Seeking John Galt

…is the scariest place I’ve ever been.  And I grew up in Jersey, yo.  I’ve been to Camden, and walked half a mile from a bar there in the wee hours.  I’ve been in the dressing room at Loehmann’s annual sale, and to the Fast Eddie’s in Jacksonville, NC.  I do not scare easily.

Granted, my arrival at said Travel Plaza (July, 2002) was preceded by the failure of my vehicle’s master cylinder on I-95 (northbound), while in the Fort McHenry tunnel.  For those of you unfamiliar, the master cylinder is essential to brake operation.  So I had to keep my car under 10 mph through the tunnel, through the toll both, to the exit, shift into neutral, and emergency brake my way into a parking spot, where I called AAA*.  I was, perhaps, not in the most calm or collected frame of mind.  Overwrought, even.

I called my sister, who volunteered to drive down and pick me up.  Returning to DC wasn’t an option, as I had a basketful of bridal shower paraphenalia (you know that stupid poem with the cereal and the Joy dish detergent?  that stuff) and was hosting said shower the next day, so I had to get to my parents’ house.

While I waited, with my suitcase and wicker basket o’ girliness and LSAT teacher’s manual encumbering me to the point where I couldn’t really move… anywhere, lest something get stolen, I was greeted by a man. 

He was thin, and though probably in his late twenties or early thirties, had turned fifty as a result of hard living in that way some people do.  He asked to sit across from me while he waited for his ex-wife to bring him his stuff.  He sat before I could think of what to say, and tried to make small talk.

Except, he kept falling asleep.  And then waking up, and excusing himself, only to return five or ten minutes later.  And falling asleep/passing out again.  At first, my naive self was too concerned for his well being to worry much about my own.   Was he ill?  Did he need food?  Water?

And then, it dawned on me.  Maybe he wasn’t… himself.  Maybe he had ingested something that might make him not only a danger to himself, but also to others.  Maybe he’d want more of that in the near future.  And maybe I looked like someone who might have the means to help him get it, if his ex didn’t show up with his “stuff”.

When one grows up in a relatively affluent neighborhood, recreational drugs are there.  Expensive ones.  But I didn’t go to those parties, and didn’t know what I was looking at, not for sure.  I made eye contact with every state trooper and local officer who stopped in the place - with startling regularity, about 6-8 in the three and a half hours I waited. 

My sister arrived in the middle of a torrential downpour, and took one look at me - still seated across from a semi-articulate, semi-conscious semi-ghost whose barely audible mumbling dwindled to nothing from time to time.  She grabbed my things, including the bag still strapped across my shoulder, and hauled me into the storm.  I can only guess she thought I’d be safer there.

Looking back, I wonder if I was ever in any real danger.  I kind of like to think that I wasn’t.  But I probably wouldn’t go back there unless another vehicular mishap steers me that way.  Frankly, if I need to sit across from a semi-comatose man for several hours, I’ll just have someone set me up with a guy studying for a bar exam.

*Yeah, I’m still proud of that.  IN the parking space, well within the lines.  Also, I’m proud of the fact that my cell (trusty StarTac, I miss thee) was charged AND the AAA membership was paid up.  AND of the fact that when the tow guy got there, and didn’t believe that there was anything wrong with the car, I made him stay there until the cylinder lost pressure again.  I know from broken cars, okay?

By a lot.  Taller, too.  By about 8″.
Had surgery a couple weeks ago - healing up nicely, but bruised and moving stiffly.  Not surprising for someone born in 1943 - also a Taurus.

I’m obviously not the milkman’s kid - height, hair, eyes, and nose come from his mother’s side of the family.  Put a picture of me now, next to her wedding photo, and it’s like I went to a costume party.

He finishes the NY Times Saturday crossword every week - usually in under ninety minutes.  He’s an engineer with an MBA.

