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There once was a boy…

There was this one time that I thought I was in love with a man. As it turns out, I had no idea what love meant and it dawned on me 4 year later that it was only a convenient relationship.  He was the "bad boy" that almost all women have always been attracted to.  No, not in the sense that he rode a motorcycle, had a man bun, beard, and tattoos depicting a bank robbery.  No, definitely not that.  He was the guy with one too many children.  And when I say one too many, I really mean six too many.  At 25 years of age, the 28 year old man I believed I was in love with had six children.  He wasn't Mormon or a devout Christian, in fact he shunned religion.  He was the man that charmed women, drawing them in with his infectious laughter, crystal blue eyes, and boy next door good looks.  The night we met we were at a train station in Oceanside, CA.  He had just flown in from Korea, and had ridden a train from Los Angeles to Camp Pendleton.  I handed him a Bud Light before introducing myself, and threw his luggage in the back of our mutual friend’s car. We made small talk on the 15 minute ride back to his house, and after dropping him off, I thought to myself, “He has six kids? He must be great in the sack then.” I wasn’t impressed, charmed or intrigued by him.  What I didn’t realize at that time was that he was broken, and he had come home alone for a good reason.

            Their first free night in Korea, he went out with his Marine unit.  They had been on a ship for weeks, and had finally made port in Seoul. After bringing their bags into the barracks, he and his buddies flipped a coin.  Heads for a nice hot shower and a nap without rocking back and forth, tails for finding the best bar Seoul had to offer.  After three failed attempts at getting the coin to land on tails, they finally said, “Screw it, we’re going.  Suit up Marines.  It’s time to show Seoul how we Marines party.” They found the closest bar, and chatted up the bartender, a pretty Korean girl who took an instant liking to the most outgoing guy in the group, Huckleberry.  The next thing anyone knows, James and the bartender have disappeared into the back room and there are two shots of whiskey for each of the guys.  The bar tab has mysteriously disappeared, and the unit is getting louder and louder, singing along to “Don’t Stop Believing” and “Sweet Caroline” savoring the little bits of home, even if they’re the most overplayed songs. 

Vendetta takes his two shots of whiskey and turns to his comrades to ask for a smoke but can’t quite get the words out.  He tries to make the well-known sign for smoking; two fingers tapping on his lips, but his arm won’t move.  He tries to look down at his right hand to see what’s stopping it from moving but is met with what feels like electric zaps shooting from one ear to the next, using his brain as a conductor.   He can feel his knees buckling, his body failing him; falling to the ground.  Huckleberry appears again, tucking his shirt into his pants, and catches a glimpse of Vendetta lying frozen on the ground.  He does a double take, not sure how to process the information his eyes are sending him.  He’s still feeling the high from his encounter with Soo-jin and can’t understand why his brother is lying on the floor in a bar in Korea.  He runs to Vendetta, yelling his name, unaware that V can’t hear him.  It takes him a minute to realize that V isn’t just lying there, he’s twitching.  No, he’s not twitching, he’s convulsing.  His body is undulating, head banging on the concrete floor.  “How long has he been here?  How has no one seen this!  Why is no one helping our brother?” His thoughts range from anger at his brothers to amazement that the human body can be so fragile yet volatile at the same time.  Finally, he remembers something that he read on a Facebook post, “If you, or someone you know suffers from seizures, make sure to keep the head protected.  Don’t let the person bite their tongue, or pound their head on the ground; it could cause permanent brain damage, or even worse, death.”  He turns V’s head to the right and tries to keep him from hitting his head on the ground by shoving his shirt under Vendetta’s head.  Rose, who was standing nearby watching everything unfold, called the corpsman from their unit and tried to explain what he was seeing.  The whiskey made his tongue heavy and he couldn’t quite get all the words right, but the corpsman understood the urgency, and headed over as fast as he could.

