There are always ways to track someone’s virtual footprint.) He would take offense to me portraying things as abusive. It’s easy for someone to do when their rages occur as blackouts. I once recorded one of his rages so I could play it back to him as proof of his Mr. Hyde side. I needed him to know how bad it was. I thought it would lead him to seek help. I cannot recall if he refused to hear it or if I decided not to share it. (I suspect the latter since my gut told me that the fact I had recorded him would only enrage him more.) 

 

Deep down, I believe he knows how bad things were.

 

When I moved back to Vancouver six years ago—I managed to sell my three-bedroom house to afford a teensy condo—I ran into him (almost literally) after just one month. I was jogging the sea wall on a sunny evening and there he was, standing, smiling and waving. I held up my hand—Was it a wave or a stop sign gesture?—and kept right on running. I’d escaped the moment, but he knew I was back. It felt like a bad omen. It was a big city, I reminded myself. There was enough space so that the two of us could coexist, our paths never crossing again. And so it went. 

 

Until last week. I’d gone to the gym and then ordered takeout pizza (lose some, gain some) to sit and eat at a waterside while reading a book. It was a gorgeous, sunny Friday evening. I hadn’t treated myself to pizza at my favorite joint in more than a year. As I walked home along the water, I was calm, even happy (a mood that is hard for me to reach). To head to my condo, I didn’t take my regular route, instead cutting through a courtyard I’d never passed through before. A man stood at the end of the walkway, looking directly at me, smiling way too broadly. At first, I didn’t recognize him. His face and body were a bit fuller—part of aging—and the sun was in my eyes. As we walked toward one another, his smile got bigger, if that was possible. It became clear it was him. My face remained stoic, a sense of dread surged. 

 

He wrapped me in a big, extended hug as my arms remained at my sides. I never let down my guard as he filled me in on his family and the latest job he’d lost. He’d called his female boss the c-word. “It’s not like I said it to her face. I texted it.” Somehow he thought that made it less offensive. It would never have occurred to him to pause before pressing the send button. 

 

He never stopped grinning. “I live here now,” he said. He pointed to a building within view. “Where are you living?” Answer: only a five-minute walk away. Oh, god. I didn’t tell him and he knew not to repeat the question. My pizza served as my exit pass. The box was empty—let’s just say it was an individual pizza—but I was carrying it home so I could recycle it. “I’ll let you go since your pizza’s getting cold. Yes, so cold. Just like my demeanor. 

 

Saved by a cardboard box. 

 

I’ll never walk down that walkway again, but I pass by the area, walking, jogging and biking multiple times a week. Now it feels highly likely our paths will cross again.

 

I don’t feel unsafe anymore. I’ve blocked so much of what happened. No amount of therapy can dig it up. Honestly, I’ve expunged so many specifics from my memory. It sounds improbable, but it’s true. It’s how I’ve recovered.

 

Still, in the next eight days after seeing him, he popped up in my dreams five nights. Nothing scary. Everything happy, with the two of us together, in love. Each time, I’d abruptly sit up in bed, horrified. Sometimes happy dreams are nightmares. 

WE MEET AGAIN (Part One)

It had been six years. 675,000 people in the city, there’s a decent chance I could go a lifetime without seeing some of them. That’s what I was counting one. He’d be one of “some of them.”

 

Of course, I had seen him before. For seven years, he’d been my partner. I was thirty-two when we met and I felt ready. We had nine months of pure happiness, followed by patchy flourishes of contentment. Between flourishes, there was fear, desperation, numbness and a lot of darkness.

 

I’d been pulled in—charmed, wooed, amused, and head over heels in love in the kind of fiction I’d thought made for a decent Go-Go’s song. (Okay, just YouTubed the tune. Super vague lyrics. Still, a song that always makes me smile. Just like love, or something like it.) When the first jolt of deep disturbance hit, I was already all-in. Surely, it was but a blip. Charm returned that evening or perhaps the next day, my perfect world restored. 

 

But that’s the thing with darkness. It can’t be contained. I have this image of a barn door, shut with a big, steel bar secured in a latch to ensure the beast within never gets out. The image works for four-year-olds, lying in bed, worrying about the bogeyman invading in the night. No, son. He’s locked away. You can relax. Sleep well. It works for other fictional demons. Real beasts can’t be contained. And, once they find a way out, they escape more often, regardless of amped up security systems. Just knowing escape is possible emboldens their fortitude.

