Chapter 23
I'd started reading Rip Current because I needed something to
cleanse my emotional palate after Jamie O'Neill's At Swim, Two Boys
had messed with me so badly. If I'd needed to get away from that book's
general theme, however, I'd made a wrong choice.
Rip Current
purported to be the true story of a guy looking back on his
relationship with his best friend from high school. That was too close
to home; it was the complete antithesis of what I was looking for.
The exact thing I wasn't looking for, in fact. From the
first
words, the tone was bittersweet, and that wasn't what I needed. But
precisely because the subject matter dealt with a theme that had lodged
in my heart, I chose to read on. The author's storytelling style had
grabbed me from the first sentence. By the fifth paragraph I was hooked.
Rip Current was
about a guy torn by conflicting needs: His first sexual impulses and
exploits as a teenager are heterosexual; gradually, though, he comes to
realize he's also in love with his best friend.
I settled in and
began reading. By the time I looked away from the screen, two hours had
gone by, and I was emotionally wrung out. As I made my way through
paragraph after paragraph, I felt as if Drew, the author, had seen into
my life and heart. I'd never encountered anything before that so
exactly expressed my feelings. Reading Rip Current aroused
strong memories of my own high school years: memories of what it was
like to be bisexual and confused, to have your heart belong two places
at once, with two different people of two different genders.
I
was astonished. I knew people who could relate to pieces of my
experience, but no one I'd ever met seemed to relate to the whole
confusing mess as well as this guy seemed to. There were passages in Rip
Current
describing experiences that mirrored my own, and the way Drew expressed
his inner thoughts was occasionally identical to the way I'd expressed
my own feelings to myself. In the same words, even.
The story
wasn't finished; it left off with the narrator's growing attraction to
the blonde female classmate introduced a couple of chapters before the
last one he'd posted. The last chapter available also
narrated the main
character's growing internal emotional tension: He was
enjoying life as
a popular, well-liked kid at school, a guy who'd made his way sexually
through a large sample of the female population of his class; at the
same time, though, his feelings for his best friend were blossoming
into something that he could hardly admit to himself.
By the
time I'd made it through where the author had left off, I felt like I'd
been hit in the head with a sledgehammer. Drew's story tore through
years of defenses and brought me face to face with the gaping hole in
my life...
The place where Brian was supposed to be.
I sat at my computer desk, feeling vulnerable and alone, missing Brian
desperately; physically aching
for him, and almost angry about feeling so devastated, so sad. After
all these years. After all the work I'd done shielding my heart from
him. And now, here I sat, all my defenses blown away. By a damn
internet story.
I thought about what
a mess I'd made of my life with Jonah by bottling up all my fears and
anxieties. Bottling things up had been my main coping technique over
the years; I realized that now. I sat there, staring blankly at the
computer screen, devastated by the enormity of loss I'd reaped for
myself by that kind of "coping."
I needed someone to talk to
about Neal, and it occurred to me that Brian was the only person I
could even conceive of having that conversation with. In that
moment, I
decided that I wanted Brian back in my life.
No; I needed him
back in my life. A phone conversation once a year and the occasional
e-mail just didn't cut it. I didn't know how much of his friendship I'd
ever be able to get back, but I had cost myself the most important
relationship of my life because of my cowardice. I wasn't going to be a
coward anymore. I decided then and there I'd reclaim whatever there was
left of the friendship to reclaim. If it stung my heart for the rest of
my life not to be able to have Brian as fully as I wanted him, I'd face
it and deal with it for the sake of at least some kind of recovered
friendship with him.
The problem was, I'd cut him out of so
much. How could I talk to him about Neal, when I'd hidden everything I
could possibly hide at the time Neal had put me in the hospital? I had
no idea how much he knew about what had happened. I hadn't told
him
anything at all. In fact, I had pointedly refused to answer any
questions he asked about it. The emergency room personnel had
called
Brian's parents when I was admitted because they'd been listed as my
emergency contacts from when I lived with them, and they had medical
power of attorney for me. Brian had come with them when the ER had
called. I was sure his parents had been told enough about my injuries
to make an educated guess about all that had happened; what had
they
told Brian? I wasn't sure, and in the days and weeks that had followed,
I'd never had the guts to ask. It was hard enough to face him knowing
he knew that I had let Neal beat the crap out of me fairly regularly. I
couldn't have faced him at all if I thought he knew the rest of it, so
I refused even to consider that he might. When he asked, I
stonewalled
him. When he expressed concern, I wouldn't let him in. And gradually,
as time went by, he stopped trying to make me let him in. Finally, he
let me have it my way; he let me shut him out of my life.
