Chapter 13

I got back to my apartment late Sunday night, and seriously considered skipping all of my Monday classes to catch up on the work I had put off. Going home had only confused matters, and I came back without the feeling of resolution that I had hoped for.

What was I looking for? In the end, it comes down to that. It had been easy to do things when you were out to please someone other than yourself. And that was the whole problem. I had spent so much time doing the things that I knew other people would approve of. It made things simple for me. Do what you know other people expect, and you don’t have to consider yourself.

The lack of interest in my running own life was a glaring dilemma. I had made it through twenty-four years of my life without ever once making a decision by myself, for myself. College plans, career plans – they had all been laid out with that singular goal of pleasing my father, of fulfilling that promise to be everything I thought he wanted me to be. With him gone, without him there to provide that subtle approval, I realized how little my own opinions influenced the decisions I made.

What did I really want? Did I really want the house, yard, two kids and a dog? Did I want the white collar job with the respectability of a title and abbreviations? Did I want the life that I had grown up in? These were all things I had taken to be givens. They would just be a part of my eventual life. No question, no consideration of something different. As I saw it, my sister had followed along, fit the model, and was quite happy with the outcome. Why couldn’t I be? More importantly, why hadn’t I already started?

Out of habit, I turned on my computer to check my email, though it was quickly turning into early Monday morning. Once an addict, always an addict. I scanned through the twenty or so messages that had come in. Mostly junk, of course, with the various subject titles asking me if I was okay with my size, or if I was keeping up with my pharmacy prescriptions. I carelessly began deleting, annoyed that my inbox was filling with nothing but waste and wallowing in a little self-pity over the fact that I had nothing important to deal with.

I came to the last email, and out of habit, went to hit the delete button. The message title was generic; like other junk mail that attempt to conceal themselves, the subject line read “Everything Ok?” I was about to press the expunge button on my email account when I glanced at the addressee column, and realized that I recognized the address. What the hell did Mr. Becker want now?

I hesitated. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to deal with whatever he wanted to say, either about our meeting at the coffee shop, or the fact that I missed a class. Any additional “comments” would likely put me into a deeper funk, meaning another sleepless night. But, to be honest, I knew that, if left unopened, I would probably obsess over it, and would end up sleepless as well. So, I guess, either way, I wasn’t sleeping tonight. I opened the message:

++++,

Generally, I don’t bother students if they miss class. It is, in my mind, their prerogative, as they are adults. But after our meeting, I wanted to see if there was a correlation between today’s absence and your abrupt departure. If there was, then I’d like to clarify myself. Your paper is excellent. My comments were made in hopes of assisting you on key points that can only strengthen your work. Regardless, your paper is already better than most final papers I receive. To that end, if your final grade is an issue for you, feel confident that you are receiving an A for the semester. Therefore, as you work towards a final draft, please make it a personal exploration, one that allows you to develop and flush out any ideas that interest you. If you have any questions, then contact me. I am more than happy to help.

Mr. Becker

It seemed so shallow, but I reveled in a sense of vindication as I read Mr. Becker’s message. Validation. It is what I always looked for, always waited for, always searched for. And here it was, delivered to me in a nice and compact message. Even better, I was pretty much done with the course. How much better could it get than that?

It was a good moment…hell, a great moment. But it was fleeting. So I had reached my goal – I had gotten his attention with might worked, proved that I was an above-average researcher/writer. What was the real point? How did Mr. Becker’s approval of my work really benefit me? Why did I want it so much?

I stared at my computer screen. And for a quick moment I realized something. Maybe, approval wasn’t the real reason. Maybe the attention was the whole point. And that realization was more disconcerting.

Small intermission

I am on break for a week...so please take this chance to catch up, and when I return, I will continue posting. Remember, feel free to leave me a comment or two.

Chapter 12

It was cool and wet as I made my way to Dad’s grave. Tree leaves whirled around me as I cut across the dying grass. It felt weird to be here so early in the morning; this visit broke the pattern, but it was the only placed I wanted to be right now.

I thought about this revelation. Though the relationship between my father and I was not distant or estranged, I had always been reserved with him. Perhaps it was my own stubbornness, a reluctance to relinquish the betrayal felt in my childhood. The phone calls were a beginning, a way to bridge an unspoken gap I had created. Even then, I couldn’t be as unguarded as I know my mother, my sister, or my father would have liked.

In reality, my visits to my father’s grave were just like my musings in my journal. Each provided a structured way to revel in introspection, continuing the never ending analysis of myself. My sister was right. I was always inside my head, even when I was talking to a headstone or scrawling inked words on parchment pages.

As I knelt near his headstone, I could almost imagine that deep voice asking me if there was someone new in my life. I smiled a little, trying to imagine the day I would answer something different. But that day was not today.

My Dad could tell by the tone of my voice whether or not something was bothering me. Though I thought I could mask my emotions, I was now starting to realize how transparent I was when it came to expressing how I was feeling at any given moment. Everyone could tell what if I was feeling stressed out, disappointed, unhappy. My sister and mom noticed. Julie and Emily noticed. Hell, Mr. Becker picked up on it like he was reading the headlines off a newspaper.

Like anything else that made me confront how little I was able to control in my life, I was becoming more and more obsessed with ways in which I could contain this problem. I even took to practicing my facial expressions in a mirror…any way to regain the control I thought I once had.

Whenever my dad felt something was bothering me, he’d just wait me out, prodding me to continue talking to him until I got around to the underlying problem. In some weird, unexplainable way, this continued at my visits to his grave. I never felt comfortable leaving until I had gotten certain things off my chest. I knew I was good to go when I no longer felt the pull to stay there, talking to nothing. When things were relatively good, my visits might only be twenty minutes. On this visit, it took twenty minutes to get to a point were I felt like broaching the subject.

“School’s stressing me out more than normal, Dad. I know it, and I am pretty sure mom and sis know it as well. I guess it wouldn’t be so bad if this wasn’t my senior year…

I guess the problem is that…well…I think I might want to try something different…pursue something different. Not that you even knew what I wanted to do originally, Dad. But, for some reason, this new path doesn’t seem like something you’d support. It isn’t a stead-fast course, it doesn’t have a clear direction, a clear set of steps to follow. I know you wouldn’t think highly of that. Hell, I don’t even know if I think highly of that…

Anyways, this might be moot, considering that my current paper wasn’t received that highly by my professor. I guess that is something I just have to work on. I know…don’t get discouraged…use the criticism to do something better than he expects…make sure that you are satisfied. But, Dad, what if I…well…what if I am never satisfied?”

I stopped there for a second, thought about what I had just said. A chill settled over me. Maybe that was it. What if I was never going to be satisfied? What if, no matter what path I took, no matter what decision I settled on, the final result would be discontent? For a moment, I savored the simplicity of it; if I was bound to be discontent, no matter what, then all the various decisions that were crowding me were, essentially, pointless. It made the weight of those decisions seem much less significant. But, who wants to live a life of discontent?

“Well, since I want to believe that, at some point, I want to be satisfied with my life, I guess I have to figure out what makes me satisfied. Dad…that’s become the hardest part about this; I can’t figure out what I’d be happy with. I just don’t know…

Dad…I should have asked you something a long time ago…Did you love what you did? I guess, more importantly, were you happy with the choices you made? I know you felt you should have spent more time with me, but you made sacrifices based on certain things you believed in. You worked the long hours because it helped you create the life you provided us. Is that what, in the end, made you comfortable with the choices you made? Were you satisfied? Were you content?”

It was at that moment, when those last words slipped out of my mouth, that I missed my Dad more then ever. I couldn’t conjure up what he might say, because I didn’t have a clue as to how he might answer, what he might have told me. I couldn’t imagine a response or hear his voice filling my ears. I found myself filled with a gnawing emptiness, starting in my gut and spreading throughout my chest. And there, alone, next to his grave, I sat silent and unmoving; for the first time since he died, I found myself shedding tears for my loss.

Chapter 11

After my awkward run-in with Mr. Becker, I decided I needed a change of scenery; put simply, I wanted to run away, and that’s what I did, driving home for the weekend. I skipped Friday classes, surprising my mom with my appearance at the back door early in the afternoon. Not one to argue with having me home, she hugged me; knowing that my arrival alluded to discontent at school, she said nothing more than that dinner would be ready in a couple of hours.

I went up to my old room, did nothing more than sit on my bed and stare out my window. Like the many hours spent in high school. My stereo softly played my favorite CD of the moment. My mind wandered.

I was disappointed. The work I had done, the effort I had put into writing that paper, had exceeded any previous project. And what was the payoff? A thirty minute discussion of my obvious faults as a writer and the prospect of more research, more reading, and, of course, “stating an opinion”.