 

My perfect partner had rage issues. It’s been seventeen years since I finally freed myself from that relationship, but I cried anew, typing the previous sentence. I had given my all. I had done everything you’re supposed to do to build a relationship. I’d been invested. I’d been honest and faithful. I’d been worthy. I’d done what I thought you were supposed to do, keeping hope alive, sticking together, for better or for worse. (No civil union or marriage. I knew deep down it wasn’t right. Not yet, I kept telling myself; relationships take work.) Every time he berated me in a sudden fury—never once did I see it coming—he’d recover. “I’m sorry. I love you.” For a while, I believed him.

 

Yes, for the final two or three years, I had lost hope. He’d seen a psychiatrist. He told me it was depression. He took meds for a little while, then stopped. I don’t think he realized how extreme his rages were because he never remembered them. This was blackout anger, not caused by drugs or alcohol, but by some faulty wiring within. His mother and his sister exhibited the same behavior. Kind, loving people…and then…

 

It was abuse. 

 

I learned to go to a place of numbness as he berated me. To counter or to respond in any way only stoked the already roaring fire. I would do my best to zone out, my inner voice chanting, “This isn’t about me. This is about him.”

 

I have great empathy for people trapped in abusive relationships. From the outside, it’s easy for people to judge and to find fault with the victim. (How is that helpful, dear self-professed kind soul of the world?) 

 

She should’ve left after the first time. (It’s always assumed to be a “she,” something that made it harder for me to feel even acknowledged. The fact that abusive relations are almost always discussed in terms of a woman being abused only made me feel weaker and more ashamed.) 

 

I would never have stood for it. I’d have left the first time it happened. You’d have to be stupid. (Great. You’re stronger. Again, so helpful. Your compassion overwhelms.) When people make that last comment, they have no idea whether someone who hears it is in the midst of an abusive relationship or has been in the past. The comment does not in any way empower; rather, it is callous and only brings more shame to the listener. As well, that comment in all likelihood means a person experiencing abuse will never confide in that person. Judgment has already been cast. Why would anyone think such a person could be a real support? Please, don’t ever say it.

 

In all the years I went through it, I never told anyone. It was partly due to shame, but it was more about not wanting to disparage my partner. Even more than that, I didn’t want to put a friend or relative in an awkward position. Many times, I’ve listened to friends in difficult (though not abusive) relationships which made them unhappy. They’d seek my advice. They wanted someone else to direct them through what they were struggling with: “Leave him. You deserve better.” I’d get pulled in. Yes, I’d tell them this. Then they’d stick with it. That always made things uncomfortable. I’d heard about grievances and misery and now I was a guest at their place, sitting down to dinner with the couple, everything coming off as rosy. The cycle would repeat and my advice would become more vague. When they’d ask, “What do you think I should do?” I’d put it back on them. “What do you think?” (Probably what I should have done in the first place. What I think doesn’t matter when I’m not in the relationship. My role was to be a good listener, to show empathy, to support them as they struggled with the process of coming to terms with what to do or not do.) 

 

Confiding in a friend about abuse puts that friend in a tougher spot. When it’s abuse, the friend is unlikely to just listen. The concern for a person’s well-being is apt to elicit urgent appeals. Get out! Leave him! If it were that easy, it would have already happened. If I’d have told a friend (which I didn’t) and continued in the abusive relationship (which I did), I’d have felt even more shame every time I saw them—I’m weak; I’m an idiot—things I already thought about myself, but now exposed whose judgment and/or disappointment would have been too much. (It was enough to know I was letting myself down.) In turn, my friend would continue to socialize with me and my boyfriend, my abuser. Maddening and unfair, it seemed, to my friend.

 

For a while, my partner worked in Seattle during the week. I came to hate weekends. Sometimes, when things were good, I’d almost forget his darker side. I’d enjoy the moment. It might extend through one weekend, even the next. Then he’d snap. Uncontrolled rage. Vile putdowns to make me feel small (and—what?—build him up?). Much of what he spewed made no sense at all. 

 

“This isn’t about me. This is about him.”

 

“This isn’t about me. This is about him.”

 

He kept losing his job. (Guess why.) He joined sports teams and he’d suddenly snap with teammates, shocking and confusing them. Again, this came from a guy who was a charmer. I’d have to sit and hear longwinded rants about these bosses and teammates. His outrage was always thin on logic and I’d do my best to talk him down, pointing out the other side and, as he calmed, even noting the flaws in his perspective. In the end, I didn’t save those relationships, but I kept them going longer. He quit many teams but, being athletic, he’d pour on the charm again and get recruited by another team. Over and over again. 