What
was my next move? Was there even a way left any more for me to reach
out to Brian? I thought about it and kept bumping into dead ends.
I let it rest after stewing about it for a half hour, and went back to
the beginning of Rip Current.
I read the whole thing again, right up to where Drew had quit writing.
I couldn't shake the feeling that he was narrating a parallel-world
version of my own life. I read it all a third time, and then went to
bed. I'd been in turmoil for weeks, and as I turned out the lights, I
was still in turmoil. Things were different, though; there was now a new
set of anxieties. And in the middle of all that, there was an odd sense
of hope, which was terrifying in and of itself. I turned all these
things over in my head as I lay in the dark, and finally fell asleep.
* * * * * * * * *
Over the next few days, I re-read Rip Current a half-dozen
times. With each reading, the unnerving sense of familiarity
gripped
me; with each reading, I felt myself being pushed toward doing
something; what, I didn't know. All I knew was that I'd reached a kind
of end-point. I wasn't willing for "things" to continue as they'd been
going. I wasn't sure what that meant, but I was going to start the
process of finding out.
I figured I'd start with Drew, the author of Rip Current.
His e-mail address was at the bottom of each of his chapters. After
about the seventh re-read of his story, I decided to e-mail him.
I
wasn't sure what I wanted; I only knew that I had to reach out to the
guy. Someone whose story went the way his did...well, maybe he had some
insights for me. I wonder how his story turned out. Did he manage to
get over his love for his straight best friend? Did he ever tell him
how he felt? Had he managed to keep the friendship intact? Was he still
in love with him? How did he cope with that? Maybe if I could get him
to tell me a little bit about how things worked out for him, I could
get some insights into my own life, my own options. The first chapter
of his story foreshadowed a sad ending, so maybe things didn't work out
for him. But even if they hadn't, I might learn something from him that
would help me in my need to re-connect with Brian.
Almost as
soon as I'd decided to e-mail him, though, I began to torture myself
with misgivings. I didn't know this guy from Adam. It would be pretty
presumptuous to ask him to tell me about his life. Talk about a major
invasion of privacy. I mean, sure, he was telling his story on the
internet; that's not exactly keeping things confidential. But it's one
thing to write a story based on your life, changing the details--which
I figured he must have, at least a little--so that he couldn't be
easily identified by anyone in his real life who might stumble upon his
story...it's one thing to do that and another thing entirely to tell
the real stuff to some reader who contacts you out of the blue. What if
I wrote him, and he felt I was intruding? What if I came off as some
disturbed fan-type reader? How would he respond?
I considered the possibilities in my head for a couple of days.
Finally
I came to a sort of "what the hell" attitude and figured the worst he
could do would be to tell me to fuck myself. Something like that would
rank pretty low on the list of injuries I'd experienced in life, so I
sat down, took a deep breath, and opened up my e-mail account.
I've
always been painfully shy. Conversations, even by e-mail, with people I
don't know well tend to make me feel like I'm skydiving and the
parachute has just failed to open. Even calling to order pizza has a
measurable effect on my blood pressure. Any measure of familiarity,
either with the person I know or with the subject matter, makes things
feel less like I'm free-falling and more like I'm on a roller-coaster
ride. That's why I've been able to stand up in front of a classroom and
teach. Beyond that, I'm kind of an adrenaline junkie, and because of my
shyness I get an adrenaline high when I'm up in front of a classroom of
college kids. In a way, I think, the rush that comes with all that
actually keeps me interested in teaching. But e-mailing Drew, even from
the safety of my own home, was really scary. I had a sense for what I
wanted from him: I wanted to be able to "talk" to him some more. I
hoped that maybe we could have a short dialog through e-mails. Maybe
four or five exchanges that might help me with my dilemma concerning
how to restore my friendship with Brian. That seemed reasonable, but my
hands were still trembling a little as I put them on my
computer
keyboard.
I started typing. I understated what I wanted to say,
and hoped Drew would read between the lines. His writing suggested that
he wasn't a stupid guy, and the relationship between his protagonist
and his protagonist's best friend bore so much resemblance--in so many
ways--to the relationship I'd had with Brian, that it just about ripped
my heart out. I hoped that Drew might see that even if I didn't state
it explicitly or intensely.