This was not the scenario anticipated, expected. Every other class, I did half the work and received glowing compliments; this time, I got what I considered a mediocre reception at best. Though Mr. Becker’s final comment still echoed in my head, I remained dubious. It was a comment made to pacify what, he thought, was a nearly hysterical student. He wasn’t that far from the truth.

I castigated myself for foolishly delving into this line of research while simultaneously questioning my reaction to his criticism. A Professor’s opinion, while important, never carried this significance. I did my own thing, defined my own standards for acceptable work. I purposely set standards higher than might be realistically possible, negating fears of failing a professor’s expectations. Now, faced with someone who demanded more, I was paralyzed. I should be stronger than this. That made me sick.

The smell of lasagna began work its way into my room. The tangy bite of basil, mixed with the hearty smell of ground beef and tomatoes, settled around me, wrapping me in the comforting warmth of stability. One of my favorite meals…my luck must be changing, I thought.

I made my way downstairs, surprised by the growing cacophony coming from the kitchen. As I neared the doorway, framed before me was a scene of classic domesticity; mom was sitting at a stool at the kitchen island, talking to my sister, who stood at across the counter slicing bread. In the highchair situated between them sat my niece, who happily chewed on the ear of her new favorite toy, a puffy and fat toy cat that resembled Garfield.

I appreciated the scene for a few seconds, pausing just out of sight. Though it might seem cliché, this was typical for our family. Dinner time was attended by everyone, as long as no serious obligations intruded. Even Dad, despite his long hours, would be there, though he usually walked in right as we were about to sit down, and would regularly return to the office once the dishes were cleared. It was, to both mom and dad, a priority; dinner time was guaranteed face time, when, for at least half an hour straight, we would be in the same room talking to one another. Friends were always invited when we were younger, but my sister and I understood implicitly that, if we were invited elsewhere, we were to politely refuse and get our butts home on time.

Nostalgia was interrupted by the sound of my name. Staying quiet, I listened as my mom quickly informed my sister of her concerns about my sudden appearance.

“You know him. He doesn’t come home unless something is wrong at school…something seriously wrong. He went straight up to his room and just sat there.”

“Mom, that’s that way he likes to work things out…in his head, always in his head. Either way, you won’t get it out of him unless he is in the mood to talk about it. Just let him be for awhile. If he seems really out of it I’ll corner him later…”

I decided now would be a good time to make some noise. Their conversation immediately ended, and as I made way into the kitchen, it was back to all smiles on both my mom and sister’s faces. Only the tight lines around my mother’s mouth betrayed how she was really feeling. I saw it.

“So lasagna, huh? Are you trying to bride me into moving back home, or is it just good timing?”

Hoping that would ease some of my mom’s worries, I then turned my attention to my niece who was happily tossing her cat around by its tail.

Of course everyone thinks of their nieces and nephews as the cutest, brightest, best kids in the world. We wouldn’t spoil them otherwise. But, regardless of the personal bias, my niece was absolutely the greatest. Maybe all the temper tantrums and screaming were being stored away, to be unleashed upon us in a hurricane of uncontrollable behavior once she hit the “terrible twos”. But, up till know, she had been a joy to sit for, be around, play with.

She had been startling revelation for me; when I baby-sat for her, I starting to imagine myself with kids. That first time I felt that paternal tug, the “hey, what if she was mine” was thoroughly unsettling - so much so that I refused to baby-sit for at least a couple of months. I wasn’t the kids-type, and most people who knew me whole-heartedly agreed with that. Mess, chaos, disorder – those are the things that I associated with the word “children”. And, in the world of a slightly obsessive-compulsive clean freak with organizing tendencies that had become legendary, children were not part of the grand picture.

So, whenever I saw my niece, it was with a mix of polarizing emotions. I was asking myself questions I never considered before. Could I be a good father? Or would I, like my father, make mistakes that I would spend the rest of my life trying to undo? Like the other extremes I wrestled with, this one weighed on me more and more. However, in this case, the consequences affected someone else; that was a responsibility I wasn’t sure I wanted to, was able to, accept.

Dinner remained a light affair; topics were avoided and there was a casual acceptance that my presence at home would not be discussed. Picking at my plate, I watched my family around me, distanced myself from the scene. My sister’s husband, who had just arrived, was helping feed my niece, using several methods to induce cooperation. To his side, my sister and my mom discussed the various immeasurable nuances of my niece’s unstoppable development, noting the differences as only mothers can. I saw the occasional glances between my sister and her husband, the unspoken moments of shared love for both their daughter and each other.

A pang of jealousy surfaced. My sister had found her husband in college, a friendship that became romance that became love. It seemed so simple, the way it developed; simple, subtle, but foreshadowed by their constant need for each other’s company, conversation, companionship. Their relationship had become another ideal for me to compare my own life to, a scenario I could occasionally dream of for my own life. But my time in school was running out, and so was the opportunity for such a narrative to emerge.

My sister and her husband did not stay too long after dinner ended. With bedtime quickly coming for my niece, my sister took a moment to find me alone while her husband gathered the various baby accessories that now caravanned with them from house to car and back again.

“Hey...so we have to leave in a sec…but mom wanted me to check in with you.”

“I know. She’s worried. But it’s nothing that serious, just problems with a class.”

My sister smiled at this. Perhaps because it was an excuse I had never used before.

“Really? A class? A class would worry you this much?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, do you want to talk about it?”

“No…not really. I’m just not doing as well as I want to. But I’ll fix it. Just didn’t want to deal with it yet.”

My sister looked at me. Uncertainty crossed her face, mixed with sibling sympathy.

“Well, I know that you’ll figure it out…but let me know if you want to talk.”

I smiled at her, glad for the support she so quickly gave. It helped, to know that it was always there.

“I promise that if it was a bigger problem, I’d ask you for help.”

We heard my mom call for her, telling her that everything was ready for her to leave. My sister waved a little goodbye and headed off. While I waved back, I felt both relieved and disappointed that I wasn’t pressed to share more.

Chapter 10

I had been in my room for too long. I had spent the entire weekend working on the homework I had put off in my determined rush to finish my draft of the research paper. Thought I had completed the draft early, proof-reading it twice before submitting it for class, I had ignored the piles of readings that had accumulated from my other classes. With my eyes aching from reading tiny print and my head pounding from the volumes of information I had attempted to stuff into it, I made my way outside to see some daylight. It was a brisk fall afternoon and I relished every second of it.

There is something about fall that suits me. It’s a season of change, of both anticipation and melancholy. You can sense the immanent bitterness of winter by the slight bite in the crisp, refreshing evening air. You enjoy the vibrant mosaic of colors created by the changing leaves while thinking that soon those leaves will be dead and gone. The signs of winter foreshadowed in the mildness of fall remind you to savor every second, knowing full well that such fine weather will be a long time coming.

I took my time as I walked from my apartment to my favorite coffee shop. It was one of those times where I only processed minute details about the world around me. The vibrant red leaves of the maple trees lining the street would beg for my attention only to be replaced by the way my scarf softly rubbed my cheek as it caught the cool breeze blowing past. I didn’t see the people pass me, the cars as they drove by. I heard crackling of the fallen leaves as they crunched beneath my feet, but did not keep track of how far I had walked or how far I needed to go. The world around me only materialized when I smelled the distinct aroma of coffee.

Slightly chilled, I ordered a grande mocha, grabbed a local paper from the rack, and headed directly for my favorite seat. A leather armchair, it sat in a corner, and faced away from the rest of the café. In a place that often buzzed with conversation, it was quiet and restful without being isolating.

I took off my coat, set my paper on the chair, and went back to retrieve my large, steaming cup. It was one of those oversized mugs made famous by Friends, which seemed just right for the mood I was in. I wanted to just hang out in a place other than my apartment, to hear the noise of people and, for just a moment, pretend I was waiting to meet five of my best friends.

Sitting back down, I noticed a table across from me, occupied with a very familiar profile. One, I realized, that I saw every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Hoping to go unnoticed, I picked up the paper, raising it to cover my face when Mr. Becker glanced up and looked in my direction.

“You can’t really hide behind that paper. You know that, right?”

I lowered the paper and looked over, pretending to be surprised.

“Umm…oh…that was you. I wasn’t sure, and you looked busy anyways…I didn’t want to disturb you.”

He smiled at me and adjusted his seat so he was facing me. He lifted a paper and nodded at me.

“As a matter of fact, I was just finishing your paper. You sure you weren’t trying to intimidate me by sitting near me?”

I stuttered for a second, trying to overcome my surprise and force words out of my mouth.

“No…no…not at all…I didn’t even realize that someone sitting around here when I first put my stuff down.”