 

When he lost the Seattle job and was back in Vancouver, I was getting my master’s. It got to the point where I’d cringe every time I’d pull up to the house and see his car out front. I’d often go for a drive to delay seeing him. Sometimes I’d head upstairs to our home office. So busy. Lots of student marking to do. A massive assignment for a course was coming due. Often, he’d give me space. Other times, I’d hide out at the university. One of the libraries was open till midnight and I’d stay until closing. He’d be asleep when I’d get home.

 

In those last years—we were “together” for seven—I thought about leaving every single day. I feared how he’d react. I didn’t know where I’d live. The Vancouver market is ridiculously expensive and I couldn’t afford anything on my own. I had a wonderful career and moving to an affordable place like Winnipeg seemed like more punishment, leaving behind all the connections, goodwill and credibility I’d built up. We had two dogs and finding a place to rent would be difficult. (I was constantly looking.) My greatest fear was that he’d fight to have one of the dogs. I absolutely could not allow that to happen. I have never loved any being as much as I loved my two schnauzers. When we got the first dog, two years into the relationship, I made sure I paid every single vet bill (and there were so many as he had all sorts of special needs which is why he was surrendered to the SPCA in the first place). The second dog, a pup we got three years later, came at my partner’s insistence. It was his ploy to keep the relationship going, much like when some couples decide on another baby to save their marriage. It was the second dog I feared I’d lose if I ended things. (Again, I paid every single bill.)

 

When I finally broke up, I was still stuck. Our historic, hundred-year-old home was in the midst of a renovation from hell. Everything was taken down to the studs and, in addition to a barrage of structural issues, we kept losing contractors. (Again, guess why.) The house was unsellable in its stripped-down state. There was no way I could afford to pay my half of the mortgage plus rent on another place. We continued to live under the same roof for fourteen more months. (Thankfully, he got a job in Toronto for part of that time and came home less frequently but, of course, he lost that job, too.) When we finally put the house up for sale, we had multiple offers. I’d put so much care into renovation decisions, particularly regarding the kitchen, creating a dream home that wouldn’t be mine. I was at my family’s cottage in Ontario when the papers had to be signed and my real estate agent called to say my partner refused to sign the documents. When I called him, he was still begging for me to give us another try. Sign the papers! To my relief, he did. 

 

Finally, I was free.  

And in a city as big as Vancouver, I hoped I'd never see him again.

ABOUT THAT "COFFEE"

Just a quick update on that awkward new friendship that’s been brewing in my building, the one with that married guy who seems to drop many hints about being queer and possibly interested in me…

 

We went for that coffee on Friday. And it was just coffee—cappuccino for him, iced decaf oat milk latte for me. It was a good thing when I began worrying more about the barista understanding my order than about Damien’s agenda.  

 

I decided to stop being so passive. I don’t mean I was direct or anything; rather I was less passive. I’d feared he’d text me Friday morning with a “Hey, I just brewed a fresh pot. Why don’t you just pop by?” To avoid that possibility, I texted him on Tuesday: “What time do you want to grab coffee on Friday? I’d like to try that café by the seawall which you had mentioned.” 

 

He didn’t reply for twenty-four hours. I worried a bit—progress since normally I worry a lot. Maybe I’d lost a potential friend. Some people don’t respond will to “let’s be friends” coffees. Would things be awkward at the gym? What if he was hatching a new plan for coffee chez Damien? It would be easy to rent crutches and feign a sprained ankle. Would the café fall victim to arson? (Yeah, these are my worrying “a bit” thoughts.)

 

If he weren’t so imaginative and instead went with something lame-o like insisting I try some new espresso blend he bought, I’d stick with my sudden obsession over this café I’d never been to. “Oh, I really, really want to try that Italian spot. If we’re in luck, they’ll have Italian-speaking baristas who haven’t yet learned coffee terms in English.” Turns out that was the one way I got lucky on Friday.

 

For the most part, it was a harmless experience. Damien was a bit more touchy than I’m comfortable with, but I didn’t jump back in my seat and slather my arm in that ol’ COVID mainstay, hand sanitizer. He talked, I talked, we laughed, we had a nice time. Damien even texted within an hour afterward to say so. I didn’t respond in kind.

