The Two Jakes
How to Stop Being a Loser, Step #4: Avoid What Will Make Your Eye Twitch. Namely,
Your Computer.
"If
you have to question whether or not you were in love with someone, then you
never were." Somebody told me that when I was 18. Ironically, he's the
same person that I question myself about on a regular basis.
So
at the risk of being dramatic, I was in love once. He was two weeks older than
me, spoke in a Southern accent with a slight hint of Cajun, and was perfect in
every conceivable way. Not just from a physical standpoint -- although he was
blessed in that department, with sandy blond hair, piercing blue eyes, an
effortless hard body, and a sun-kissed complexion -- but also emotionally and
intellectually. A pre-med at the University of Texas, he could talk smoothly
about anything, and when he would talk about me, I could feel myself
evaporating into disgusting lovesick goo.
Our affair lasted one summer, and despite a
brief reconnection during our winter breaks of school, we drifted apart.
Occasionally, I still smile when thinking of nights when I would bitch to him
about mean people shopping at Walgreens, or my brother hogging the computer,
and he would chuckle and say "Bay-bee", and I just knew that as long
as he was in my life, it wouldn't matter if my own hopes and dreams came true,
so long as I was with him, safe and happy.
Does
any of this sound pathetic yet? If not, let's make it so.
I
met him on the Internet and never once encountered him in real life, and
somewhere, deep in my jaded soul, I will always love him.
I'm
going to be sick.
Three
Years Later
seattleguy300: michelob
seattleguy300: kid? lol
seattleguy300: u look 12
hey_jakey: um, it's called moisturizing
hey_jakey: btw nice polo, non-perv
seattleguy300: thx
seattleguy300: nonperv? damn
hey_jakey: it is polo, right? ralph lauren?
hey_jakey: and yes, i am ignoring your
flirting
hey_jakey: in pro wrestling, they call this
'no-selling'
3
A.M. on a Friday night in August, and I am drinking in my room, cruising a gay
chat site. I never go into local rooms to try to find one-night stands. Yes,
that's because I live with my freaking parents, but even if I didn't, I'm not
nearly as interested in a lame and awkward hook-up as I am in meeting an
attractive stranger from far away lands, and delving into his life story.
Now,
before I go into details, I have to offer a disclaimer. Yes, people lie all the
time on the Internet, like the time I was 13 and went into an AOL Lesbian Chat
room with a story about looking like Morgan Fairchild and fighting an
unexpected attraction to my teenage son's bombshell girlfriend. First of all,
AOL lesbian chat rooms circa 2000 were almost entirely populated by horny
teenage boys. I'm sure the "lesbian" with whom I was sharing this
story was probably a 15-year-old boy in the Midwest using a dial-up connection.
Secondly, I instinctively knew with this guy, just as I had with the
Texas boy. It's a skill one eventually learns when perusing chat sites, copious
amounts of vodka be damned.
Jake
and I would chat online maybe three times a week. Our first conversation was
strictly sexual (what, you think people get drunk at 3 A.M. and surf gay.com
for intellectual wordplay?), but our discussions gradually became more
substantial. He learned that I had fucked up the New York dream and was living
with my parents, ringing up tampons in the ghetto to pay off my credit cards. I
learned that he came from a wealthy family, with a father who deemed him a
screw-up and a mother who "drank for a living". Blessed with the
strong jawline of a soap opera actor, his life was a Seattle version of what I
imagined that show Dynasty to be like, and I savored every dramatic
detail of it.
Despite
the fact that I had Jake's phone number and we had been chatting for months, I
never texted him until his October birthday. By no means was I plannng any sort
of relationship or dalliance with him, but I still recognized the importance of
not coming on too strong.
Besides,
I had told him that I wasn't going to fall for him. Our fake friendship was
strictly for entertainment purposes. To the former psychology major in me,
Jake's blend of arrogance and self-awareness was a mental wet dream.
"I
find these young guys and break their hearts," he said one night. "I
feel I'm doing them a favor. It's gonna happen at some point."
"You
like that they try to fix you," I analyzed. "God, two years ago I
would have been so obsessed with you."
"I
think you need get back to two years ago," he teased.
