Tried to listen to the river,
But you couldn't shut your mouth.
Better take a little time to level out.
~Bright Eyes, "When the Brakeman Turns My Way"
"That's where you and I are different, I guess," said Andy, once again, relating the story of my life's tragedies to his thoughts on God. "I think it's a really great thing to say I don't believe, and I'm free to do whatever the fuck I want whenever I want."
As he finished his liberating claim of freedom, he motioned for the waitress—whom we simply called Casper due to her blinding white skin pigment—to get us another pitcher of Labatt's Blue. She recognized the gesture and set about to do what she does best, at least as far as we could tell.
"I don't know. I think it's dismal. I think it's depressing. I feel like I've been betrayed, and I see it in all aspects of my life. Not only has a hypothetical God hinted to me that he doesn't exist, but he also plays these sick jokes. If he does exist, I'm thoroughly unimpressed." At that moment, I took a swig from the previously frosted mug, and was very thankful that another pitcher was on its way. I was out of beer.
The crowd was a typical Thursday lunch crowd: a few bikers at the bar, a few important-looking business men sitting, legs crossed in positions I can't imagine would be comfortable, and a couple miscellaneous stragglers that didn't belong to a biker gang or a business firm. I guess we were miscellaneous stragglers. Casper was the only waitress on the floor. She was a good waitress, as far as waitresses go. I can honestly say that I don't know if I would or could ever find her physically attractive on account that I never really took the time to analyze her face. Her skin was just so, so…white. I never made it past the white.
And again I was disconcerted. Religious issues ate at me. I could never understand where Andy was coming from with his ultra atheist views. I felt like he understood Truth, whereas I only understood truth. In any case, I don't believe anyone will ever really have answers to questions that real people like ourselves ask, like why war? Why sex to make babies? Why is love needed to change the world when compassion works just fine? Or why the bathrooms here at the Blue Fox always smelled like piss? Both the ladies and men's. And yes, I've been intimate with both porcelain buses. Those were long nights.
Casper delivered our second pitcher, and Andy began pouring new glasses. "You've got to quit blaming all your problems on a God that doesn't exist, has never existed, and never will. You've found yourself in a shitty situation. So fucking what? You're gonna be a dad, a chance that some people don't have. You've always been good about handling this kind of hard shit. Drink and get over it. Cheers." He held up his newly full glass, and I mine. I think he poured a little more in his, but I said nothing. I also considered how unbelievably optimistic he would be if he were the dad-to-be with a girlfriend-that-was.
"Cheers," I responded despondently. We sipped, and I felt just a little bit better than before the glass hit my lips. "I feel like all this stuff happens to me all the time. No matter how hard I try, no matter what I do, something or someone always comes to bite me in the ass. I'm not saying I necessarily believe in someone controlling what happens. I'm just saying if there is, he's a big asshole."
"Get over it. Another thing you need to do: stop connecting all your life's problems to a bigger spiritual picture. You get so caught up in analyzing that you forget about the great and important things in your life." I said nothing again as I noted that he had been the one to bring up God when discussing other unrelated personal issues.
"I know. Analyzing is what I do, though. While it keeps me thinking and judging and concluding, it makes me feel important and sophisticated. I think things through when no one else will. I make informed decisions and act. And it's my dreams, too. I just don't know what to make of it all."
Three girls, at this point in our conversation, walked through the glass double doors of the Blue Fox. I thought I recognized one from an English course I took a few semesters ago. The name didn't exactly come to me, and I understood that she probably never made much of an impact in my life from that class. I'm not talking about a huge intro-level course, either, where you're surrounded by at least another couple hundred students in a massive lecture hall, but a more personal English topics class. Maybe Lacan and Psychoanalytic Interpretation of Literature? Maybe Novels and Poetry of the American Wild West? In any case, I didn't remember her name. That was that.
The other two weren't bad looking. Very girly. One was wearing jeans that a devout Christian may deem immodest. I'm not a Christian, though, or even remotely religious; hence, quite happy to see tight light blue jeans on a slim, cute figure. The other wore a tan mini-skirt with a tight t-shirt that promoted the name, I'm sure, of some obscure indie rock band.
"See, look at that," said Andy. "God loves us. What more proof do you need that life isn't all that bad?"