Vendetta woke up one week later in the military hospital, craving the cigarette he hadn’t been able to smoke. Before he opened his eyes, he relived the dream he’d been having.  He saw a line of shadow figures walking towards him, the sun shining awfully bright behind them.  They all held hands until they were five feet in front of him, and then the dropped hands. One figure continued towards him, right arm extended, as if she were asking to hold his hand to bring him forward; to introduce him to the group ahead.  He remembers shaking his head, trying to clear his head from the fog that had taken up residency behind his eyes, but it never completely faded away.  She cocked her head to the side, and smiled, telling him without words that it was okay; he had nothing to worry about.  He grabbed her hand, and took a step towards the group ahead of them, but suddenly they were pulled backwards.  He felt drawn to the present and told himself no.  He recognized that it wasn’t time to meet the shadowy group quite yet, and he succumbed to the pull of reality.  His eyes opened and for the first time in his 27 years, he had the uncanny feeling that he wasn’t alone.

The monitors told the doctors that he was awake, and they came rushing in.  It was hastily explained to him that he had suffered major brain damage, and his heart had stopped beating for three minutes.  They had pronounced him dead at 1907, but miraculously his heart had started beating on its own.  His breathing was irregular, only taking a few breaths a minute and they were sure that there was permanent brain damage.  His brain had swelled to 1/3 of its normal size and there was nothing they could do to alleviate the pressure.  Huckleberry had stayed at the hospital as long as he was allowed, but had to report for duty.  He had tried to call Vendetta’s wife and kids to let them know what had happened, but when he finally reached Maria, she was drunk at a bar and said she didn’t care.

Vendetta spent three more days in the ICU and was finally moved to the naval hospital, where he was medically discharged and sent home.  He sat at the airport, trying to call his wife to tell her that he was on his way home, but kept getting her voice mail.  All he wanted to do was hear the sweet sound of his wife’s voice, and talk to their three daughters.  He wanted to tell them that he was fine and that he was getting to come home early. He waited by the payphone in the airport terminal, hoping that it would ring and Maria and his girls would be on the other line, but the call never came.  Reluctantly, he boarded the plane when his name was called, and sat in his seat, not looking forward to the long flight home.  Twelve and a half hours later they landed in Los Angeles and he tried calling Maria again, this time she answered. 

“Hey hunny!  I’ve been trying to get a hold of you.  I had some medical problems in Korea and they’ve sent me home.  I’m in Los Angeles and should be home in about four hours because we have to take the train down.  Do you think maybe you and the girls could drive up here to get me?  I’ve missed you all terribly and can’t wait to see you.”

“Hmm…no.  That’s not going to happen.  The girls and I moved back home.  We’re not in California anymore, and we don’t plan on coming back.  I’ll be filing for divorce this month once I get a job and get my first paycheck.”

“You’re kidding right?  This is a joke?  I’ve spent over two weeks in the hospital and you’re telling me that you don’t care how I’m doing? Let me talk to my girls.”

“Why don’t you try calling later?  We’re busy right now.” And then Maria hangs up the phone without giving Vendetta a chance to say anything else.

            Four hours later, we find him at the train station, I hand him a Bud Light and say, “Welcome home! I’m Kandi’s friend.  Want me to throw your bag in the trunk?”  I assumed the bags under his eyes were from the long day of travelling.  I assumed his swollen eyes were from lack of sleep on the train ride home; maybe he got motion sickness?  He was grateful for the beer, and sucked it down before I had hoisted his bags into the car.  Kandi asked if I could drive since she had forgotten her glasses at home, and opted to sit in the back with her son, who had passed out in his car seat before we had even made it to the train station. 