We
had been intermittently chatting for around four months, including talking on
the phone (he told me I sounded like Sarah Palin. I told him he sounded like a
stoner). Sometimes the subject matter was shallow, as I would bitch about
gaining five pounds thanks to my new mall job and its access to daily helpings
of Panda Express, and he would bitch about his cleaning lady accidentally
throwing out his vodka. Yet there were other times where we allowed ourselves
to be emotionally vulnerable to one another. I would confess that, underneath
all the wisecracks, I was insecure as hell. He would discuss drinking and
smoking his sadness and inadequacies away, and not being able to discern people
who liked him for himself from the people that only admired his good looks,
money and access. He was nervous about a job his father was offering him in
Sydney, worried he would screw it up or be marred by accusations of nepotism.
He was upset that no one was ever proud of him.
But
I wasn't falling for him.
seattleguy300: I've been thinking about you a lot lately
.... it's weird.
hey_jakey: okay
seattleguy300: I'm not used to it. A guy all the way in MSP?
Really?
hey_jakey: I know, you have sex in real life.
seattleguy300: lol it's not that
seattleguy300: it's just every now and then i'll think of
you and smile
seattleguy300: about this plucky little dude who is kind and
funny
seattleguy300; and makes me think about the ways I have
treated others
seattleguy300: and the way you look so adorable in those pictures
makes me want to kiss you
hey_jakey: aww
seattleguy300: and feed you marijuana cookies
hey_jakey; i will still aww
Before
that happened, he was talking about how he got a blowjob from a Russian cater
waiter and gave him a fake phone number, while I had talked about running into
Corey Cooper that weekend and managing to say five words to him. But I still
wasn't falling for him, despite the fact that I immediately looked up
"plucky" in the dictionary. It means brave!
seattleguy300: jake
seattleguy300: jake
seattleguy300: i want to be your ex-boyfriend
seattleguy300: Jake I know we're not going to be together or
anything
seattleguy300: But I think we will always be friends ;)
Okay,
so maybe I was taking pride in the fact that I was chafing away at his egotism
and revealing a sentimental side, much like the Internet version of a Kate
Hudson movie. But I would not be moved! I was still not going to be fazed by
him.
Wait,
what???
"Is
he actually coming to town?" Erin asked during an excursion to Cub
Foods.
"He
says he is," I sighed as I lunged for Triscuits, my go-to comfort food.
"I asked for certain days off, but I still don't know if I should expect
anything."
"But
you know he likes you," Erin reminded as she pondered a bag of cashews.
"You told me that in the first week, he told you that he wouldn't still be
talking to you if he didn't find you attractive."
"Yes,"
I blushed. It was in a pot-induced haze when he told me this bizarre
compliment, but I chose to believe it. He also once requested that I stop
talking about my gastronomical issues. I think he was the gay version of dudes
that think girls don't poop.
As
the first week of December grew closer, I began to worry about our eventual
meeting. So I started doing push-ups. So I Naired. So I made a reservation at
the iconic Murray's Steakhouse with the aliases of Michael Jacobson and Peter
Jacobs. And so, dare I say, I got excited, giddy even, at the prospect of
having a cute boy I could walk around with in public, or the possibility of sex
that was actually enjoyable and wouldn't require me to whisper the name of a
boy from Texas in order to keep from crying (oh, like you lost your
virginity in a magical way).
The
weekend prior to his scheduled visit, Jake told me he got arrested for public
intoxication and disorderly conduct. I still don't know if that truthfully
happened. What I do know is that on Wednesday, December 3rd, 2008, at 5:37 P.M.
Central Standard Time, I clocked out of work and promptly received this text
message:
jake i dont want to come this weekend. i have
too much shit going on. besides with me moving it wouldnt make any sense.
You
knew it was gonna end that way, right? And in a weird way, I did too. I walked
to my car and turned on the radio. I no longer had my iPod, as I had lost it
the previous summer at a pool party, mere weeks after I had moved back home.
(Learned lesson: Do not drink so much vodka in the afternoon hours in
order to make yourself feel less conflicted about hot 18-year-olds with great
V-muscles. Do not hop into a car just because they just happen to be in the
back seat, as you will be locked out of an apartment building five miles away
with nothing on your person. Do not borrow the cell phone of your high school
classmate's passed out older sister to drunk dial your best friend's former
geology lab partner. Do not later go home and drunk Facebook said former geology
lab partner. Do apologize to him in your memoir -- sorry, Ian McPherson! -- and
move on).
