June 27, 2008\u202f
You are what you love (and not what loves you back)<\/p>\n
She\u2019d been gone for ten minutes before I decided to leave.<\/p>\n
When I come to, I\u2019m face down in the dirt and moss, and I can see ants crawling over my right hand, which is still holding my phone. I have three messages.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s hot. Sweat is pooling in all the cracks of my body. The arch of my lower back. My knees. My neck. I roll over to face the sky and feel beads trickling into my ears and eyes.<\/p>\n
How did I get here?<\/p>\n
June 30, 2008\u202f
The bus to county<\/p>\n
I remember three things 1) The song playing on the bus (yes, they played the radio) was \u201cGangstas Make the World Go \u2018Round\u201d and all the gangstas\u2014real and wannabe\u2014rapped along; 2) There was a guy in the cage at the front of the bus de-toxing from something and every time he vomited on himself the people sitting directly across from him would laugh; and 3) An effeminate black man was handcuffed to my left hand and every chance he was given made sure that everyone knew that he was a homosexual.<\/p>\n
\u201cDoes anyone have any special needs?\u201d a deputy asked during processing, \u201cMedications?\u201d Up shoots his hand and with it mine, \u201cSir, I\u2019m a homosexual.\u201d<\/p>\n
Pause. \u201cNo shit.\u201d<\/p>\n
But after the laughter died down, they did separate him into the special population of prisoners that were at above-average risk; violence being the worry for this gentleman probably more than sodomy.<\/p>\n
The downward spiral<\/p>\n
I get to the restaurant five minutes late to find her waiting halfway between the entrance and the back. I feel good and it\u2019s good to see her.<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
\u201cYou look like you haven\u2019t slept in a few days,\u201d she says. \u201cAre you drinking?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s good to see you too.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI worry about you.\u201d The moment of tenderness is unexpected and I have to blink and look away. But instead of appreciating the gesture I get defensive.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re worried about me?\u201d<\/p>\n
And before I can say anything else to ruin the moment, she reaches across the table, grabs the back of my head and rubs her fingers against the short hairs just above my neck.<\/p>\n
\u201cI wish I had the energy to take care of you.\u201d The look on her face is so profoundly sad that I can\u2019t decide what to feel.<\/p>\n
I\u2019m disappointed in a way I wasn\u2019t prepared to be when I walked through the door.<\/p>\n
September 1, 2008\u202f
Lessons from a five-year old<\/p>\n
\u201cDaddy, who was that lady you were talking to?\u201d
\u201cLady? Oh, the waitress? That was the waitress, Baby.\u201d
\u201cYou like ladies don\u2019t you, Daddy?\u201d
\u201cWhat? Yes, I guess. Daddy likes ladies, Daddy likes most\u2026\u201d
\u201cYou love ladies don\u2019t you, Daddy?\u201d
\u201cWhat? what do you\u2026\u201d
\u201cI mean, you love the idea of them.\u201d<\/p>\n
That\u2019s my at the time 5 year-old daughter pretty much verbatim.<\/p>\n
October 31, 2008\u202f
Five feet, five inches<\/p>\n
I had only ever heard her tell one lie before but it was a lie that she often repeated. I should clarify. There were probably other lies. But, this is the only one for which I had confirmation. Her lies were never actual commissions. There were no claims of I was with so-and-so at so-and-so\u2019s house to be denied later or caught up in a web of entanglements. That was my domain. No, hers was a vague dishonesty often wrapped in a series of truthful statements. \u201cI\u2019ll think about it\u201d was a favorite. Even with a pre-determined outcome, one could claim to think about it and never tell an actual lie. I digress.<\/p>\n
I remember when we first met, and the subject of height came up, she would always answer, \u201cFive, five.\u201d Punctuating the second five, its resonance speaking truth to doubt while accenting the symmetry suggested by the repeated number. \u201cFive, FIVE.\u201d<\/p>\n
As our relationship made the slow progression from acquaintances to lovers, slow being 4 months from April to August, it is surprising how often this question came up.
Casually in conversation
\u201cYou\u2019re what, about five, four?\u201d
\u201cFive, five.\u201d
At the doctor\u2019s office
\u201cHeight?\u201d
\u201cFive, five.\u201d
In mock debate
\u201cYou\u2019re five, five like I\u2019m six feet.\u201d
\u201cThen you\u2019re six feet.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/p>\n
I measured her once. The result was five feet, three and three quarter inches, fully one inch less than her claim. And though this discussion may seem frivolous it is actually the perfect microcosm of what our relationship was to become. In many ways, both figurative and literal, we were just over one inch away.<\/p>\n
I write this without triumph. This measurement was merely the first in a series of selfish mistakes; a perfect symbol. In fact, taking that measurement may be the biggest regret I have about our relationship. In that act lay the seeds of doubt and disrespect that were sown over the next years. And inherent in the gesture are the spectrum of poor communication choices\u2014condescension, self-righteousness, obstinacy, blame\u2013that once invoked, can almost never be forgotten. Why did it seem so important to sully her \u201cFive, five?\u201d It is not an exaggeration to say that if there is anything in this life I would change, and there is a long list of candidates meriting serious reflection, giving that back to her would be near the top of the list.<\/p>\n
Today, her default answer is \u201cFive, four.\u201d Not quite right, but one would forgive the slight embellishment in the interest of brevity if nothing else. \u201cFive foot three and three quarters\u201d is an answer that betrays desperation. She was many things, but desperate was not one of them. Still, I feel a pang of hurt when I hear that number, \u201cFive, four\u201d and all that it represents. The irony, of course, is that she has probably long forgotten the declarations, the measurement, the redefinitions. I hate hearing the question or hearing the answer or reading or thinking about height. It\u2019s a reminder to me of my failure to recognize, sometimes at the most crucial moments, what is important and what just feels that way, however intensely. The short-term glow of being right traded violently against the long-term bask of mutual benefit. I don\u2019t ever lie about how tall I am anymore, and I can\u2019t even say her name. And these two facts are inextricably related.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
June 27, 2008\u202f You are what you love (and not what loves you back) She\u2019d been gone for ten minutes before I decided to leave. When I come to, I\u2019m face down in the dirt and moss, and I can see ants crawling over my right hand, which is still holding my phone. I have … <\/p>\n