 

I think we’re close to being in the clear. There comes a point when a person realizes that a relationship is now and will always remain in the friendship zone. Usually it happens faster when I am the subject of interest. I have years of cluelessness and a solid reputation of He’s Not All That on my side. Every so often, that’s a good thing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHEN HE WON’T TAKE OBLIVIOUS FOR AN ANSWER

I’d recently written here and here about my puzzlement over a budding friendship with a guy who lives in my building whom I run into often at the gym on the first floor. He’s married to a woman whom he introduced me to a few months ago when we ran into each other on the street, an odd moment seeing each other out of the regular setting, maskless even. A quick hello, a hasty getaway on my part. Chitchat is not my strength. 

 

Damien is a likable guy and we’ve got some things in common so I always said “sure” when he suggested we go for a walk sometime. Still, I’d had some weird vibes, as though Damien might be interested in me. Silly thinking, I kept telling myself. I’m that sort of Guy Next Door who oozes niceness, albeit awkwardly, but doesn’t register to people in a possibly sexualized, I’m-Into-You way. In the past, I’ve wished otherwise, but I have to assume some kids keep fishing out my tossed fountain coins before the aqua-genies can make things happen. (It’s only one of the reasons I’ve gone cashless.) When we finally set up a time to go on that walk, I thought, whew, he’s not gay. After all, most gays I’ve known don’t follow through. At the very least, they’re never on time. He showed up on the dot. 

 

So, it was clear. Not gay. Proceed to possible friendship…with caution, of course, as my chitchat challenges could flub it up. And yet, throughout the walk, he kept dropping gay-leaning hints…a guy’s abs, his love of musical theater, comments over my fitness.

 

Okay, then maybe Damien’s bisexual. I don’t have any bisexual friends. It’s very possible that a bisexual man and a gay man can be just friends, especially when the bi guy is married, right? Even if there was any other sort of interest, I doused them when I explained that my fitness was rooted in an eating disorder. Not sexy. 

 

I know how to repel men; I just don’t know how to attract them. 

 

Since then, I’ve put off Damien’s suggestions we go for another walk or grab coffee. A month has passed. I’ve seen him in the gym a couple of times, but he can’t talk much on the StairMaster and I do my best to look especially focused on chest presses. I maintain that grunting is uncouth, but I can conjure one up the equivalent in one of those cartoon thought bubbles above my head. Damien texts now and then. I never initiate, but I was raised with enough social skills to know that a reply is in order. Keep things cool. Let that bi-gay friendship emerge slowly. 

 

Our second walk is on Friday and I’m concerned based on Damien’s recent texts. I keep telling myself it’s nothing, that I have no grounds for intuiting anything suggestive, but Damien seems intent on breaking down my act at being oblivious. 

 

FIRST RED FLAG: "Hey there. How’s life? We will find some time for that coffee. Gabi goes to Toronto on September 2 for a week."

 

Okay, nothing, right? Coffee when the wife is out of town is just because the guy’s got more free time. Nothing else at play. It’s fine.

 

SECOND RED FLAG: "Hey sweet friend. I have Friday off. You free for some coffee and conversation?"

 

No doubt, guys say “sweet friend” all the time to other guys. Good riddance, “Bro” and “dude.” The only reason I’m not familiar with it as a regular practice is because I’m not up on regular social exchanges between platonic male relationships, especially in platonic bi-gay friendships. It’s just Damien’s way of saying, Thank god we can drop that machismo shit. Should I be flattered (and perplexed) that he thought I had any machismo to drop in the first place? Maybe it’s from not shaving as much during COVID.

 

He’d suggested meeting for coffee and I replied my schedule was open.

 

THIRD RED FLAG: "Looking forward always. I am wide open too. Sans spouse."

 

Um, still okay. I guess. Must not read anything into the “wide open” remark or the reminder that his coffee will be away. Happy couples often look forward to a bit of space. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.

 

I ran into Damien in the gym yesterday. It wasn’t my regular time, but I had to fit in a workout before some dental surgery. 

 

FOURTH RED FLAG: "Happy thoughts with your laughing gas. Let me know if you need anything at all. Heal fast. Bjs."

 

Um…

 

What do I make of the last three letters? Did his phone fail to autocorrect “bye”? The j and y keys are awfully close together. Same for s and e.

 

I Googled “what does bjs mean,” and it turns out there are other possibilities. Sure, I had to scroll down quite a bit, but I found them. Could be the Bureau of Justice Statistics which is the primary source of criminal justice stats in the U.S. Hmm, possible. Could be Beaux Jardins du Soleil, located in what Wikipedia says is a commune in southwestern France, admittedly a random reference, but perhaps Damien was watching a documentary on YouTube. Other plausible options: basic job skills, British Journal of Surgery, a videogame called Battle Just Started, the Beloit Janesville Symphony (established 1954) or the code for an airport in Beijing.