I inherited his conflict-avoidant nature, and would probably also whistle “Danny Boy” when I sensed tension around me - if I had also inherited his ability to whistle.

We both love “The American President” - “If you were a dork, you should apologize.  Girls like that.”

If a thing is worth doing, it’s worth doing right.  This extends to applying butter to pretty much everything consumed - evenly spread to just the right thickness.

Does not need a ladder to drywall a ceiling, provided one of my cousins can hold the sheet in place while he walks around them, reaching up with the screw gun at regular intervals.  Brobdingnagian home repair, indeed.

Drinks Moosehead beer if it’s available.  I’ll have one with him this Sunday, standing in the warm sun on a mostly green lawn while he makes note of bare spots and contemplates the best fix.

Miss you, Pop, and I’ll see you Sunday.  Happy Father’s Day.

In the meantime, take care of you.

Love,

Kid #2

Vivian Ward:  People put you down enough, you start to believe it.
Edward Lewis:  I think you are a very bright, very special woman. 
Vivian Ward:  The bad stuff is easier to believe. You ever notice that?

Melvin Udall:  You make me want to be a better man.

I’ve had some pretty absurdly awful things said to me over the years - not just in dysfunctional romantic relationships, but by people whom one would normally think would never say such things (family, co-workers, and someone I thought was a friend, to name a few).  And for a long time, Vivian was right - the bad stuff WAS easier to believe.  And a phrase like the one above?  Coming from someone I cared about?  That’ll take some time for recovery - that’s just how I’m put together, I guess.  People I care about can get to me.  I just kind of have to trust that they’ll be careful with that power.  You don’t get to speak to me that way and expect to speak to me thereafter - I don’t care what it is you think I’ve done.

But today, ”Mr. Nobody” and I were talking.  This person is (1) very much in love with someone else, (2) a guy, therefore not prone to the usual meaningless female ego-boosting mantras, and (3) possessed of a tendency to be overly honest, if there is such a thing.  Basically, the perfect person from which to hear the following:

“Of all the girls I’ve ever met, you are probably the single best combination of looks, personality, and financial success I’ve known.  You are successfull in your career, you are very smart, you are kind, caring person, and you are pretty damn self aware.”

The compliment wins, for two reasons.  First?  I know that I’m not a horrible person.   Second?  His words have the ring of truth.  They aren’t sugary, there’s no expectation that the sentence will segue into a request for a favor.  It’s a matter-of-fact statement.

And THAT, gentlemen, is how you pay a lady a compliment. 

I was engaged when I was in college.  Whirlwind romance, yadda yadda yadda.  Because we (stupidly) got engaged so shortly after we met, our friends were pretty much the same group of people, and a big part of our social life centered around his fraternity.

Our sophomore year, he cheated* on me.  Things went to hell in a handbasket, and I broke up with him.  We agreed to try to be friends, since we couldn’t really split up the group.  Obviously, the girls were more sympathetic to me, the guys to him.  Still, I attended parties, with the understanding that I wouldn’t blatantly flirt/hit on anyone while I was there, out of respect and sensitivity.  I didn’t. 

But someone said I had.  Someone told the ex that I had been flirting with another guy all night, that I had invited someone back to my room.  A few minutes later, the president of the fraternity (whose girlfriend I was friends with) and another brother (whose girlfriend I was living with) asked me to leave the house.  I did. Publicly and humiliated, stunned, a little drunk, not entirely sure what had just happened. 

My girls came with me, including the abovementioned girlfriends.  They walked out, helped me home, got me water, and sat with me, handing me tissues.  It was awful.  I drunk dialed my parents, for crying out loud.

But that was then.  I’m not that girl anymore.  I know who I am, and what I’m doing, and anyone who has questions about either of those can come to me.  Anyone who chooses to listen to rumor instead?  Has only themselves to blame when they wind up doing things of which they shouldn’t be proud.

*His version of events might be slightly different.  And no, we weren’t “on a break”.