"This, my friend, is how you and I are different. They," (and Jesus, did I stress the they) "do not impress me at all. This is the issue. I'm unimpressed by things that everyone else cares about. I don't like sex. It makes me socially anxious and therefore very tired. I don't like half the people I know. I can't discuss the things I want with them. I don't like mini-skirts and tight pants on hot chicks. It's tasteless." That last claim might have been a lie. All in all, though, this was Andy's and my own philosophical war: he worries about social relationships and getting drunk girls naked. I worry about whether or not Jehovah's Witnesses actually have the correct religion. If that's the case, unless you're one of chosen 144,000, you're screwed. My luck, I'd be number 144,001. Or 144,000, with the rest of humanity pissed off at me for the rest of eternity because I was the last one in line. They should have been me.
"You need to get laid."
"I don't need to get laid, Andy, shit! It's not about fucking or even making love. It's about love itself, and I find it hard to believe in love of any kind. People get married and wind up miserable. Kids starve overseas. Love either fails or doesn't exist. I need to tell you about my dream." I went to take another sip, and my mouth found nothing. How had I finished that glass already? I'd barely touched it.
I continued as I very carefully poured my beer. My ex-girlfriend (ex-ex-girlfriend, actually) had recently got married to the guy she'd been involved with while we were together. We were together for three years, a first love, sappy kind of thing. She left when apparently I was becoming too "emotionally detached," and too "unlike the guy she originally fell in love with." Turns out, according to many of our mutual friends anyway, the guy's sex was amazing and he could actually give her orgasms. How's that for Truth?
I told Andy my dream about how we saw the two of them together at a local restaurant a short time after they'd been married. In the dream, I remember being belligerently drunk and completely unable to handle myself in public. Andy, myself, and other close friends were all acting like fools and doing something spectacularly awkward at the table (though I don't remember what exactly) when she and her new husband walked into our area of the restaurant. I remember noting the vast difference between my sobriety level and hers. I observed the happy couple, who were arm-in-arm, and elegantly in love. I quite vividly remember thinking: here she is. It's been four years since we were together. I'm sitting here at a family restaurant, Wednesday night, drunk, financially a disaster, with a different ex-girlfriend pregnant, and here she comes, strutting in, married, happy. It's dreams like this that make me question my religious and spiritual value, and scenes like this when I know some higher power is playing the most devastating joke of the Cosmos on me.
"It's a dream, man. It's nothing," was all Andy said.
"What are you talking about? It means everything! It's caused me to question what the hell I'm doing here. It's making me crazy thinking about where I went wrong, and what I should have done differently." It's true. I'm a firm believer that dreams tell all. Freud was crazy, but when it comes to dreams, I believe they can demonstrate a lot about people and how they think.
"Hey, do you know that girl over there?" Andy asked me. He was gesturing to the girl from the English class.
"Sort of, I think I had a class with her. Why?"
"She keeps looking over here. I think she's looking at you."
"She probably just recognizes me from class." Now that I noticed it, Andy was right. She was looking my way. She and her friends were seated three or four tables down from our own. I tried hard to remember her name. K something. Katie? Kara? As I was frustratingly racking my memory for any nominal trace of the familiar girl, we made eye contact. Eye contact always does me in.
I've always been the kind of person who tries to avoid unnecessary discussions or confrontations with people whose lives I have no business being a part of. I've never liked talking on the phone unless there was an issue to be discussed. Example:
Caller: Hey, Chad. What's up?
Myself: Nothing much. You?
Caller: Same. How ya been?
Myself: Pretty well. Yourself?
Caller: Pretty good. Just calling to see what you were doing right now.
Note the grammatically terrifying usage of the term "good," instead of "well," here. Had we been discussing issues of morality, or spirituality, or ethics, the usage of "good" would be perfectly acceptable. Such is not the case here and by this time during the phone call, a mere 10 seconds in, I've lost respect for the caller and his or her inapt ability to speak correctly, as well as respect for myself in allowing the conversation to continue.
Myself: Nothing much. You?
Caller: Same.
Pause here. The caller, sensing my disdain for meaningless verbal discourse, realizes that the conversation now will become awkward. Let's end it.
Caller: Well, take care. Call me when you want to get together sometime, okay?
Myself: Okay. Thanks, will do. Bye.
Caller: Bye.
You'll have noticed in this conversation, the caller really only asked the same question over and over again: what's up, how have you been, and what are you doing. Thus, I now have the daunting task of rationalizing a pointless and grammatically incorrect conversation in which a very small portion of my life was utterly wasted, and for no damn good reason.
This exact scenario may or may not have been running through my head as I saw the girl from class get up out of her chair upon our eyes meeting. I did remember her name finally: Katherine. She approached, and I prepared for the inescapable meaningless conversation.
"Hey, how's it going?" she asked. I thought about what it would be like to speak to this girl, Katherine, over the phone.
"Oh, not bad, not bad. You?" I replied.