Despite
having no iPod to find a song to commiserate with, 101.3 KDWB responded
perfectly by playing Justin Timberlake's lovelorn epic "What Goes Around
(Comes Around)". "Is this how we say good-bye?" I asked out
loud.
There
were a few strange things about this experience. First of all, I totally should
have known better.
"I
am way too old for this," I wistfully typed to Aaron from Nashville.
"Yeah,
you are," Aaron glibly responded, and I could almost hear him snicker. Two
years my junior, Aaron was a Vanderbilt frat boy who lived and breathed to make
fun of me and call me on my shit. When he planned to delete his Yahoo
messenger, he told me a week in advance. His gesture was direct, honest and
caring, and yet his cyber-departure hurt and saddened me more than I could have
ever predicted. I spent an entire week listening to "Nashville" by
the Indigo Girls, because when your emotions are confused, the only thing that
can mend them is the wisdom of sagacious lesbians.
Secondly,
I never cried. There was no breakdown, no dramatic scene of me chugging vodka
in my room, cursing men and cursing myself for so loving them. In spite of
this, I knew my heart had broken. Heartbreak is like getting in a fender-bender
or being mugged. It happens to our friends and acquaintances, and when it does,
you respond with a smug sympathy. You feel for their plight, yet you will never
speed on icy roads, or walk home alone at 3 A.M., or allow yourself to be
emotionally vulnerable to a J. Crew model from Seattle who told you from day
one that he broke young gay boy hearts as a hobby.
The
third surprise was that I had no idea how difficult it would be to avoid
reminders of him. At work, our top competition for the annual corporate prize
was the store in downtown Seattle. Every customer buying a suit seemed
to be a size 40 Regular. If I were to ever help on the registers, a customer's
change back would always be $2.06. "Jake," my manager Lisa would
softly say, and my eye would twitch like I was being Tasered. How could I avoid
thinking of him when he had the same name as me? You straight folks have no
clue how easy you have it sometimes.
On
Christmas Day, my father and I went to the bar because we are heathens. After
my third vodka cranberry, I decided to do that thing where you only text one
person, but you word it so that the recipient thinks it is a mass text and it
is therefore less personal. I highly recommend it.
Merry
Christmas, kids, I wrote, only he was the only recipient. Two minutes
later, my phone buzzed.
Who
is this?
I
ordered another vodka cranberry (what, my dad was buying) and felt myself tense
up. You know who this is, you stupid fuck. No, I'm not the only boy you hurt
but I'm damn sure I'm the only 612 area code. Were you even planning on
visiting, or was it all a game from day one? When I get home I am going to play
"Heartbreaker" by Mariah Carey only five hundred times.
On January 3rd -- a month after my heart had
cracked -- I received a text while again drowning my sorrows at the bar with my
father. It should be noted that the bar itself was named Jake's Sports Cafe.
There was no avoiding this boy. I may as well have branded his name on my ass,
which ironically would be the closet he would ever get to it.
For
what it's worth, it wasn't anything you did. You're a great person. Happy New
Year.
"Who's
that, son?" my father asked, noticing my eye twitch.
"Erin,"
I lied.
I
shared this with my friends from my pro wrestling message board, since I don't
talk to any guys in real life besides family members, and they were always
worthwhile when I needed to hear a masculine perspective. "As much as I
would love to write something blasé like 'it's all good, kid', I think this is
the ending that I deserve; The ball ends in my court, and I choose to -- okay,
I really don't know how that metaphor works, because is that a sports thing?
The ball is in my court and I ... stop playing? Yes, I stop playing. And by not
responding he can know that I am walking off the court, saddened but not
defeated."
"Throw
it in his face," a young man from Ireland wrote. "The JERK."
"Stab the ball with a knife," said a guy from Seattle. Wes, another
guy from Seattle, offered personal bounty hunter services and promised to beat
up Jake if their paths ever crossed. Still, I was gradually getting over him,
and my eye twitched less and less whenever I heard anyone mention that certain
Washington city. I could even sit through an episode of Frasier or Grey's
Anatomy.