As I thought about what to say to
him, I thought back over his story, and back over mine. I missed Brian
so much. As I worked on my e-mail to Drew, the years between then and
now melted away in my mind: I thought back on times when I'd be sitting
with Brian, feeling his support without anything needing to be said,
just the way Drew said he had supported his buddy Matt when Matt had
faced tragedies in his family life. I needed that kind of support
right
then, support that I could only imagine getting from Brian. The problem
was, I had no idea how to repair the disaster I'd created by pushing
him away over and over. I didn't even know how to put into words the
depth of my confusion over what to do, my despair, my need to be
friends with him again.
All of that came tumbling out in my e-mail to Drew. Or rather, I felt
it coming out; I didn't actually say any of it explicitly. I couldn't
force myself to be that direct; I didn't want Drew to think I was some
nut-job.
I ended up saying something lame and ambiguous: "The
parallels to my own life are striking." I looked at the words on the
screen, thinking, "Wow, how's that for brave and upfront?"
All cowardice aside, though, I couldn't explain any of it very well
beyond those words, and I definitely didn't want to impose the whole
grisly story on a total stranger.
I finished my e-mail to him,
took a deep breath, and pressed "send." Then I spent about a minute and
a half fighting off a panic reaction.
As I walked away from the
desk and began getting ready for bed, I realized that it wasn't just
Brian I was missing. I'd totally messed things up with Mary as well,
too, and she had been another important person in my life. The
thought
of reaching out to her didn't scare me as much. I hadn't screwed up
with her as badly as I had with Brian, so it seemed easier to approach
her. She was safely married, anyway, with a child, so the dynamic was
different.
I went back to my computer and wrote her an e-mail as
well. I wasn't too direct. I told her that my life wasn't in such a
good place and that I was hoping to regain some of the friendships and
ties from my past that had been so important to me.
* * * * * * * * *
I checked my e-mail from work the next day, and discovered that
Mary had already replied. She was happy to hear from me. She wanted to
know more of the ugly details concerning what was getting me down, but
I knew I couldn't go into that. She also told me that Brian was
currently in Chile. He still kept in touch with the family via
e-mail
from time to time, and she gave me his e-mail address.
It was
good to hear from her. She didn't write a whole lot, but her e-mail
felt to me like a little beam of sunlight in the dark room that my life
had become. The rest of the day I felt more hopeful than I'd felt in a
long time. It seemed as though I wasn't doomed to stay in this horrible
place of anxiety, fear over Neal, and ongoing personal sadness.
The
day after that, I opened my e-mail account and saw a reply from Drew
waiting to be read. Again, I had to fight through a brief panic attack.
It was unnecessary: Drew was warm and personable. He thanked me for
e-mailing him; he was glad I liked his story; and he told me that
several other readers had written him telling him how much his story
had reminded them of their own lives.
He told me a little bit
more about himself. He was a graduate student, working on a Ph.D. in
physics; he was engaged to a woman he'd known since elementary school;
and he was still friends with the guy he was writing about in Rip
Current.
I
was especially interested in that part. I wondered how things had gone
with him and his friend as the years had passed. In his internet
story,
he was building dramatic tension by emphasizing the discomfort and
denial he was going through in high school, trying to distance himself
from his growing feelings for his best friend. It seemed clear that in
the "storyline" things were headed for some kind of crisis. I wanted to
ask him about that. I wondered, though, if he wanted to give away
advance details that would spoil his story if they got out. And I
didn't want to impose any further. So in my e-mail response to him I
thanked him for replying; I told him a little bit about my past with
Brian; and I asked him if he were willing to tell me more about his
relationship with his best friend. Again, I was nervous as I was
writing to him, but not as nervous as I'd been the first time. I
pressed "send," feeling anxious, but hopeful.
Two days later
Drew replied. His e-mail was beyond anything I could have possibly
hoped for. He was friendly and engaging, as he'd been before. And he
was very generous in telling me about things that had happened between
him and his best friend. He told me that his best friend had come to be
aware that Drew was attracted to him, and that he'd been okay with it.
Drew himself, though, couldn't handle it, and had begun distancing
himself from Matt, assuming that his friend was now uncomfortable being
friends with a "faggot." He told me that he realized too late that he'd
manufactured that fear totally in his head, that Matt had never
felt
that way, and that he'd hurt him deeply by pushing him away.
As I read those words, a couple of tears fell from my eyes onto my
desk. I knew exactly how that felt. I'd lived it myself.