Vendetta was quiet on the ride back to his house and I assumed it was because he was worn out from the day. I tried to make small talk, but his one word answers started to bug me after a while, and I finally gave up.  I turned on the radio and sang quietly to all the songs that came on.  I could feel him glancing at me after each song ended.  Finally I looked over at him and said, “What?  Do you have a problem with my singing?!  I can stop if you want, but I have to warn you, singing is like breathing to me.  If I stop, I’m probably going to crash this car and kill all of us.  So it’s up to you.  Let me sing and live?  Or make me stop and die a slow and painful death?”  The look in his eyes stopped me dead in my tracks. If I hadn’t been at a red light, I would have driven the car off the road.  To this day, I have never seen eyes go so cold.  There was no sparkle, no light gleaming from within; just an expressionless glaze where his soul should have been shining through. 

“A slow and painful death would be terrific right about now.  You obviously know nothing about me, so let me educate you.  I was dead three weeks ago.  Yes.  You heard me right.  Dead. Deceased. Lifeless.  I was out having fun with my buddies, and the next thing I know I’m waking up in a hospital bed with a headache worse that any pain I’m sure you've ever experienced, you privileged little twit. My right arm was swollen to three times its normal size because some douche bag didn’t know how to do his job and fucked up my IV.  My wife has left me and took our three children and moved back home to Michigan.  She won’t let me speak to them, and she was out partying when I was lying comatose in a hospital in South Korea. I haven’t had a cigarette in six hours, and I swear to God, if you sing one more happy go lucky pop song, I’m going to do us all a favor and throw myself out of the car into oncoming traffic.”

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That’s the man I thought I fell in love with.  He was completely and utterly broken, and I helped him piece together his life and his heart.  He needed me, and I guess a part of me needed him.  We spent the next four years together, building a life together, moving from one state to the next, getting pregnant, getting married, and after a still ongoing affair with his boss, getting divorced.  It wasn’t until I finally left the longest relationship, up until that point, that I grew into my own.  I’ve dated several men since Vendetta and I went our separate ways, one of whom was a pathological liar who broke into my apartment one night while I was sound (and I mean sound) asleep, and the other who worshiped the ground I walked on, but I just couldn't get into.

It wasn’t until after finally breaking it off with pathological liar boy, that my friend suggested I join an online ‘dating’ app.  She said I would practically be a lumberjack, and I’d be cutting down trees left and right, yelling, “Tinder!”  Or is it Timber?  I forget now.  After several months of swiping left, with the occasional right swipe thrown in for good measure, I finally came across a person who I found interesting attractive.  I intentionally swiped right and clicked on his profile. I needed more pictures of him to see what kind of guy he was.  Was he the type of guy who takes selfies of himself lifting weights in the gym? Or was he the guy cuddling on the couch with his cat and a glass of wine?  His tagline?  “I’ll lie about where we met, if you do! (-:” How clever he was!  A quick inventory of his pictures told me that he was a curly-haired white boy, played the drums, was interested in gardening, and could possibly be interested in me.  What did I have to lose?  I sent him a “Hello handsome! ;)” and a few hours later he had written me back.  At this point in time, I can’t remember specifics about our conversations, but I do remember that he was painting his house, getting it ready to sell, so he could move “home” which the rest of us know as Mendocino. He was funny and genuine and he made me laugh.  He also made me play truth or dare on one of our phone conversations, and a few days later when we ‘graduated’ to Skype.  He made me jump out of my comfort zone and some weird part of me enjoyed it. 

After a couple weeks of talking on the phone, I invited him over to my apartment.  My son was with his father, Vendetta, and I was feeling particularly adventurous.  Everything I know goes against inviting a man I hardly know over to my place, but there was something about this one.  This curly haired man who had the eyes of a puppy and the wit/charm to keep me laughing for hours.  He was normal and he made me feel at ease.  We played cards, took shots of vodka, swapped stories about ourselves, took more shots of vodka, laughed, and somehow ended up in my bedroom.  The rest of the night is an alcohol induced haze, but I’ll never forget how I felt when I woke up in the morning and looked over.  There he was, in all of his glory, sleeping next to me.  I knew that I’d probably never hear from him again since he’d gotten what he wanted, so I watched him sleep.

