Saturday, January 19, 2008

brilliant trace #7

My memory of you starts with an order of nachos and soda we shared several Friday nights in a row at Skateland.

You were tall and lanky, I was short with frizzy hair, and both of us wore huge glasses that consumed our faces.

We were in fifth or sixth grade, and I can't exactly remember how we met because we went to different schools. Somehow though, we ended up talking and sharing nachos while everyone else couple skated under the dark disco lights to Firehouse's "Love of a Lifetime."

I would always ask you why you came to Skateland and never skated. You would always answer by saying you didn't know. The rest of the details about our conversations are long since forgotten, and so were you until a couple of years ago.

I was home from New York for Christmas and had just finished celebrating the holidays at my brother's house in St. Paul. During the car ride to Jamestown from the Twin Cities, Firehouse's "Love of a Lifetime" came on the radio. I sighed to myself, "Ah, Skateland. When everything was simple when it came to girls and boys."

My nephew, who was in the backseat, overheard me and asked," What's Skateland?"

I felt sad that the tin shed with the uneven blue cement floor had closed its doors for good, and that my nephew would never get to experience the excitement of Friday nights skating in circles to music. So, I told him about Skateland and about you.

My nephew continued playing his video game while I told the story, and without looking up he said, "Sounds lame."

I laughed and spent the rest of the car ride home wondering what happened to you. Somewhere between childhood and our teenage years we lost touch. I fell into the drama crowd and you the party crowd.

Later that evening after my family got into town I made my annual rounds to the local bars on Main Street. My friend and I were about to call it a night when I heard from behind me, "Vanessa? Vanessa Casavant?"

I turned around and about dropped my beer when I saw you sitting at the bar. The tall and lanky kid I remembered had grown even taller, but was now a very good looking man sporting a well-trimmed beard.

We chatted a bit, and I found out you had just returned from spending the past several years since high school in Europe working in the Air Force. You were living with your old man and working odd jobs figuring out what you wanted to do with the rest of your life. We exchanged phone numbers saying we should hang out sometime before I had to leave for New York.

I never did plan on calling you. Partly because I didn't want to mess with what was an already splendid chance meeting, but mostly because of the last experience I had with running into brilliant trace #5 the year prior while home for Christmas. I figured I had reached my limit of holiday flings with guys from my hometown who left me brokenhearted.

Then you called me a few days later, and I figured it couldn't hurt to have a beer and catch up. We ended up hanging out until 4 a.m. talking about politics, life, and our plans for the future. I was amazed at how much in common we had, and how our views of the world were so similar. I had also forgotten how funny you were, and how nice it was to laugh with you.

When we finally said goodnight I didn't know what to think, other than it was completely amazing running into you. I forgot how good of friends we had been before high school, and it didn't surprise me to find this note from you in my eighth-grade yearbook: Thanks for being my friend this year, even if we don't talk to each other very much I'm still your friend. Have a nice summer.

While it's not exactly the kind of prose that gets a girl misty-eyed in eighth grade, it is a note that touches an adult woman's heart when she realizes how incredibly mature an eighth grade boy had to be to write it.

I was happy that we got to talk a few more times before I had to fly back to New York, and that you invited me to ring in New Years 2005 with you and your buddies at the Old Broadway in Fargo.

I was going to go to bed early on New Year's Eve because I had to catch a plane to Albany the next morning where I was going to start my journalism internship. I ignored practicality because really wanted to see you one more time. Little did I know almost everyone we graduated with would be at the bar, so we didn't get too much time to talk. Instead, we danced and I counted down the hours until midnight.

I was hoping against all hope that the shy side of you would disappear and kiss me. When the time finally came and we were both counting down, I was kissed unexpectedly by a very drunk old friend. I was so shocked that I pushed him off me, and feeling like a complete jerk I looked at you - who barely seemed to notice.

My heart sank a little bit, but then you asked, "Who was that?" I couldn't explain very well, because all I really wanted to do was kiss you, but I knew the moment had passed.

Later in the night I finally got the courage to tell you I had enjoyed the time we got to spend together, and that it would be awesome if you could come to Albany and visit for a while.

That's when you told me you were offered a lucrative job in the Middle East and that you'd have to start within the next few weeks if you took it.

After an uncomfortable pause, I asked, "So are you going to take it?"

You said you didn't know, but that it was a lot of money you'd never have a chance to make again.

I wanted to say, "Money is just money. You've spent so much time overseas putting off your life. You should come live it and be with me in Albany." Instead, as best as I could, I helped you sort through the details of how much you would make, why you should go, and why you shouldn't.

After all was said, you looked straight into my eyes and asked, "Should I take it?"

I looked at you, and pushing back all of my selfish thoughts, all I could say was, "I'm too drunk to know what to say."

Then my cousin pulled up outside to take me home, and we were left with only an awkward goodbye.

A few days later you called to say you were taking the job.

Despite being halfway across the world from each other, you kept in better contact with me than any other guy I'd met at a moment of inconvenient timing. We sent weekly emails, and I even got a satellite phone call from you once and awhile. I kept asking when you were going to come home, and you kept saying you didn't know.

After almost a year of waiting for you, I couldn't anymore. I needed to live my life in the present, and not on what I hoped the future would hold. Our emails became fewer and fewer, and so did your phone calls.

I moved on with a guy who would eventually become brilliant trace #8. When he left me brokenhearted you called from a satellite phone at a ridiculously early hour in your time zone to make sure I was all right - because that's the kind of guy you are.

I eventually picked up the pieces of my heart and met brilliant trace #9, who I was in a relationship with when you came to visit Seattle last year. You called me, and I wanted to see you, but I was afraid. So I never called, and pretended I was sick. I've felt guilty about that ever since, and still think about you all the time - wondering what could be if you ever decided to come back home.

What I've learned from you is that genuine, mature men do exist, and I should never lose hope when I think otherwise.

brilliant trace #8 - Part I >

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