"Pretty good. Chad, right? From Modern Biblical Interpretations?"
"Yeah, yeah. Katherine, right?"
"Mmm, nope. Emily, actually." I was a good five to nine letters off, depending on how you wanted to look at it.
The fact that this girl remembered my name, with myself completely crucifying any recollection of hers, was startling to me. While I knew that I could never truly care less if I saw her again after that last day of class, it impacted me heavily to know that she a) remembered my name, and b) remembered the class topic also. Had I done something for this girl in class? Had I changed her life in some terrific way? If I had, why hadn't she returned the favor? If she had, I might not be sitting here with my asshole best friend feeling sorry for myself and the pathetic situations I find myself in daily.
"Oh, right, sorry." I was sincerely apologetic. It upset me that she remembered me, but I didn't remember her. I was a bit jealous, I suppose. I don't remember names or anniversaries or birthdays. I'm a terrible lovemaker. I rush into things like relationships and job opportunities too quickly. I want what I don't have. I have what I don't want. I do okay in school, but not as well as the guy to the right of me, and I never pay attention to the guy on the left. I want these traits. I want to appreciate. Knowing Emily might be my foot in the door of new beginnings and fresh chances.
"Katherine is my good friend. We always sat together in class. She's actually over at the table." I looked over to the table, and sure enough: I vaguely recognized the girl with the tan skirt. I knew there was Katherine somewhere. I waved, smiling. She returned the gesture. "How'd you wind up doing in that class, anyway?" she asked.
"Oh, Jesus, that was a while ago. I might have pulled off a high B, I think. You?" I needed to quit ending all my sentences with "you?"
"A-, actually. I liked it a lot, I thought she was a great instructor. Little slow at times, but she knew her stuff."
"Oh, yeah, definitely. I actually had her the semester after that for another topics class. It was a little more exciting than the Bible class." I began trying to make meaningful conversation as opposed to otherwise meaningless. If Emily was going to save my life, I needed to portray confidence and pride—two character traits that were notorious for stabbing me in the back over and over and over again.
"Ya know," a buzzing Andy butted in, "you and your friends could join us. We can pull up this other table here." He motioned to the adjacent table. Apparently Emily and her friends thought it was a great idea, and the four of them, with me stepping aside, pulled two small tables together to make a cohesive group.
The rest of the conversations between Andy, myself, Katherine, Emily, and the new face, Jess, were initially quite boring and very average. We discussed topics like sex, of course, dating, music, summer blockbusters, and plans after school. These conversations I had sat through before, and now, thinking about it quite some time after, I learned nothing new that day about anything from any of these strange people I sat around the table with.
As these conversations progressed, two things happened. First, we moved onto pitcher #3. The beer tasted better and better with each sip. I started noticing other things in the restaurant, like the dirty, brown ugly quarry tile in the dining area. The tile was greasy and spotted. I wondered why I kept doing this to myself. Why did I continue to come to the Blue Fox? I don't like the food, and nothing remarkable ever happens here. I felt like I was wasted—not in terms of alcohol consumption, but the state of being good for positively nothing.
Second, things that were said at the table began to seem funny and entertaining. I might have even got in a word or two when the discussion topic was one I had not even the slightest interest in. These girls were nice enough, and maybe all they needed was a chance to demonstrate a charm that maybe I sometimes miss in people I meet and interact with for the first time.
I felt like it was gradually becoming the first conversation that I was comfortable with in a very long time. I tried and focused to not internally point out and reject cliché sayings, verbal linguistic errors, or hyped-up talk about fashion lines I'd never have enough money to speak about. We wound up ordering yet another pitcher and the appetizer sampler before our visit to the Blue Fox was done. Before I knew it, I was drunk, expecting the check, and tickled that I felt like, in the last hour or so, I had made three really great new friends.
The checks came, delivered by the right hand of our ghastly friend. Andy and I whipped out our wallets and the girls reached into their shiny expensive purses. I left Casper a handsome tip: four bucks on a twenty dollar bill.
We all got up from our chairs, and made sure that everyone else was okay to drive. Maybe we were and probably we weren't.
"Ya know," said Andy. "We should really do this again some time, it was fun." He was always so charismatic and charming and down-to-earth around not only girls, but all people. He always seemed to know what to say and when to say it. He exchanged phone numbers with them. No one really seemed to be interested in mine. I should have said more at the table, I guess.
"Yeah, definitely. Ain't that the truth!" replied Emily happily.
I noticed Emily had a great smile, but before I even knew what was happening, before even realizing what I was doing, I blurted out: "Now, do you mean truth or Truth?"