“Hey, I was just kidding you. I didn’t even notice you had sat down until I got a whiff of your coffee there.” He waved at my cup and then signaled to his empty one. “It reminded me that I need a refill.”

He stood up and moved towards the counter. I sat torn between my desire to ask about his opinion of my draft, which was sitting not five feet from me and tempting me with its red marks visibly scrawled along the margins, and my desire for conversation between us to be over. I liked talking to Mr. Becker, probably more than I should. I always felt like asking him more questions, probing him for more information, more suggestions, more details about his own interests and pursuits. When I met someone I was interested in getting to know, and in this case, interested in getting information out of, I could become, well, overbearing might be a diplomatic way of saying it. I’ve been called badgering and downright annoying on a couple of occasions.

I decided to play it safe and return to the newspaper in front of me; since I had just sat down, it meant I couldn’t get up and leave. I hadn’t even had time to take a sip of the cup of coffee that was sitting in front of me. I shifted slightly, turning away from the direction of the taunting paper, and tried to focus on the article in front of me. But, despite my attempts to look absorbed, I must have betrayed my underlying desire to discuss my paper. After a few minutes, I heard the rustle of papers and found, quite suddenly, my paper being slid on the small coffee table in front of my chair. I looked up to find Mr. Becker sitting next to me, taking an empty chair to my right. He just smiled, and before I could speak, said,

“I figured you’d like feedback as soon as possible. You have some time? We can go over it now.”

Afraid of stuttering incoherently, I just looked at him and nodded. I put the newspaper aside and shifted forward to begin skimming his comments. As I reached to turn the page, Mr. Becker also reached out; I jolted as hour hands hit each other and pulled back immediately.

“Sorry. I was going to turn to page.”

Professor Becker chuckled at my reaction and turned the paper to the final page. “Don’t worry. I was just going to show you my overall comments. I thought we could discuss more general things now. You can check out the specifics later.”

I looked down at the quick, semi-legible scrawl in front of me and waded though his nearly full page summary. I glossed over a couple of sections that were extremely difficult to read, but I could tell that my road to finishing this paper would be long and arduous. Already my head was swimming with ideas and resources I would need to answer some of the questions he had posed. His comments were insightful and challenging, proposing perspectives to my argument that I had never considered. A sense of foolishness was starting to take root. Why had I decided to take on something so closely related to his area of specialty?

Feeling grossly ignorant, I made it through most of his comments. I was struggling with the last quarter of the page when I heard him chuckle again.

“Are you able to read that?” As I looked up at him, I saw him grinning back at me. “If you aren’t, I’ll understand. My writing is, I’ll admit, clearly challenging.”

At this point, my humiliation was growing at an exponential rate; completely self-conscious, I began to interpret his questions with secondary meaning, as though he were also questioning my basic intelligence. In defense, I felt a rising sense of indignation, followed closely by anger. I liked the anger, which forced out the inadequacy. Letting it rise, sarcasm threatened to tinge every word I uttered; I tried to reel in the impulse and respond as pleasantly as possible.

“Uhh…I think…well…I’ve got…umm…most of it…but you, you might want… highlight… the points you want….you want to make sure I address.” Hopefully that was subtle enough.

Looking somewhat quizzical at my response, he turned back to the paper and began to address a couple of sections specifically; for him, the problem wasn’t so much the content as my refusal to side with one perspective of the argument. “Okay, but what do you think?” was, apparently, scrawled in the margins in several sections. Silently, I resigned myself to the comment. I had received the critique many times before. It was a problem with my writing that I had never been unable to quite successfully address.

“How come you seem so reluctant to take sides?” The question snapped my mind back in focus. I wasn’t sure how to respond; Mr. Becker’s question hit directly upon the one aspect of my writing that I knew was weak. To take a side was to be decisive; I wasn’t too good at that. That question deflated me.

There was nothing to say really. Though I desperately wanted to revel in that previous spark of anger, to dig in and rebuke his comments, I had nothing to defend myself with. Mr. Becker had intuitively attacked a vulnerable spot in my writing arsenal, and I shut down.

Defeated, I waited for him to finish speaking, nodding here and there in agreement, but too distracted to say anything, and feeling thoroughly disappointed with myself. Flustered by my growing sense of stupidity, I didn’t notice that he was now looking at me and not the paper. I guess my face told him all he needed to know. He stopped speaking for a second, and an air of unsettled silence fell upon us.

“You realize that this paper represents some excellent work?”

The humor of his previous statements had disappeared, replaced by a sincerity that had me looking up. He was staring straight at me; I could tell he was trying to figure out what I was thinking, what I might say. It was clear that my shift in mood had confused him. Hearing his question mollified me enough to regroup, make me realize how overly dramatic my imagination had become. Overwhelmed, and feeling utterly foolish, I could only shrug half-heartedly. He was still looking at me, which was more disconcerting. I was feeling trapped now, closed in, almost suffocated by him, his steady, constant stare. I looked at my watch and then hastily stood up.

“Oh…shoot…I…uh…I…uh…thanks for talking to me. I really better go now…I have to meet someone.” I grabbed my thoroughly dissected paper and, before he could stand, extended my hand. He looked up at me from his chair as he took it in his. He seemed thoroughly perplexed now and I felt him continue to stare at me as I put on my jacket. I avoided his gaze, looking at him only long enough to thank him again and say goodbye. Then I made a quick exit.

Chapter 9

I was having trouble concentrating. Usually, nothing broke into my study regime, but for the past two weeks my habits had been erratic. I would sit down and my computer and stare. I would try and read an article and the words just clumped together, giving me a headache as I tried to push through a page. This wasn’t normal. I prided myself on the fact that nothing could distract me. Julie often joked about it, nicknaming my study regime as “turning on my robot mode”. It wasn’t far off really; to study, I went into my room, put on headphones, turned my winamp player to shuffle, and set off to work. I could go for hours without interruption, the random tunes ranging from Vivaldi to Ingram Hill composing a soft background to my typing. No snack breaks, no phone calls, no thoughts unrelated to the homework in front of me. But now – now fifteen minutes would pass and I would have to get up and move around, snack on something, check email, or plain just leave the room.

I wasn’t sure what was bothering me so much. Well, that’s not entirely true. I knew what was bothering me, but didn’t know why. It pretty much came down to the fact that my paper, that lovely research piece I was doing for Mr. Becker, had taken on monumental personal importance. Somehow, his approval of my work had made it even more important that I write something groundbreaking, impressive and memorable.

Doesn’t it seem that, as certain parts of life begin to make sense, other parts naturally fall apart? I was thinking about this more and more as the semester went on. After Dad died, my world seemed completely irrational. Nothing made sense to me, and for months I floated along, living day to day without an idea of how each day related to the next. By going back to school, life gained structure. The regimentation of a schedule gave me a sense of order, the feeling that somehow my life was piecing itself back together again. But, as I got more and more involved in my research project for Mr. Becker’s class, the less certain I felt about what lay ahead in my future.

More and more, I found myself fighting thoughts in my head – images of me as a slightly nerdy, eclectic academic spending my days in libraries and coffee shops, nights with my television and my computer. I imagined myself making a life around being an expert of something – something that required me to overanalyze and critique cheesy sitcoms or dramas. I mean, if I could do it, I’d actually have an excuse for spending as much time with my television as I now did.

I was well aware of the similarity between the images I had for the future of my life and the images I had created of the life of Mr. Becker. The respect I had for him had grown significantly. Quite simply, I idolized him. In my world of interests, he was Michael Jordan.

Mr. Becker represented the type of person I hoped to become. He seemed to be doing something because he truly loved it. He taught with an exuberance that was infectious and communicated a sincerity that no one could question. And he seemed completely at ease with who he was and the life he had chosen to live.

It was an idealistic vision, and I realized it. It was idyllic, romanticized, and completely based on my imagination. That is why, no matter how much the academic life appealed to me, I told myself it was foolish to try and make it anything more than an undergraduate field of study. I repeated this rationale again and again as I searched online for internships, as I filled out application forms and submitted resumes, when I went to Barnes & Noble to pick up the first of three study aids to assist in my preparations for the LSAT and the GMAT.

I was dealing with this dilemma surrounding my future career path the best way I knew how; I continued all the leg work to prepare for my original career plans while looking at various graduate programs in media studies. On the days I wasn’t working on my revising my resume, I was scanning websites for fellowships or grants geared for students pursuing master degrees. I was trying to leave myself with the option to do either while ignoring the obvious need to make a decision.

I had finally reached a zone with my writing when I heard a knock on my apartment door. I ignored it at first, but I soon recognized a distinct pattern to the tapping. Three taps followed by a pause followed by two. That meant either Emily or Julie had decided to drop by. It was our secret code from our days as roommates. I would only interrupt robot mode for the secret knock.