 

Okay then, Damien likes a symphony in Wisconsin. There is so much to learn in the early stages of a friendship.  

 

If “Bjs” meant something sexual, it would have fit better before “Heal fast,” right? Maybe “bjs” means something else. Maybe Damien’s into K-pop and mistyped BTS, even if I can’t figure out why he’d end a text with an announcement about musical fandom. I replied with, “Everything went well, thanks. Glad it’s over.” Should I have tacked on “abba”? Maybe “sarabareilles”?

 

Good god, life taunts me. Social situations with people I don’t know well are awkward enough. I don’t need them spiked with additionally awkward elements. I’m bracing for a possible Friday morning text in which he says, “Hey, I just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Come on down.”

 

No, no. I’m way past the days of someone saying, “Wanna come in for a drink?” Okay, the only time I ever heard that was while watching TV but, jeez, I’ve spent my entire life being cast as the harmless Guy Next Door with the genitalia of a department store mannequin. For once, let me land the role when I actually want it. This is one week when I don’t think I’ll be saying TGIF. 

 

 

 

MEMORIAL (Book Review)

By Bryan Washington

(Riverhead Books, 2020)

This is the story of two young gay men, one Black, one Japanese, living together in Houston. They’ve been in a relationship for a couple of years and their future is uncertain. Going forward may be the easier option, but is it the right one?

 

Time doesn’t stand still to allow people to stop and assess a situation. In most cases, there isn’t even the space to permit two people to step into a bubble to talk things through, uninterrupted. There always seems to be other matters and other people to attend to. That is no different for Benson and Mike. 

 

Enter the mother. Mike’s. She’s flown in from Japan to see her son, but Mike hasn’t told her he’s flying out the next day to Japan to see and take care of his dying dad, from whom he’s estranged. This will leave Mike’s mother with Ben, at Mike and Ben’s place, until Mike returns, whenever that may be, if he returns at all.

 

If you’re like me, or basically any somewhat logical person, you’ll want to ponder that setup again. What?! Why would someone allow his mother to fly from another continent for a visit only to take off, leaving her with a boyfriend whom, by the way, she’s never met? Why, in fact, would he allow her to fly in from the country where he’s going? Sure, she lives in Tokyo and the father, her ex, lives in Osaka but, even without checking Google Maps[1], most of us know that Houston is a hell of a long way from either Japanese city. Who would do that to his mother? Who would do that to his partner?

 

You have to go with the premise. You have no choice…unless you wish to abandon the book and go back to watching reruns of “Friends” or pick up a different book about something more plausible, something perhaps with sharks that fly and humans that shoot bullets from their nostrils.

 

I chose to read on. Nostril warfare sounds too violent. Still, for a story in which I think author Bryan Washington wants you to like both of the main characters, Mike is starting off at a distinct disadvantage. I mean, what an asshole, right? Sure, he’s off on a noble mission to take care of his father, but he knew about the father’s situation before his mother made the flight. She’s the one who broke the news to him…while she was still in Tokyo! 

 

The dying dad is an acceptable plot point to separate the two men, to allow them to think about where their relationship is at. The de facto mother-in-law being forced to live with the boyfriend is an unnecessary contrivance. Why does she even choose to stay in Houston when her son bails on her? Presumably, she’s going to have to fly back anyway. Why would she stick around?

 

I do like “Friends,” but I haven’t gotten into watching it in syndication. I suppose I could’ve watched the Olympics. But I didn’t. I said, Okay, lame premise, I’ll stop questioning you and try my best to focus on what will become of Ben and Mike. 

 

The story is told in three large chunks, the first and final parts told from Benson’s point of view while in Houston and the middle section is Mike’s experience in Japan. I didn’t feel like the two characters’ voices were distinguishable enough, something that is a challenge for most writers. Different POVs (points of view) is a fun structure to take on, but it works best when the characters are wildly different. Both Mike and Ben come off with similar outlooks, ennui mixed with indecision, which happens to be a potent combo to create a sort of paralysis. Their relationship is just hanging there. Maybe it’ll continue. Maybe it won’t. Even a shoulder shrug requires too much effort.

 

It’s all stereotypically millennial. I don’t care. Or maybe I do. Why should I have to figure it out?

 

Indeed, why should I?