Two
months later, I took advantage of a free airline voucher I had courtesy of my
bumped flight from New York over the previous Christmas. I was clubbing with
Diva in West Hollywood, where I am considered to be hideous and disgusting.
Feeling pouty because nobody was hitting on me, and feeling tipsy as I was
drinking for two (being of Asian descent, Diva will order a drink to look chic
but then requires me to drink hers when no one is looking), I took out my cell
phone. Jake's number had long been deleted, but I had his old messages saved
and thus could still write to him. Besides, he lived in Australia and would
never see it. It was like sending an unsent letter.
I
finally made it to Hollywood. Be well.
See?
No harm, no foul.
A
month later, at the end of this tawdry tale, my phone buzzed.
Ha
... you are so weird but you always made me smile. How you doin', man?
No!
I would not respond! The ball had left the court, remember? But it was
his half-birthday. To say nothing would just be rude.
-Happy
half-birthday. No, really.
-Jake
...
-I'm
sorry. I shouldn't have bothered you.
-No,
you just remind me of how much of a dick I can be.
Five minutes later:
-That's
not an April Fool's joke, by the way.
Thirty
seconds later, rather oddly:
I
don't hate you.
A few hours later, he messaged me on Yahoo.
Like his phone number, I had long deleted his screen name.
We
had our closure. He had gone through treatment and wanted to apologize to me
(Step Nine). He was happy in Sydney and was currently involved with a Man
vs. Wild type of guy who was riling up Jake's blue blood with activities
like camping and hiking.
"I
was supposed to talk to you," he wrote. "I hurt you and put you
through a lot. It was wrong and I'm sorry."
"It's
okay," I lied, because I am a doormat. Despite the anger I had been
suppressing for the past few months, I was oddly speechless. It was like the
lyric in Oasis's Wonderwall: "There are many things that I would
like to say to you/But I don't know how." I told him this, then said that
life doesn't come in black and white, but rather in shades of gray, and it was
probably easier to vilify him in my head than it was to accept his earnest
apology.
"I
didn't love you," I made sure to say, and it was the truth. "And I'm
over it. But Seattle still does make my eye twitch."
"I'm
sorry I made your eye twitch," he said. He had apparently taken some
bullshit course on reflective listening, because after everything I wrote, he
would write "I hear that" or simply repeat me.
We
communicated a few more times, but it strangely became more painful. Our
conversations were no longer deep, but the kind you have when you run into a
high school classmate in the antacid aisle of Walgreens. Hearing about his new
boyfriend and sober life should have made me feel better, but it somehow did
the opposite. He had moved on and bettered himself, while I was still living
with my parents and drinking in solitude. I realized that while the boy owed me
an apology, he did not owe me friendship.
After
that debacle, I decided to no longer indulge in emotional affairs in
cyberspace. I'm over everything, and as a result, only the following things
make my eye twitch in remembrance of my former fake flames:
·
Texas
·
University
of Texas-Austin
·
Austin,
TX
·
New
Orleans
·
Metairie,
LA
·
Houston
·
Spring,
TX
·
Texas
Longhorns
·
Crawfish
·
Cajun
food
·
Linoleum
·
J. Crew
·
"You're My Better Half" by Keith
Urban
·
"Teardrops On My Guitar" by Taylor
Swift
·
"Austin" by Blake Shelton
·
"The Bluest Eyes in Texas" by
Restless Heart
·
"Girl" by Destiny's Child
·
Any ballad from Mariah Carey's Grammy-winning The
Emancipation of Mimi album
·
Osteo Bi Flex
·
Ford Explorer
·
Jack in the Box
·
Anytime Fitness
·
Epidemiology
·
Hurricane Katrina
·
Hurricane Rita
·
Houston Astros
·
Vanderbilt University
·
Nashville
·
Tennessee Titans
·
A swanky private high school in Tennessee that
I will not name out of respect for privacy
·
Sen. Robert Byrd (D-WV, 1917-2010)
·
Seattle
·
206
·
Alaskan
Airlines
·
Sydney,
Australia
·
Alcoholics
Anonymous
·
Winter
·
The
name Jake
See, I can clearly avoid all of these things,
and my eye will be just fine.
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