I opened the door to Emily’s big smile and a plate of freshly baked snicker doodles. I’m a sucker for snicker doodles, so the scowl I was originally wearing melted into a grin.

“I thought a treat might be in order…seeing as you’ve ignored phone calls and emails for the last two weeks…”

I sighed. I was about to defend myself, but the words died on my lips. She was right. I was purposely hiding.

“What can I say, besides I’m sorry?”

Emily went straight to the kitchen and placed the cookies on the counter dividing my kitchen from the main living space. She pulled out a couple of glasses, poured some milk into each, and grabbed a seat on one of the stools. I followed suit, grabbing a cookie and devouring it in four quick bites.

“It was a good thing that I brought food,” Emily observed as I reached for another. Her remark had me calculating the last time I had gotten around to eating something. As I tried to count the hours on my hand I realized it had probably been too long.

“I was caught up with my research paper for Becker. The first full draft is due next Friday…I want to have it done by Tuesday to give me some time to proofread it.”

Emily shot me one of her patented “you’re insane” stares; there it was, the raising of one eyebrow, the narrowing of the other, and the slow downturn of the corners of her mouth.

“You’ve been obsessing about that paper this entire semester. Why is it so important to you? I mean, yes, you like to do well, but this is going to an entirely new level of overachieving…”

“I know, I know. It seems a little extreme. I’ll admit it. But, for some reason, I want to write something spectacular for Becker’s class…a paper that will…will somehow, I dunno, leave a lasting impression…that somehow shows how much I learned from him, I guess…”

“You know you’ll be fine. You always make a great impression with your professors…I don’t know of a single professor that hasn’t thought you were a great student…”

“Hmm…yeah, I guess. But, in this case, I want to be more…I want to be…I want to be…well…the best student he’s ever had…I want…well…to be…memorable.”

Emily laughed at me then. “You were never one to set a low standard of excellence. Still, it seems rather extreme. Is making yourself standout in Becker’s class so crucial that its worth dissolving any semblance of a social life to?”

I didn’t know what to say. She had a point.

“It’s hard to explain…and I am not that sure that it makes sense, but for some reason it is.”

I paused, trying to sort out the best way to organize the various random arguments that I had been creating in my head to justify my actions over the last couple of months.

“You know what it is like to be fascinated by someone? To meet someone and, well, want to learn what makes them tick, what makes them the person they are?”

Emily was nodding, but I could see the beginnings of a smirk at the corners of her lips.

“What?”

“No…it’s nothing…well, it’s just that, when I feel like that about a person, it usually means I have a crush on them.”

“Well…see…that’s the thing. It’s not a crush, though I am sure people would see it that way. Anyways, it’s just…well…when I talked to Becker, I felt like I had finally met someone…well…who I could trust. Not only did he have an answer to, well, every question I could think of for my paper, but he seemed to be so, I don’t know, sure of what he was doing, what he was passionate about. It’s…it’s comforting to be around someone so sure of what they want and who they are. Does that make a little more sense? I admire him. I respect him. He is one of the few people I have met that can inform my rather obscure interests. He is the only person I have actually had a chance to discuss those interests with. It makes me want to, well, find a way to get to know him – to be more than one of his hundreds of random students. I’d like to be a colleague at least…perhaps, hopefully, a friend someday… I know… pathetic … lame…”

“No…not really. It makes some sense. I really admire my boss at work and it makes me strive harder to meet his approval. It’s like, if he likes me, then I meet his standards. Since I respect him, his approval shows that I somehow have passed his evaluation.”

“Yeah…yeah, something like that.”

I looked and Emily and saw her original smirk become a smile. Then she started to giggle.

“What? What?!”

“Well, even though I respect my boss, and I want his approval, I also had a crush on him as well…just something for you to think about…”

I broke off a piece of my third snickerdoodle and threw it at her.

Chapter 8

I didn’t have a choice – I had to meet Mr. Becker. Considering his email, and the events at the grille, I had to work fast and recover some semblance of respectability. I would have to sit down in person and talk to Mr. Becker. Manners dictated it. Professional courtesy dictated it. I was dreading it.

I continually tell myself that, if I write intelligently, I should be able to speak intelligently. After all, in either form of communication, the same language composes my thoughts, the same vocabulary formulates my ideas. That wasn’t the case. When writing either in my diary or at a computer, the link between my brain and the words on the page were direct and complementary. When I wrote, the words flowed, coming out in a rush. When I spoke, a barrier rose between my brain and my mouth. The flow of words blocked up, crushing against the barrier, a wave of letters scattering in all directions. Instead of streaming coherent and well considered thoughts, I verbalized jumbled, stuttered fragments.

Facing a one-on-one meeting with Mr. Becker, I could envision my upcoming embarrassment, what with my stuttering, my flustered commentary, my insipid conversation skills. So I countered my growing trepidation with excessive amounts of preparation time. I read and re-read Mr. Becker’s paper, reviewed my note cards concerning any of his references. I treated the meeting like a final exam. I wasn’t going to look stupid, no matter how much extra work it took.

A week later, I found myself nearing the English Faculty offices. Anxious by the whole prospect of discussing my work with Mr. Becker, I was about fifteen minutes early. The doors along the corridor were all closed. I wandered the halls and waited, reading the random messages posted on the various pinup boards; dotting each were the clichés of academia, transmitted through the various modes of comedy, satire and other printed scribbles. Apparently, there were three requirements for becoming a serious academic: 1) accept that you are overworked and underpaid, 2) have socialist tendencies and will, at various points in life, refer to Marx as your best friend, and 3) read and write followed by more reading and writing. I was second-guessing my attraction.

Completely absorbed in a quiz titled “How to tell if she is smart enough for you…”, I didn’t notice Mr. Becker come up behind me. He startled me when he placed his hand on my shoulder, and I jumped instinctively.

“Easy there…just needed to get your attention.”

I worked to calm down my beating heart while simultaneously formulate something witty to say. As a result, I just stared in his general direction. After a moment of silence, he motioned towards his office door. I followed him, waited till he sat down, then took a seat opposite him and pulled out my notes. I tried to be as professional as possible, keeping it focused on the purpose of the meeting. I was hoping that, if I didn’t bring up the events at the grille, they wouldn’t be discussed.

The formality I hoped for was breached almost immediately.

“So, you didn’t burn your paper. Does that mean you’re less frustrated, or just haven’t found time to buy matches?”

I had planned for this scenario. In fact I had planned for several scenarios; some included reference to my behavior at the grille, some where the whole matter remained absent from the conversation. I had created responses for situations in which Mr. Becker might be angry, might be offended, or, as in this case, might make a joke.

“Umm…uh…somewhere in between. I…I bought matches, then found some new material…I…uh…well…the desire for fire has been…umm…mitigated for now.”

He smiled at me. He seemed genuinely entertained, both by my obvious discomfort to his question as well as my attempt at a witty response. He laughed and moved slightly closer, looking at some of the marks I had made to my copy of his paper. The position I had chosen to sit at made reading anything simultaneously difficult, since if I was reading something, it would be upside-down to Mr. Becker and vise versa. After a few minutes, Mr. Becker got up and moved to the seat next to me. His eyes never left the paper itself. I could feel him skimming each of the various notes I had made, the passages I had underlined. We sat in silence for several minutes while he flipped through the entire paper. While he read, I observed, watching him, his movements, his fingers skimming over certain notes that seemed to interest him, the slight grin that would emerge at the corner of his lips at certain questions and comments I had written in the margins. His eyes darted back and forth with stark intensity, and I watched them seemingly absorb everything in front of him; hazel with a thin gold halo, they communicated intelligence, kindness, and humor. I couldn’t help thinking that, if Emily or Julie were here right now, they would be very appreciative of the package.

I was startled again when he spoke. As he looked up I quickly looked back at the paper. It was easier to speak to him if I kept my eyes on the purpose of the meeting. He asked me several questions about my notes. Apparently I had understood most of what his argument. He referred back to the material he had originally suggested and, with my other notes in hand, we conferred back and forth. The conversation was ten times easier when it involved me questioning him or requesting clarification. Before I knew it, an hour and a half had passed, and I was assured that the hours of research I had performed were not fruitless.

It was late, darkness settling outside. Mr. Becker seemed oblivious to it all, which struck me most. He was genuinely enjoying the discussion. I couldn’t help but be impressed by his patience. He was a walking reference source himself, throwing out several more authors for me to find and read. He referred to passages verbatim and even provided page numbers for several specific examples. While I was having a hard time keeping up with the amount of information being tossed my way, he seemed unfazed. I had tapped a reservoir of television knowledge.

