Unbuckling the enigma…

We had just engaged in hours of drinking, confined to a small, claustrophobic apartment where my wingspan could reach the grimy toilet on the left side and the grimy microwave on the other side and I was passed out on a grimly brown carpet. Interspersed between flashes of light were the sounds of muttered talking. Then there was footsteps rushing up a set of wooden stairs. I sat up like I had been administered adrenaline in the streets of Baghdad; alert and ready for more drinking; our other two friends had arrived. One looked like Tom Arnold, which would be in line with my assumption that he was snorting every hour on the hour given his frenzied movement and speech. And the other was frenzied in that subdued way where you’re not totally comfortable being within five feet of him. They wanted us to come with them to their place, so we loaded up on beer bottles, liquor and the like to transfer the goods.

Hitting the darkened streets of the West Side, we felt like we owned the night, naturally. Zigzagging in between parked cars, fire hydrants and overhanging telephone poles, we tossed a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee between the four of us; the evanescence of the green-tinted Frisbee mesmerized our bloodshot eyes, as it flirted with the darkness in flight.

I caught the Frisbee off of one foot dodging a divot in the sidewalk and was silently applauding myself when I noticed a commotion. The coked up Arnold and the caged lion where hovering over him. He seemed to be hurt. Yep, even in the darkness I noticed the blood. It was on his face. Probably just a minor scrape or cut; it certainly wasn’t going to derail the drinking, as I first thought. On we would go in the night.

After a few paces, it became apparent that it wasn’t a mere just “walk it off” incident. The blood was flowing down his face and something surged within me. Adrenaline kicked in. I wanted to fight the world; punch the light post, kick over a trash can; it was all nonsensical, as he had face planted trying to catch the Frisbee on a prior attempt. Even so, I threw his arm around my neck, half-dragged, half-carried him, which probably wasn’t necessary, back to his diminished dwelling.

Most certainly that fierce desire to want to pummel anything in sight, no matter how irrational or improbable, was due in part to the alcohol coursing my veins that night. But I don’t think it was just that. There was something more there. And I think it’s emblematic or defining of our friendship: the unwavering loyalty, the trust, and the genuine care. I could name instance after instance where I used his shoulder as a crying pad at some of my lowest and darkest points, but that’s what got me thinking about this

There’s a great line from Ray LaMontagne’s song, “Burn,” where he says, “Yes’n I try to ignore all this blood on the floor; it’s just this heart on my sleeve that’s a-bleeding.”

That’s me. I unabashedly wear mine on my sleeve and if you get a sip of alcohol to my tongue, I’ll start bleeding all over the floor. Or maybe not even alcohol, as a keyboard seems to suffice…

Him, on the other hand, I can’t read him. Call it hubris or if you want to shred the euphemism, arrogance, but I feel as if I can usually read people. Him, despite having known him since that first awkward encounter at the school cafeteria during study hall where it was one-sided conversation with him regaling me with talk of old desktop computers and greasy hamburgers at McDonald’s, is not readable. Or maybe he is and I’m looking for layers were there’s not.

He is one of the most laid back and easygoing people I’ve ever met. Or is he? Can anyone be that relaxed about everything? Keeping with the LaMontagne image, is it that he has his sleeve rolled up and I simply can’t unravel it? Or is there nothing to unravel and I want to think there is simply to better abscond on my own emotional deficits?

It’s something that’s irked me since I’ve known him and has only heightened since he was paired up with his first girlfriend. Is everything as blissful as it seems between them? Am I just envious – again, let’s cut away the flowery word, jealous is a more realistic understanding and biting — that his relationship has and continues to last beyond the measly five months that mine did and am I just looking for the proverbial cracks to start showing to feel better about my previous relationships abrupt ending?

I do miss the emotional connection manifest out of a relationship. I miss feeling a warm body beside me after a night of cuddling, even if I got a mouthful of brown hair and a sleepy elbow. I miss waking up to a long text filled with sappy admissions of love. I miss the inconsequential shit too; watching Jeopardy on a lazy Thursday evening or helping with mundane homework. Don’t confuse my words; I don’t miss her in particular. I miss the emotional connection; I miss the chemistry; I miss the sexual interplay too.

And look, here I am, talking about myself, my past, examining my blood everywhere when I’m trying to understand him. Hell, maybe that’s always been the problem. I keep trying to understand him through myself, my faults, my weaknesses, my arrogance, my biases, and assumptions that nobody can be that good, that understanding and that happy.

Surely, surely, for fuck’s sake, I like to think I’m not disgruntled because he’s found happiness; happiness that I found with that past relationship and when I did, I, admittedly, left him behind in many ways, which I now regret. So, why is it that I keep trying to find reasons that he may not be happy? That this relationship, his relationship with his parents or brothers, and his seeming contentment with work is all some façade and if I just crack the code, he’ll spill his guts, as I’ve often spilled mine?

Surely, surely, for fuck’s sake, I can’t resent him because he’s not around as much. As I said, I did the same thing, whether that’s healthy or not is for another discussion; I found it didn’t work for me, but maybe it works for him. Maybe he is fucking happy and I’m eating sour grapes. And I don’t really know why. Look at all these questions I have and I’m floundering; I don’t have the answers.

Ask him, you say. Ask him what exactly? Ask him if he has the same emotional voids that I do? Ask him if he’s cried into his pillow, as I have done? Would I trust his answer? If he replied, “No,” would I believe him?

I don’t want this shit to be seen as “woe is me,” I’m just musing here, but I like to think I’d take that spill on the concrete he did over a Frisbee, and literally bleed all over the place before I’d feel satisfied with him replying, “Yes.” But maybe that’s just wishful thinking; maybe that’s just the continued bias I have of my own self, as some righteous do-gooder.

Am I just being too hard on myself? I guess, maybe, but looking inwards to find these answers open doors that frighten me.