I had to stop reading for a few minutes, overwhelmed as I was,
again, by the similarities. How--why--had fate caused me
to stumble into this guy who'd apparently lived a parallel version of
my experience with my best friend?
I
finished reading the paragraphs Drew had written in response to my
request for him to tell me more about himself, and at the end of his
e-mail, he asked me for more details about my situation and
experiences. At that point I realized that we were starting something
that looked like it had many elements of a relationship; a friendship
of some kind, maybe even. Could a person do that over the internet?
With someone he'd never met in real life? I didn't know, but I did know
that since he'd been so willing to tell me more about his past, I
couldn't very well decline to answer his questions about me.
What
stayed with me the rest of the day, however, were the last words of his
e-mail: "It sounds like you have a story of your own to tell, one that
others might get something out of reading."
As soon as I read those words, I knew he was right. I did
have a story to tell.
At least to one person.
And now I knew how to make the approach.
* * * * * * * * *
I closed Drew's e-mail and re-opened the one Mary had first sent
me, the one where she'd sent Brian's e-mail address. I highlighted that
e-mail address and clicked "copy." Then I clicked on "compose." A
new
text window opened. I pasted Brian's e-mail address in the "to" box.
I opened up a browser Window, navigated to Rip Current, and
copied the URL to my clipboard.
Then
I clicked on the new text box. I felt my own
breathing become quick
and shallow, and I knew the only way I'd be able to make this overture
was to keep it brief and somewhat indirect.
"Brian,
I hope you're doing okay.
Read this. I hope you'll understand why afterwards."
Below those words, I pasted the URL to Rip Current.
I signed it "Sam." Not "Love, Sam" or "Sincerely, Sam" or "ttyl--Sam."
Just "Sam." Anything else was saying too much...asking
too much.
I
stared at the e-mail for five minutes, trying to get the nerve to hit
"send." Finally, I moved the mouse and put the cursor over the button,
closed my eyes, held my breath and clicked.
I waited five days.
On
the sixth day, after work, I fixed dinner for myself and Chris; I spent
time playing with him and hearing about his day at school; I tried to
make excuses for Jonah when he asked where Jonah was and why he wasn't
around much any more; I watched some TV with him; and finally I helped
him get ready for bed.
Once he was asleep for the night, I sat
down at my computer. When I checked my email, I saw it: a reply from
Brian was waiting for me.
I couldn't open it. I got up from my desk and walked away, shuddering. Just
open the damn e-mail, you gutless wimp, one part of my brain told
the other part. But I couldn't face it.
I
went into the kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee. I sat at the
table, zombie-like, memories flooding back like they'd been doing a lot
lately: That first day of high school when he'd introduced himself and
my whole world had lit up in response. The good times at the
canyon.
The bad times at the canyon. The way he'd always been there
for me, never caring about any of the "bad" stuff or how my issues
might affect him. The way he never wavered for a minute in his
friendship, even after the whole school was gossiping about me.
I
also began to remember how I was never there for him when he needed
someone: After Tom's death, when he spent months, troubled and
tortured, and I couldn't find the right things to say or do. During
college, when a river of alcohol started to carry him away from safety.
And worst of all, when he'd reached out to me to try to grab our
friendship back.
I was being an idiot to believe he'd get over
that kind of treatment from me. Hadn't his brother as much as told me
Brian had left the country to get away from memories of my betrayal?
What was I thinking, sending him that link to Rip Current?
Filled
with those thoughts, those regrets, I began to wonder what was waiting
for me in the email from him. Would he tell me, either gently or
brusquely, either directly or by implication, that he was done with me?
That I was a reminder to him of too many painful things, and that he
needed to keep that part of his life in the past? That I should never
contact him again?
I didn't know. All I knew was that I needed
him. I needed his friendship. And until he closed the door on it, I was
going to try to get it back.
I'd find out something soon enough if I could get the courage to open
that email.
I went back to my study, sat down at my computer, and clicked open his
e-mail.
There were only four words to it:
"It hit me too."
---------------------------
Thanks, readers, for your continuing interest in my friend Dan's
story. There will be 29 chapters in this story. Dan wrote the very last
chapter himself, months before he died; I've made it through Chapter 26
in terms of my own writing responsibilities for this story. I have two
more chapters to put together. If you'd like to e-mail me, the addy is
aaptx79@yahoo.com.
--Adam Phillips