Though I was enjoying the conversation, I had other work waiting for me. I looked at my watch and remarked at the time. He looked up, surprised.

“Wow, I didn’t notice. You have plenty here, and you have a very good sense of where to go. I’d be happy to help you out again if you have any more questions”

“No…no I think I am set for now. I…uh…I’m so sorry I took up so…so much of you time. I hope…well…I hope I didn’t keep you from something important.”

“No. You’re fine. If I wasn’t here right now, I’d probably be at home, catching up on some reading.”

An image popped into my head right then. I saw him in an arm chair, a reading light on directly behind him, a book in hand. He was wearing some square-rimmed reading glasses and sipping coffee from a cobalt blue ceramic mug. The image made me smile unconsciously. Mr. Becker noticed.

“Yeah, I know. Smile all you want. It is rather cliché, isn’t it?”

“Ohh…oh, no. It was…I was…well…I wasn’t smiling at that. Really….”

“Uh-huh. Sure. It’s no problem. I am, after all, an English teacher.”

I smiled consciously this time, looked directly at him, again thanking him for his time. He shook my hand. It was a firm grip which seemed to last a moment too long. He smiled back at me – a smile that was almost overpowering. I felt self-conscious again. It was definitely time to go. I hastily retreated through the door, thanking him again, and tripping over a chair on the way out.

Chapter 7

They were making me go out. Emily and Julie were making me go out for my birthday. It had been almost a month since I had seen the two of them, and they practically drafted a contract to ensure that we would do something to celebrate. Though they promised to keep their plans low-key, they also refused to allow me to spend my birthday in my apartment by myself. It was nice of them to think of me, and touching of them to make me feel special. I just couldn’t get excited about celebrating another year passing.

We agreed to meet at Deluxe, a local bar/grille for dinner. It was our meeting place since freshman year, when eating there was a weekly ritual. It was slightly trendy in a typical yuppy way, with its dark wood booths and vintage French liquor posters. But, somehow, the atmosphere of the place transcended its somewhat cliché décor. The food was always good. It was prepared with an air of hominess that made you feel warm and relaxed. The prices were reasonable, which allowed us to indulge in eating out more frequently than we probably should have. The noise levels were perfect for conversing without being overheard and the lighting intimate enough to encourage lingering. For me, Emily and Julie, it was a place to go, eat, relax and chat without feeling rushed. It also helped that Emily’s longtime boyfriend was the bartender there; we were treated like part of the restaurant family and received such perks as free desserts and drinks whether we ordered them or not.

Since their graduation last May, Emily, Julie and I got together less frequently. Their lives had changed, and with work and their own love lives, our weekly dinners had gradually become monthly events. Emily, Julie and I had become fairly close since our freshmen year, when by accident, I had become their suite mate. I had a single and they shared the adjoining double room. I was the envy of most guys, and for good reason. Emily and Julie were beautiful girls, both in looks and personality. I was originally reserved about getting close to them. After all, they were them, and I was me. But out living arrangement worked out better than anyone expected, and in the end we became an almost inseparable trio.

I had, what most people would consider, a crush on each of them, for a short period of time…but, in my mind, “crush” wasn’t really accurate. They were each so different from the people I normally associated with. I felt compelled to find out as much as I could about them. Nothing would have happened anyways, since they were in serious relationships. Regardless, as we got to know each other better, our relationship established itself in such a way that romantic feelings for either of them felt as taboo as incest.

I was rushing out the door, already five minutes late. It had been a very long, very disappointing day. I had spent most of the day holed up in our library, researching more articles for my damn research paper in Mr. Becker’s class. What had started as a relatively simple project had snowballed into a huge mess. The past week had been nothing but digging through various papers, books and journals. None of it had to do with the actual focus of my project; I had a stack of papers six inches deep providing me with the “background knowledge necessary to develop a thorough argument”. Those were Mr. Becker’s exact words. He had been kind enough to provide references, but those references had cross-referenced others and I was now feeling overwhelmed by the copious amount of copies I had made, highlighted, notated, and outlined.

I walked into the crowded bar area slightly frazzled, to say the least. It did not help that, as a Friday evening, the place was packed. The bar was shoulder to shoulder people, chatting lively as they waited for their reservation to be called. It drew a fairly regular crowd, and I saw familiar faces around me; familiar because I had seen them on campus, not because I actually knew them personally. I spotted Emily and Julie, attempted to get their attention, and failing, began to navigate through the tight crowd. They were, of course, at the middle of the bar area; this allowed Emily to chat with her boy while he worked and provided ample opportunity for Julie to mix and mingle with her seemingly endless array of social acquaintances.

Julie’s popularity unnerved me. It always made me question why she would choose to spend time with me over others. I mean, who was I to captivate the attention or friendship of someone who was so obviously sought out by others? It was partly why I dreaded having to do things with her that required be out and about. She was always running into people she knew, stopping to chat or catch up, which would leave me standing off on the side, politely waiting, and feeling like a lackey or tool. She always remembered to introduce me to others, but never seemed to notice that the people she introduced me to never remembered that they had met me before. Same old scenario, just new set of people.

Emily spotted me first. I could tell she was dying to scream “Happy Birthday” and make a scene. She knew how much I’d hate that, which probably kept her from actually doing something. It did not, however, settle my nerves as I crossed towards her; I truly feared that she might, at any minute, go ahead and humiliate me. Most of the times my fears were unfounded, but occasionally she would do something just for kicks. It was her way of teasing me, which she did with the constancy of my sister. I countered this by reminding her that, in many states, her relationship with her boyfriend would qualify her for a common-law marriage. That usually stopped her for a while.

Once I made some room for myself, I signaled the bartender. I am not usually a drinker, primarily because I hate the idea of losing control. I always feared of becoming that person – you know that person – who can’t control their inner monologue, who is an ass and doesn’t realize, because he is drunk, what a big ass he is. I didn’t want to give people a reason to dislike me more than I already thought they did.

Given my non-drinking habits, Emily and Julie both stared when I ordered a rum and coke. Hell, it was my birthday, and it had been a downer of one at that. I was ready to relax. Julie couldn’t help herself, and declared that hell was indeed about to freeze over. She then paid for the drink. She and Emily simultaneously asked, “Bad day?”

“You have no idea…I have been on the fourth floor research stacks for the last five hours. My eyes are burning. I don’t want to read another sentence for a month at least.”

“Well, then aren’t you glad we got you out?”

“And aren’t you even more glad we aren’t letting you get back to your paper for the rest of the night?”

I had to laugh. Emily and Julie were a dynamic duo. They balanced each other out so well and always had enough energy left to pick my spirits up if need be. It was infectious, in a way. You just couldn’t be upset when you were around the two of them and they were having a good time.

“Well, I’ll give you that. Tonight is a good night to be out. I swear, I have never wanted to take a paper and just…I dunno…burn it. Rip it up, shred it, take it to a campground and make one gigantic bonfire out of it. Right now the only thing stopping me from setting my work on fire and saying ‘Mr. Becker, take this project and kiss my ass’ is the fact that I don’t keep any matches around my apartment.”

“Well, I can lend you some matches if you want…”

I froze. I recognized the voice immediately, which meant that, of course, Mr. Becker would be right behind me, listening to me rant and rave. Shit, where did he come from? He wasn’t sitting there when I came in. Or, was he, and I just wasn’t being observant enough? I didn’t move, didn’t want to turn around. I stared at Emily who was facing me and looking behind me. I raised my eyebrows and she, unable to help herself, smiled and nodded. Oh hell…how was I getting out of this?

“So do you want the matches?”

I shifted, so that I was, while not exactly facing him, able to make eye contact. Mr. Becker was grinning at me, his eyes lively with laughter. Well, at least he was humored by the whole scenario. Mortified, I remained silent while Emily and Julie began laughing. That’s when the host called us to be seated. I stood up, tripped over the stool I was sitting on, and nearly spilled my drink all over him. Even more flustered, I stumbled over my apology,

“I…ahh…well…ahh…sorry. I apparently…well…can’t…ummm…seem to walk today. Sorry…uhhh…Mr…Mr. Becker.”

I shot him a halfhearted attempted at a smile and turned away before he could respond. I didn’t look back at the direction of the bar until we were seated in a booth. By that time, I was ready to get under the table and hide for the rest of the evening. Emily and Julie, on the other hand, were still laughing. My face must have communicated my mortification, because, each time Emily or Julie tried to face me and say something, they only laughed harder.

“Alright…alright. Can you guys please stop? This is not good, not good. Damn it, this is not good. How the hell was I suppose to know he was behind me. Why didn’t you two say anything? Didn’t you see him? What do I do now?”