 

Unfortunately, it’s not just the two main characters who can’t truly express themselves. Every other character seems just as incapable or unwilling. From Ben’s father to both of Mike’s parents, to a younger guy who works for Mike’s father, they all live shrouded in cloaks with stenciling on the back that says, “Don’t make me say or do anything I might really mean.” It’s taboo for anyone to express any sort of fondness for anyone else. Of course, they do. Begrudgingly. Fleetingly. Not directly but snidely, gruffly, often through action that goes against surface statements that would indicate otherwise. If it were one character, a reader might think, Well, isn’t she a curmudgeon? When it’s everyone, the thought is, Why am I still reading this? 

 

It’s going to sound cheap, but I kept reading because I bought the hardcover book last fall, paying thirty-six bucks Canadian, a harder pill to swallow when the book jacket reminds me it’s only twenty-seven American.  The book had been resting on my coffee table, begging to be picked up but being ignored (and too rarely dusted) because I was inundated with all the holds I’d placed on books from the library while it was shut down during lockdown. My pickups at the Have to Read nook at my local branch kept coming, three or four at a time. Ignoring Memorial for so long, I felt more duty-bound to read it all the way through. All those feelings of abandonment it had, seemingly forgotten alongside a heavily faded New York Times article I’d cut out about men getting neck lifts…I had to make it up to it.  (I’ll blame this extended period of total and pseudo lockdown for the fact I’ve come to think of books as my sad clique, a group they, no doubt, never wanted to be a part of. There’s no point in scrutinizing whether my pre-pandemic life was any less sad or weird.) 

 

So, yeah, I stuck with the book, reading it until the end.

 

The strange thing is, despite having legitimate things to bicker about with Memorial, I did not hate the book. I suppose I liked it, in that same sort of begrudging way that some of its characters may have liked each other. I cared about Ben and Mike the way I care about relationships of friends that got off to a good start but now seem to be coasting, drifting aimlessly. I found myself rooting for the fictional pair just as I root for my friends. Sometimes having the luxury of a bit of distance from the epicentre of a relationship, one can see its continuing value and put aside the daily moments of dissatisfaction and the wonders of whether there could be something better out there. But then that distance of outsiders like me includes an unknowing as to how dysfunctional things may be. Washington gives us some insight. Things are definitely dysfunctional with Ben and Mike. Is what they have enough?  

 

I do recommend Memorial despite its flaws. We all know relationships like Ben and Mike’s. We all know of people who shrug aplenty, but never take a step. An ex of mine was fond of that crass expression, “There comes a time when you have to shit or get off the pot.” It’s the kind of thing one--or all--of these characters might say. Bryan Washington is a good writer. I’m interested in reading more of his work. With more life experiences of his own, I hope he’ll develop more varied characters and plots with more oomph. 

---

[1] Okay, I went there…to Google Maps, that is. Driving distance from Tokyo to Osaka: 506 kilometres. Flight time: one hour. Driving distance from Houston to Osaka: CAN’T DO IT! Physical distance 11,075 kilometres. Flight time: seventeen hours.

THE IN-BETWEENERS: What to Do after a Middling First Date

Bad first dates make for easy decisions. No thanks. Never again. Have a nice life. Sometimes I’ve meant that last part; sometimes I’ve thought he doesn’t deserve the sentiment.

 

A bad date is not a total loss. It makes for a story to tell my friend Ron when we meet next for pizza. (Poor Ron.) He professes to have zero interest in dating but has politely listened for years to my dating adventures--usually too dull to be true “adventures”. I tell myself that sharing a bad episode is his reward for sitting through talk about all the others. (I’m thinking I need to pay for his pizza next time. That might be a better reward.) 

 

Bad dates also make for fun blog posts, my one-sided smears of a perhaps misunderstood man becoming a distracting read for three or four people who might say to themselves, “Thank god he got away from that one.” No need to probe whether the “he” in that thought is me or the other guy.

 

Good dates also have predictable follow-ups. Of course, I’m going to send another message…unless he, fingers crossed, messages me first, preferably before I even get home. Eagerness is sexy when it arises in the context of mutual interest. Sometimes the good date leads to a second date; other times--sigh--it leads to nothing. No reply. Checking my inbox on the dating site dozens of times doesn’t change the result. Mr. Right becomes Mr. Out of Sight.

