SMS and Parenthesis

Starting Tuesday night, I had a good 24 hours. Got a dream offer from SCR, spent a solid four hours with this guy I really dig (call him Z) and found out he’s even into poetry. Work on Wednesday was so-so, but at least I could leave at an early 5:30 and join my foodie friend for a Pineapple Pacman at the Alibi Room. I was even in a good enough mood to endure a Korean horror flick that Z recommended.

The film (Thirst, for you K-cinema enthusiasts) was indeed heavy, but I could take that box of chocolates. Other films had done far worse damage to my emotional state, namely Requiem for a Dream, The Last Kiss, and A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints. As the credits rolled and I took this into consideration, my phone emitted the slow crescendo of a brass chord. It was the text ID for my mom. I need warnings like this to prepare myself for any kind of communication with her. Her previous ringer IDs include “Totally Fucked” from Spring Awakening and “Lux Aeterna” from Requiem.

The text read: “Hey mutt, just wanted to tell you that Laura is sharing things you’ve told her with Robin and Robin is sharing it with whomever she chooses…just sayin…” My first thought was, Well, I had a good 24 hours. I guess time’s up.

The only “things” of note that I disclosed to my cousin Laura were the guilt complex fueling my too-responsible-for-22 outlook, and the highlights from a series of self-destructive shenanigans that I survived when studying abroad in Australia almost three years ago.

My stomach yanked at my throat, my equilibrium taking a violent swerve. I wanted to puke. To cry. To implode and disappear.

It was 11pm. What could I do? I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep, of course, but I couldn’t talk to anyone. I couldn’t fact-check my mother’s claims by calling those she named, and I couldn’t frantically dial my best friends for advice because they were fast asleep, three hours ahead on the East Coast.

So I replied, “Fan-fucking-tastic.” What more was there to say?

I waded through Thursday, trying to Zen the fuck out of the situation and convince myself to let go of things I couldn’t control. I couldn’t make anyone forget whatever they’d been told. I didn’t know what exactly was out there, but I couldn’t retrieve it. Taoism is great in concept, but ironically difficult to practice.

I was home and in sweats when Z texted, asking if I wanted to join him and his improv friends for “drinks or something” after their show. I jumped on the offer, and though we ended up skipping drinks (too many under-21s in the group), it felt good to laugh over a plate of comfort food at Roscoe’s. Walking back to my car, Z asked what was wrong, why I’d been so eager to get “a solid drink,” as I’d phrased it earlier. I asked if he wanted the short, vague story or the long life story. He said it was up to me.

We ended up at my apartment, and I finally confessed that I wanted to tell him the long story, but was afraid of scaring him away. We’d known each other for two weeks, and the various strings behind my recent drama seemed a little intense for that time frame. He said not to worry, and though I didn’t fully believe him, I gave the long, dirty, shameful story.

Turns out he used to harbor some of the same habits that peppered my past. We shared more than either of us expected in fucked up families, flinching histories, residual fears, the whole lot. We both breathed a little easier with everything on the table, and I finally slept.

During our goodbyes the next morning, he said, “I hope you feel better.” It took me a second to remember what he was talking about; I’d forgotten about the previous day’s low. I blinked at the brief pang in my gut, but that’s it. Just a blink.

It wasn’t as if the situation had remedied itself, or that I was suddenly impervious to whatever would come when I talked to my mom a few days later. No, it was simply that, at that moment, my life went all American Beauty, and with everything Z had given me to be thankful for, I couldn’t be in a bad mood. I wouldn’t.