I shot out my questions in rapid fire succession. My frantic embarrassment was only making the situation funnier for Emily and Julie. Ha Ha. It was only after the waiter brought us water that they were able to calm down.

“That…now that was unbelievable,” Julie sighed as she sipped some water.

“No kidding…the timing was, bar none, better than any sitcom I’ve ever seen.” Emily smile and patted my hand. “Don’t worry…he didn’t seem that upset.”

“How do you know that? How am I supposed to know that? Oh god, how do I apologize? Do I say something? What do I do?” I was scanning the dining area, looking to see where he might have been seated and who he was meeting. It never crossed my mind that he would come here. I had the impression that he was homebody. But, then again, I am a homebody, and I was out to dinner, so I guess my assumptions were invalid to begin with. Still, I had somehow envisioned Delux as a safe place, my safe place – a place void of such disastrous social encounters as the one that just occurred. I felt so comfortable here; the feeling was, in a moment, utterly decimated. I kept glancing around, acutely aware of the people, the different parties, the table arrangement, the number of waiters, the numerous roving eyes and ears. I had not kept my inner monologue in check and look where it got me.

I didn’t see Mr. Becker the rest of the night. I am not sure if he ever met someone that night or was just at the bar grabbing a drink. It took a while, but Emily and Julie eventually got my mind off the events of that evening. That lasted until I got home. Once I entered my apartment, the events came rushing back. They replayed over and over, while I showered, checked my email, changed for bed. I couldn’t stop feeling that hot flush of burning embarrassment. I couldn’t get over how I stammered and nearly doused Mr. Becker. I tossed and turned, the images repeating endlessly until they were burned into my mind. It ended up being a very long night.

Chapter 6

It was during one of my last visits with my father that he really pushed the joys of family – of meeting someone, marrying them, and raising children together. I think his own regrets only drove him harder to impress into my mind what he was feeling. He repeatedly stressed the joy my sister and I had brought to his life, the happiness he felt each time he saw my sister’s daughter playing in the backyard when they came to visit him.

To be honest, I understood him more that I ever let on. I admired the man he was – both the stern father he had been to me, and the carefree, smiling grandfather he was becoming, just before he past on. He provided a strong, solid environment to grow up in, a product of his own closely-knit relationship to his brothers and sisters, my aunts and uncles who we saw frequently. I knew the joy of family without needing to have my own. I was never able to put it into words, but I think he knew how I felt. Still, he never stopped hinting about my tendency towards independence, and my obvious lack of any romantic life. He wanted me to take a risk, let someone get close to me; he wanted me to find her, marry her, and create a family with her.

I never dated in high school, much to my father’s disappointment. I avoided the whole scene as I entered college, which made my dad more persistent in pushing any available girl at me. He would casually drop names of colleagues whose daughters were near my age, who were single and attending such and such university with this or that major. I lived in constant fear that, any visit home would include some “chance” encounter with one of these single females and the inevitable awkward blind date. My dad, best intentions aside, just didn’t understand that one crucial part of me – that I wasn’t interested.

I have a romantic, idealist heart; it’s not that manly to admit, but there it is. So, though I often told myself I would never find someone, I stilled harbored the small hope of that electric “first meeting” between me and my future soul mate. I had rationalized this ideal, constructing a logic which concluded that any footwork on my part would be rather pointless. My true soul mate and I would, by fate or circumstance, be brought together someday. When that happened, we would both know it. We would find each other because we were meant to. I just had to wait.

I didn’t blindly buy into this fantasy. The love at first sight scenario was well-ingrained into my psyche by the often-repeated story of my parents’ first introduction to one another. She was leaving her job, a waitress at a local diner, when my father spotted her. Besotted, he tracked her down, finding a common acquaintance, who set up a group date. That first face to face moment was, as they told it, electric. They talked for hours, holding each others’ hands as though it was the most natural thing to do. That was their love story, and it became the love story I compared all other love stories to. So, while I secretly harbored faith in true love, dreaming about that one day where I would meet that person, I consciously rejected any need for me to get out there and “play the field” or whatever other dating metaphor I was told to follow.

I also avoided the whole dating scene because I was…well…not quite confident that I would have much success. On a good day, I considered myself average. Average looks, average personality, average average. I was one of those people you met and forgot about two minutes later. I would be constantly re-introduced to others at parties or other social occasions. I would sit there anticipating the whole interchange – me saying hello, pretending it was the first time to meet them, them pretending that they would remember my name the next time I might run into them. At the last party I attended, I was reintroduced to five people I had been in class with the previous semester. Too bad I wasn’t attractive enough for Missy, Michelle, Margaret, Elisabeth, and Mary to remember. I fully expected rejection from any attempt to “pick up” someone, so why put myself through the pain?

The constant snubbing grew so common that I stopped going out with friends to occasions where such mingling might be required. It was just a reminder: I was far, far down on the totem pole of social desirability. Why bother? On off moments, when I spent another Friday evening alone, the television on as background noise, I allowed myself to question my isolation. I let myself imagine life as a charismatic and charming mixer, with a wide range of friends to call and meet with. I tried to see myself in bars, at clubs, shouting over the mass chaos of music, people and white noise. It never worked. No matter how much social mixing was considered a good thing, it just didn’t seem worth the effort.

For the most part, however, my homebody tendencies were something I pushed out of my mind, refusing to acknowledge it as a problem. I did have a small group of people I could hang out with when I was feeling desperately social; this, I told myself, was enough. And, for the most, it was.

But there were times when I felt an inexplicable ache – a yearning for something foreign yet familiar – that would slowly spread, beginning deep within the center of my chest, and ooze out until it covered my entire heart in a dull pain of longing. I often marveled at this sensation, this instinctive desire for something I had yet to experience. Why did I feel I was missing something I had yet to know?

What makes us so obsessed with finding love – finding a companion, a soulmate, etc, etc? I understand the yearning for things lost, experiences past, feelings that bring us back to a specific time and place in our lives. These memories are records of our sensual highs and lows – tidbits of information that inflame and feed our desire for more. I understood my yearning for warm macaroni and cheese on cold, blistery days; the smell wafting around me brought me to afternoons of snowball fights, and sledding, and my mom, who would have a fresh batch of Kraft waiting as we came in from the yard. Yet, in the case of love, with no previous knowledge to drive this new and unsettling desire, I had now idea of how to satiate it, or even why I had it in the first place. Having never been attracted to or involved with anyone, I had no idea what I to look for, feel, think, expect.

My parent’s relationship could be seen as a standard to aspire for, but it wasn’t like I could actually get into their minds and feel what they felt the first time they saw each other, or when they were older, feel what they felt when they would sneak off for some time alone together. Sure, I knew a familial love – the knowledge that I had people around me that supported me and cared for me. But, in the world of my childhood, this was a fact that I assumed applied universally; I only realized the special nature of our family bond when I watched the disputes of my friends and their own siblings or family members. It made me cherish my family more and added to the responsibility I felt towards maintaining the standards and values my parents proffered.

No, it wasn’t perfection. Our family fought, each of us ingrained with a certain stubbornness that made for some spectacular sparks. But the heat was quick to lose its intensity, and they never seemed to threaten the core relationship that knit us together. I found amazing comfort in that stability, in the absolute certainty of our kinship. And I was determined to have future generations benefit from the same trust, companionship, love.

But love that involved intimacy and attraction and sex – was something beyond my realm of comprehension. These were emotions driven by a force greater than a desire for a family network, the shared connection of bloodlines. And it threw me, what made the process of falling in love feel like such a conundrum. Besides, with the statistics of failed relationships, the constancy in which I saw others fall in and out of “love”, the word had, in my mind, been rendered meaningless. And that made it impossible to imagine how I might ever find stop the ache that I managed to keep to myself.

Chapter 5

I had gotten into the habit of visiting my father’s grave every month or so. It grew out of our own monthly phone calls that had developed in the last two years of his life. It had become a pattern – a comfortable tradition that allowed me to share more personal and emotional aspects of my life than I had ever previously dared. I’d call in the evening, on the second Thursday of the month. We’d always begin the same. I’d ask how mom and sis were, and he’d always return with,

“‘The loves’ of my life are doing fine…but they’ve got too much energy”.

I’d laugh, and he’d immediately ask,

“And you son, have anyone in your life with too much energy?”

I’d winced every time he said it. And, even though I expected it with every phone call, I still stuttered with my generic answer.

“No dad…and you better stop asking because I’m bound to not look if you keep pestering me.”