 

Sometimes I share this unfortunate episode with Ron, but often we just talk about the pizza crust. Ron is a foodie and can talk at length about crusts. I listen as intently as I can. I owe him that for having his ear when I unload about a bad date. I also often blog the good first dates that lead to nothing. I tell myself that stories laced with dejection, anguish, bewilderment and resentment make for a good read. Maybe it’s a pick-me-up for them. “Well, at least I’m not him!”

 

As for the good dates that lead to an encore, I share some and keep mum about others. The ones I’m tight-lipped about tend to be those I think might lead to something longer term. I don’t want to jinx things. I also don’t want there to be a trail for my 💖Future Husband💖 to read three years later. “What do you mean you didn’t like my flannel shirt? And what’s the big deal if I ate three-fourths of your scone after I asked if I could have a taste? The wedding’s off!” I get no credit for mentioning his puppy-dog brown eyes.

 

The hardest first dates to walk away from are the in-betweeners. Nothing bad about the occasion. The guy made an effort in picking a shirt without a ketchup stain (or is that blood…his or someone else’s?). He didn’t talk about his top five Trump rallies he’d attended in the past year. (Not even one!) Alas, a nice shirt and no professed affinity for a certain election loser do not suffice to constitute a match. 

 

When I mention one of these dates to Ron, he just keeps eating his pizza. He doesn’t ask, “Why don’t you go out again?” He doesn’t say, “I’ve had to listen to so many of these stories. Maybe you’re too picky.” He also knows not to say, “Perhaps you should look elsewhere for a relationship. Pizza will never let you down.” It would be a compelling argument. Bad pizza is better than most good dates.

 

Enter Mr. Saturday Night. (Technically, Mr. Saturday Afternoon.)

 

Our coffee meet-and-greet extended for ninety minutes. We laughed, he looked fine, he was nice. I really, really wanted to like him in that Carly Rae Jepsen kind of way. As I walked him to his car, the goodbye got cut off. Had this not been the COVID era, I might have hugged him but, even though we were both vaccinated, it just didn’t seem the thing to do. He stood in the bike lane, turned toward me, saying, “That was fun. I’d be into--”

 

I cut him off. “Biker coming!” I swear I didn’t plan that. He stepped toward me instead of toward his car, but the moment was gone. Further pleasantries were cordial but nothing more. “Thanks for driving out this way.” “Ride your bike safely home.” “Have a great evening.” “Take care.”

 

Pedaling home, I figured I’d message him. Nice guys--as I believe both of us are--deserve a second date. But my mind kept asking, Why?

 

I knew I wasn’t interested in him in a dating sense. He’s more like the type of guy I’d meet at a backyard barbecue, the spouse of a co-worker or a new boyfriend of a friend of mine. We’d chat for ten minutes and I would walk away to get a bit more potato salad, feeling very happy for my co-worker/friend. They found a good guy. And that’s the thing…I don’t tend to want to date other people’s spouse or boyfriend. Thumbs-up does not mean, let’s date if your current gig doesn’t work out. I can be happy for them, even happy for myself that I made it through a conversation with a stranger and it seemed to go well for both of us. We can chat again at next year’s barbecue. 

 

After a couple of hours, I logged onto the dating site. By then, it was clear to me. I was hoping there wouldn’t be a message. There wasn’t. Relief. The guy’s not gaga. (I quickly quashed feeling a tad insulted.) Next morning, no message. Twenty-four hours later, no message…not from him, not to him. Sometimes, after a middling date, this is the best kind of match. 

 

Nice enough…but not enough.

 

HERE I GO AGAIN--Part Two (Glass Half Full)

Okay, so logging in to online dating sites wasn’t all bad. I just needed to get what has always bugged me out of the way. I get frustrated because there are guys who, to be blunt, don’t give a shit. 

 

I’m single, I’m looking. I spent three minutes creating a 

clever name: HotGuy69j. Go figure that nine other dudes 

already thought as clever as me.

 

Well, I’m done. Just waiting ‘round for all the messages

to pour in. Love when guys send stuff like ‘how r u’. 

Again, so clever.

 

All right, I’ll move on. I assure you, I look away from literal train wrecks. Need to work on transferring the skill to the figurative world.

 

There were some decent profiles. Four or five caught my eye. Because the good ones are relatively few, I tend to feel a sense of urgency when I see one. Must message immediately! He’ll be taken by Tuesday, married by October! “Cheers to the happy couple!” And then I’ll have to cross my fingers for a quickie divorce. 