I tried to envision all of the events in his life that had led him to this exact moment.  I tried to sense how the salted air must have felt to his skin when he was running across the beach when he was six.  I imagined that he was my secret crush in high school, and that we’d run into each other in the market.  We were in the wine and spirits aisle of Safeway and were both pondering whether we should get the Zinfandel or the Cabernet.  He smiled at me as our hands brushed up against one another, grabbing for the same bottle of Ménage à Trois. He struck up a provocative conversation about where they came up with the name of the wine we both desperately wanted, which concluded in my inviting him back to my apartment to continue the discussion we were having.  We drank one too many glasses of wine and my attempt to show him my project from our junior year ceramics class ended up with us intertwined in layers of Egyptian cotton.

My daydream ended suddenly when his alarm went off. Was it really already 10 am?  It had been at least a year since I had slept past 8 am and I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself.  I didn’t want to look like a psychopath watching him sleep, so I closed my eyes as fast as I could, pretending I was asleep.  I heard a mumble and a groan, and suddenly my bed got lighter as he rolled out of bed to stumble to the bathroom. I attempted to wipe the sleep from my eyes, and to make sure I didn’t have any mascara under my eyes.  I wanted to be the kind of girl he wanted to wake up next to every morning.  When he came back into my room, after what must have been the longest piss in the history of man, I pretended to awaken.  I got out of bed and threw on last night’s clothes. I offered to make him breakfast, but since he was running a little late for work, I walked him to the door, told him I had a great time, and told him to call me. 

I felt like a slut for the rest of the day.  I knew that he wasn’t going to call me, because why would he?  I gave him exactly what he wanted, and if I were him, I wouldn’t have even spent the night. I spent the rest of the day kicking myself for sleeping with him so soon.  He was funny and we had so much in common and there was a desperate part of me that wanted to be with him.  Every cell in my body was anticipating his text message, but my brain was telling me to be realistic.  There was no way this guy was going to call/text. 

But wouldn’t you know it, he did.  He text me later that day, and eight months later, we’re still hanging out living together. I’m not sure how it happened, because most of it is a blur.  At one point, Vendetta and I tried to work things out, but after 6 days at his house, I realized it wasn’t going to work.  How did I know, you ask?  Because when we had sex, I rolled my eyes. It’s supposed to be fun, right?  I mean, sure, there are times when you’re not really into it…but you do it because you crave that connection, or because you know if you don’t lay there and take it, he’s gonna go find it somewhere else, eventually. Am I the only one that’s experienced that?

The Ménage à trois guy and I took things slowly.  He would come over every once in a while and we’d play card games, and somehow we’d always end up in my bed.  Then there was a day that we decided to introduce our kids to one another. What better place to go in the middle of a California summer day to a water park?  The kids had a blast running through the water together, and it was then I knew that this family man could probably be more than a hook-up.

It’s only been four months since we started living together, but it’s already falling apart.

I've loved him for a while now, and to hear him tell me that he’s not ready for a relationship tears my heart apart.  To hear him compare our relationship to a matter of convenience broke me.  Here I am, giving him all of me, baring my soul, opening up about my life, and all he sees when he looks into my eyes, are the eyes of a live in nanny.  This is the only version of him I've ever known.  He’s said that he’s not the best he can be.  He’s said that he needs time to heal from his divorce.  I hear him when he says all of these things to me.  Believe me, I do.  But I hate them.  I hate that I finally felt secure in a relationship.  I hate that I let my guard down and finally let someone into my life, and he’s decided to back out.

I have never loved a man like I have loved this man.  My soul is drawn to his.  Everything he wants to do, I can see myself doing.  This restaurant he wants to open, I've imagined myself in the office balancing the books and writing the checks.  I hope every day that he changes his mind, and realizes that I’m the one for him.  I hope that I haven’t just been a rebound.  I hope that one day he can overcome his fear of love/commitment and give his heart to me fully.  He’s what I want. He’s what I need.  He’s everything in between.

It’s an abrupt end, I know, but this is to be continued….