He’d chuckle himself, a somewhat gruff sound, that lasted for a short couple seconds. I don’t ever remember him laughing much, so it meant something to get such a sound out of him. Eventually I’d talk about work, things that were bugging me or pissing me off at school and the basic in and outs of the past month. He’d prod here and there, but it really became a time for me to stream thoughts at him – something I never did when I was younger. It bothered me at first, me rambling on and on. But, if I’d stop, or complain he wasn’t saying much, he’d just quietly say how much he liked hearing about his son’s life.

After he died, I began to make a monthly trip to his gravesite. I had only missed the trip once, on account of horrible weather that has stranded my car in a foot of snow. Now at school, I faced a couple-hour drive from my apartment, but it had become a necessary thing to include in my life. I’d stay for a half an hour or so, talking to his grave while clearing the grass around his headstone. I’d imagine his responses to my comments on the weather, the things going on with my school work, my continuing disinterest in a social life. I’d catch him up on the news with mom and sis, and if I was feeling really out of shape, I’d talk about my fears about, which now focused primarily on my impending graduation.

Though I was loathed to admit it, this whole senior year thing was completely freaking me out. Originally, I had a plan. I entered college with a specific path laid out, and so far I had followed it quite well. But, somehow, during the past two years, with the upheaval of my father’s death and my time away from school, I had lost sight of the destination. I had lost sight of the final goal of all the work I was doing, the classes I was taking, the things I was studying.

Mr. Becker’s class confused me. I was, for the first time, engrossed in my work – work that felt quite different from anything else I had previously done. My interested in English, as a subject of study, evolved from my need to somehow express myself. Writing was a hobby, and whether it was a research paper for a class, or some random thoughts in my diary, writing was never something I imagined pursuing. Now, as I waded through piles of research, scouring the publications of academics, writers, columnists and pundits, I could see options for me that I had never considered.

I viewed my undergraduate education as a layover on my way to some highly-respected professional field. It wasn’t here where I would determine my life’s work. I was here to enjoy learning new things, broadening my horizons, and delving into some personal interest that would make me a better conversationalist. The professional path would come afterwards; probably internships in consulting or law, before applying to graduate school in Business or Law.

I was supposed to become someone important, powerful – use my smarts to make myself independently wealthy and respectable. By taking that path, I would fulfill a personal promise; I would make my father proud of what I achieved and, as I saw it, repay him for the life he had provided me. I would choose a career that would allow me to provide for my future family the way my father had provided for me, my mother and my sister. To my father, the ultimate expression of our gratitude would be to surpass his own accomplishments, learn from his mistakes, and our own children the privileges he worked so hard to give us.

I was feeling the pressure of this unspoken promise more and more significantly. As a senior, I was supposed to have a game plan for the upcoming five years. I was suppose to be like my closest friends, Emily or Julie, who, by the end of their junior years, had taken prep courses and entrance exams for their respective post-graduate careers. Emily and Julie had been well-prepared for their futures. They had applications in hand once they had become available, done extensive research on the best schools for specific specialties, and met with career counselors to discuss their personal statements. Now, while I was returning to the undergraduate grind, Emily and Julie were on well on their way to living “real” lives.

Chapter 4

It was my first day back to school; it was, like all previous years, highly uncomfortable. Surrounding me were fifteen unrecognizable faces, each filled with the eagerness that comes with a new semester of college. With the time I had taken off from school, I was at least a year older than any other student. Being in a three-hundred level course meant, more likely, that I was two years older than the other students, maybe three.

Out of place and extremely self-conscious, I purposely sat in a corner, keeping my eyes on my notebook in front of me while absorbing the sounds of the quickly filling room. Being the first day, everyone was early – a full 5 minutes before class was even scheduled to start. I could sense the anticipation of the entrance of our professor. The course was brand new, titled, enticingly enough, “Alternative Readings of the Television sitcom” and taught by a Professor Becker; since our English department was on the small side, most students recognized the names of our more prominent professors immediately. From the buzz around the room, I gathered that no one had heard of Mr. Becker. With two minutes until start time, he walked in.

Everyone stopped, all heads turned towards the door. He was younger than I expected; in fact, he looked like a newly minted Doctoral student just embarking on his road towards full-fledged professorship. (Later online research would reveal him to be just that; recently appointed, this was his first year as a full-time faculty member) To give Mr. Becker credit, he took the sudden attention with the casualness of a tenured faculty member. He just nodded, a quick grin spreading across his face,

“You don’t need have to pay attention to me yet…class doesn’t begin for at least another minute and a half…”

The comment set the tone for his course – one that I soon found great pleasure in. I was an English major, in a school where an English major studied Literary and Cultural Studies rather than straight literature. And when I saw the course, I immediately thought that studying television as a cultural text would be a fine excuse for my habit of having the thing on constantly.

For some reason, whether it was his slightly off-beat humor, the occasionally self-deprecating revelations he made off-handedly during a class discussion, or that aura of a slightly nerdy academic, I was intrigued. Unlike others, whether professors or fellow students, I found him engaging. He spoke with a sense of…well…knowledge may be the best way to describe it. He emanated an air of casual confidence; you trusted his analysis of the subject matter but felt that, if you disagreed, you could approach him. Perhaps it was because of his age, which meant his distance from us, his students, was not that great. Whatever it was, it was appealing to meet someone who could teach without being didactic, who seemed open to discussion rather than lecturing.

Mr. Becker taught the course in ways that appealed specifically to someone as slightly obsessive/compulsive as me. The semester was completely laid out, down to the pages for the weekly readings and the time needed to view specific shows. This allowed me to read about a week ahead, which always made me feel better. It was his approach to television watching that truly hooked me. It looked at ways in which television characters played with the standard stereotypes, using identities specifically chosen to make them relatable to both the audience watching and their function within the show. We talked about ways in which certain character “quirks” made the character accessible or “real” without alienating the core viewing audience. We dove into the reasons why viewers became attached to who they were watching and why. Through his class, I was finding importance in a pastime that was, unfortunately, becoming a larger and larger part of my life.

For me, it wasn’t a chore to go to class, to do the homework, to participate in the discussions. I found myself always looking forward to class, to see the ways in which the most common things about a sitcom could be interpreted, analyzed, talked about. The point was not to create bullshit about what you were watching, even though that was really easy. It was actually creating a line of argument to support how you saw what you saw. It was bringing meaning to a scene or a character’s behavior that seemed not only plausible, but integral, to understanding the basic premises of the conflict, action or dialogue. And when it happened, when I found that line of argument that made the pieces fall together, it was like seeing a full image after playing connect the dots – what was once impossible to discern was now impossible to ignore. And, to my great humor, it was giving meaning to a medium that was often brushed off as low-brow rubbish.

The greatest challenge facing me in the course was our semester-long research paper. In a month of research and reading, I had yet to figure out exactly what interested me. Googling various general headings, I eventually found an overview for a paper Mr. Becker presented at a recent literary conference. It was an interesting premise, discussing the developing role of the folly character in sitcoms. Mr. Becker argued that, beyond comic relief, the folly character was central to the success of the sitcom itself. Without appealing follies or sidekicks, characters that were obviously stereotypes but appealing enough to find a following among the viewing audience, the sitcom, he argued, was bound to fail. I was attracted to the argument since it dealt so specifically with characters that were generally dismissed.

I found the premise inspiring. I thought, perhaps, I might find something here to pursue. There was only one problem. The online text was abbreviated; I couldn’t find a complete version anywhere. As part of the conference, the paper had not yet been published, which meant there was no way to get a hard copy from the library. If I really wanted to read the material, or even get a clear understanding of the full argument, I had to go directly to the source.

My growing respect for Mr. Becker made the prospect of individual interaction intimidating. While class had been in session for over a month, I had never contacted him personally. In class, I answered the occasional question, handed in my work on time. But this was amongst a room-full of over-eager students ready and willing to call attention to themselves, each with the hope that their over-extended commentaries would help in defining them from the others. I mostly sat in my same corner, listening to the debates and secretly devising double-meanings to the comments of my fellow classmates. It was an intimate soap-opera running on the screen in my head.

The prospect of speaking to him seemed, somehow, akin to prospect of interviewing a famous movie star. I was nervous, jittery about a one-on-one meeting. It took me a full week after reading the abbreviated work before I contacted him through email. I think I was slightly shaking when I hit the send button. I developed strange and wild scenarios in my head about what might happen next. I wasn’t worried about getting the full text – he was actively assisting several students in finding research material. I was just afraid of what he might think of me doing work so closely related to his own. What if he wanted my opinions? What if my questions were insipid or simplistic? What would happen if he viewed my interest as foolish and unsophisticated?