 

One of the guys lives about fifty miles away. Not normally an issue. I’ve had a long-distance relationship with a guy in Portland, Oregon (320 miles away). Right now though, it is an issue. My car is in another part of the province, waiting for a part to arrive from a place that is apparently the most remote spot on the planet, suffering terribly with no Amazon delivery service and a state-run postal system still operated by stagecoach, all of which are currently out of service, parts pending from the second most remote location, on a different continent, of course. I’ll spare you the car story. As you may surmise, it’s a LOOOONG one.

 

I’m too old to hitchhike. And too old to be picked up. I hereby forfeit my chances with fifty-mile-away guy.

 

Another guy lives about thirty miles from me. I could walk it, but I don’t like the idea of lugging a tent on my back. I like even less the prospect of putting up the tent on the first night of my trek. I know my challenges. It won’t transform into a tent and will only serve as a tarp to lay on a bench so I’ve something between me and crusty bird poop. Ixnay thirty-mile guy, too. 

 

This is all good. It narrows things down and improves the likelihood that Guy 1 and Guy 2 will be scooped up by other suburban gays. Let this be my sacrifice to allow more people in smaller towns to have a personal connection to gay marriage, sitting on either side of the aisle.

 

To put things in perspective, I’m more bummed that my car is being held hostage by a posse of conniving rural mechanics than about the fact I lost out on two men who were clearly marriage material. It would have been embarrassing if I were in a wedding anyway, having no one sitting on my side of the aisle. (“Really, Mom, how good is that symphony orchestra in your neighboring East Texas community of 10,000? And there will be other mah-jongg tournaments.”)

 

Bright side to everything, folks. 

 

Over the next few days of reactivating my Plenty of Fish account, several people pressed a heart button in the corner of my profile. Bing. New email! “HotGuy69c likes you!” Ick. Good thing nineteen other guys got button-happy, too.

 

This kind of action is slightly better than that whole secret crush phase from junior high or, for me, my twenties. Like, heart, woof, wink…it’s bland and easy, but it is, technically, doing something. 

 

Over to me then. Gee, thanks. I wasn’t feeling so invested just yet. Presumably, I was still getting over losing two Mr. Rights living only a %@$*!6# car ride away.

 

The minimal response to a like/heart/woof/wink is to do the same thing in return. So I did. Two or three times.

 

Ha! Your move, RicoSuave2! 

 

This was progress!

 

A day later, I decided to be bolder. I would send a message to one of the guys to whom I’d sent like/heart/woof/wink.

 

I see you and I raise you.

 

This could actually lead to a coffee BEFORE I get my car back.

 

Even before opening my laptop, I’d decided the person I would message: an accountant in one of Vancouver’s closer suburbs. I could bike it or take Skytrain, our quickest form of mass transit. 

 

You may be thinking, An accountant? Aren’t there any professional surfers or lion tamers or helicopter pilots? Where’s the excitement? What about self-made billionaires or wildly successful physicians? A free meal might be nice, right? 

 

Really, an accountant seemed right in my lane. Aware of stereotypes, he promised in his profile that he had a personality. He even led with a joke, a decent one even. He posted three reasonably photographed pics, smiling in each. Like it or not, Calculator_Wiz was getting a message from me.

 

I logged in and had a message waiting for me. A first. Someone had dared to communicate beyond a like/heart/woof/wink. 

 

Calculator_Wiz.

 

I braced as I always do before opening a message. I had to prepare myself for facing blatant grammatical errors and incomplete sentences, if there were, in fact, more than three words in the message. Sometimes it’s just “hey,” a slightly more attention grabbing version of a like/heart/woof/wink, but always a stunt that backfires. Really? That’s the message?! 

 

Calm and ready for worst-case scenarios, I opened the message. I glanced at a standard salutation and then words. Plenty of words. Enough to make sentences, each correctly punctuated. I swear I wasn’t getting aroused, but I did let go of the tension in my neck and shoulders. 

 

By god, there were paragraphs. In the right places! I may have been a tad excited…not like winning the lottery, more like being informed I got a free bonus play because two out of seven of my numbers showed up on the Wednesday draw.

 

That’s what I seem to aim for now. Two out of seven is a good day. It beats nothing matching at all.

 

Calculator_Wiz hadn’t written me a dissertation and he hadn’t dazzled me with wit and Pulitzer-quality prose, but he’d communicated. Clearly. Properly. 

 

I messaged right back. Never mind that old game where you’re supposed to wait XX period of time to reply. Calculator_Wiz seemed of similar mindset. And so now it’s set. Coffee. I can bike to the spot, maybe make it a long walk. 

 

Ready or not, dating world, here I come.