I sent him an email late on a Friday evening, just before leaving the library. It was one of those hasty decisions made after hours of frustrated searching through the numerous books and references listings I had found. Everything seemed tangentially related to my own interests, but nothing seemed clearly usable. I was becoming somewhat frantic. The pressure of attempting to impress Mr. Becker with my own research, compounded by the fact that I was not actually finding anything to support it, was making me second guess my abilities. This was a rare experience, one of the few times when I was losing confidence in my academic prowess. And once that went, I had nothing to fall back on.

To my surprise, I had a response by the next morning. Since I was up at 7:00 am on a Saturday, and I had sent the email at around midnight on Friday, I was amazed that he had time to read the message. I checked the time stamp, which read 12:35 am. Damn, what the hell was he doing replying to a student’s email on a Friday night that late? Why was he even reading email that late?

++++

I am surprised you came across that paper. I’ll bring a full copy to Monday’s class. Since you are looking at my work, would you like to come in and discuss it? Let me know. I’d be happy to give you some more source material. I’ve attached a resource list that I think would be helpful to you. I’d also like to discuss the direction you are taking with your own work. Let me know when you are free to meet.

Mr. Becker

I re-read the message a couple of times. This was exactly what I had feared. He wanted to meet in person. Not only did he want to meet, he made it seem mandatory. There wasn’t a good way to get out of a personal meeting. That meant I would have to explain myself in person, without the filter of writing things down on paper and editing them. That meant I would have to talk on the fly. I would have to be spontaneous and well-spoken. I would have to speak without stuttering, stumbling, or mumbling. How the hell was I going to do that? I sent a response email thanking Mr. Becker in advance for that paper, completely ignoring the latter half of the email. Then I went out for a run.

Chapter 3

For the longest time, I thought it nearly impossible for me to get close to people. Though my childhood was, in my mind, as normal as they come, I often felt I had missed some crucial experiences that would make me fit in better, interact with others more comfortably. Whether it was true or not, I felt like an outsider within whatever social context I floated in. I wasn’t a hermit. I didn’t actively avoid being around others. It’s just that, from elementary school on, I always felt that the people I called “friends” would more accurately be described as “good acquaintances”. They were people to shoot the shit with, catch a movie and grab a bite to eat with – all the typical stuff of teenage life. They were not, however, the lifelong friendships I quietly yearned for. There was always a distance between me and other people. Even with my closest friends, I had a hard time sharing intimate thoughts or fears. It was a failing that prevented me from the comfortable intimacy I imagined my friends shared with each other.

My reserve, I found, had a more profound effect. Seen as serious, focused, and rather, well, bookish, I developed a reputation that was, unintentionally, intimidating. Consequently, I was never someone people thought to call unexpectedly or ask out spontaneously. Everyone assumed that I spent my free time consumed by homework or school activities or some philanthropic activity to fill out my resume. If I wanted to go out, it was up to me to plan it, make the calls, coordinate the schedules. It just seemed like too much work. Thus, social events for me occurred rather infrequently by my final year or so of high school.

Everyone I knew seemed to have that “best” friend, be it with romantic connotations or not. I knew what I was seeking in theory – after all, it was the same things that were being bombarded into my head in all the television I had seen, the magazines that were lying around my apartment, and seemingly, between all of the people around me. Apparently I was the only one clueless enough to be unable to find someone to develop such an intimate relationship - that go-to person to talk about things slightly deeper than the performance of the local sports team or the quality of the latest big budget nonsense that had come from Hollywood. I wanted someone to trust – a person I could talk to and share the crazy and surreal things going on in my head. I had dreams, fears, and desires all hidden away in a little journal instead.

My journal was a thin, nondescript black book. It’s only distinguishing feature was a small “d” inscribed roughly into its front cover. But that black book held within its covers everything I wanted to share out loud; trapped and hidden on its off-white pages was the real me, captured in words and letters of think black ink.

Yet, somehow, even my writing betrayed me; as I re-read old entries I noticed a tendency to avoided truly personal details, generalizing people, places and events in the fear that somehow, someday, someone would open it, read it, and figure me out.

That paradox seemed symbolic. On one hand I wanted to share myself with someone I trust. On the other hand, I found comfort in the protection my isolation provides. I guaranteed myself invulnerability at the expense of intimacy. I wanted two extremes and was clueless on how they might be reconciled.

Looking back, I can see that my childhood experiences didn’t help. I spent most of my elementary years hanging out with several girls from my neighborhood and never thought about it once. We weren’t playing dolls or anything like that. It just that, being very un-athletic, I was the last to participate in the sports other boys gravitated towards. Sure co-ed games happened, and on those occasions I participated. But overall, I knew, and seemingly everyone else knew, that when it came to picking a winning team, I wasn’t going to be on it.

Thus, as I grew up, I learned how to interact with girls much better than with boys. And while it didn’t matter so much as a young elementary student running around on the monkey bars, as I got older, I found myself straddling a fine line, naive to the budding consciousness of gender difference and sexual desire that goes along with maturity. I was hunting for the simplicity of a platonic relationship. Everyone around me was interested in getting laid.

By the end of high school, the only people I really hung out with were girls. I liked that girls talked about things – I found that I gravitated towards people who liked conversation, who said what they were thinking. As hypocritical as it was, I had a hard time believe the other guys in my high school could be interested in things beyond sports, cars and the latest gangster rap.

I only realized how different I was, my childhood was, when I arrived at college. Unlike my high school girl friends, most of the girls in college were reticent about being close friends with a guy. I shouldn’t have been surprised, really. Single young men and women, free from the constraints of their families, living independent lives without the responsibilities of real life – this meant that the first thing on the mind of anyone meeting someone of the opposite sex was whether or not they were a viable hook up. My platonic sensibilities were not really interesting to most girls. And my inexperience in the traditional rituals of male friendships made it hard for me to understand how I could become friends with other guys.

As much as I feared the social implications of going to college, I was confident about myself, my goals, what I wanted, when I left home. School was always a place of security – it was the single realm in which I clearly understood my abilities. It was a place to excel, to stand out, to define the ways in which I was more than just a nondescript nobody. In academics I found a place to develop a belief in myself. I might not be pretty, I might not be a star athlete, but in any classroom setting, I was someone to contend with.

I had always been drawn to English as a subject. It seemed like an obvious fit, considering the importance books had as companions throughout my childhood. They held imaginary worlds, entranced my mind with pictures of unique places and memorable people that I could feel somehow connected to. Reading allowed me access to the thoughts of others; though they were fictional, the best novels created characters that felt alive to me, characters so real that I would refer to them as friends. I knew these characters through and through, developing an intimacy with them that I desperately desired from a real person.

Beyond that, I saw in English the potential to express things I found so difficult to say out loud. For me, the power of words to shape opinion, thought, and emotion were undeniably attractive. If I could master language, I could then become, on paper, the charismatic and interesting individual I was not in person. On paper I could transform my identity, draw people into my world, or rather my perceptions of the world, and maybe, just maybe, make a connection with them.

It is idealistic, but think about those times when you have written a paper for class. Have you ever just known, while proof-reading, that you have written something persuasive, well argued, that would make someone ask themselves, “why didn’t I see that?” For me, that was the challenge – to have that moment when my ideas and opinions found the necessary support to come together in a tight and cohesive way. If I wrote something that met these goals, I felt a sense of, well, empowerment. It was a rare time when I felt completely in control. I chose the words, I arranged the pieces, I weaved the paper into its final form. If it succeeded or failed, it was because of me, not some outside influence.

By the time of my senior year in college, I was finding myself focused on the Cultural studies coursework of our English department. I loved Literary and Cultural Studies. I mean, where else could the study of TV be considered a plausible academic pursuit? I had found a niche at school, and in the broad expanse of subjects under the title of Literary studies, I had found an area of study I felt truly interested in.

I had taken several courses in the study of television and film, building a course load that could define a distinct concentration. For me, seeing television in the title of any class ensured that I would be attending. Television had become a trusted companion as I had navigated life after my father’s death. Television was so…safe. Conflicts in television were contained; usually resolved within a quick half an hour to an hour, they generally didn’t alter the world of the character in a dramatic, and more importantly, traumatic way. The main characters of sitcoms or series were guaranteed to be there – to return in the next episode, the next week, the next month, the next season. In television, the people you came to cared about would not disappear on you, leaving your life at a point when they had become really important.

So, though I didn’t openly admit it, by the final year of college, before my father’s death, I had exchanged time with people for time with my TV. It even, occasionally, encouraged me to interact socially, like on Thursday nights when my apartment became the central location for viewing Must See TV on NBC. But, for the most part, my TV and I had an exclusive relationship which was wonderfully one-directional. It entertained me, kept me company, connected me to the world, and if it bothered me or annoyed me, I could turn it off and move to my books. And, if for some reason I wished to get out of going somewhere, I had an excuse; I just told people I had a standing date with my best friend.