Angst (16 page)

 “You’d better not!” I reply, sending him a fiery look. “Well,
so what’s your middle name?”

 “Mine is Michael.”

 “Oh sure, perfect, so typical, so all-American,” I drawl,
dripping sarcasm, but with a sly little teasing smile. How awesome is it that
we’re bantering with each another? “Did you play any sports in high school or
here at NHU?”

“Yeah, I played football in high school and opted for cross
country once I got to college. I enjoy running long distance. It clears my head
when I’m angry or upset. What about you?”

“No, I wish. I’ve never been a very sporty girl. I didn’t
start young enough with any sport and was always uncomfortable starting
anything because I felt I’d look ridiculous since I had never played before. I
wish now I had though. I did, however, do quite a bit of sailing and camping
with my fam.”

 “Sailing’s cool. I’ve never been. Well…I guess we’ll have
to go running sometime, too,” he says, grinning at me.

“Hrmph, we’ll see about that,” I reply, “I’ve always hated
running ever since they forced us to run a mile in gym class. It sucks for
someone who has never run before and I’d always get a terrible stitch in my
side!” I smile because he’s mentioning future things we could do together.
Awesome!

“Don’t be a wimp, Vicky!” he teases back, as I steal his
beer glass again. “Well I guess it’s my turn again,” he muses. “Tell me what
your nickname was when you were younger.”

“Hmmm…,” I start, “I never really had a nickname per se, but
there were a few boys who taunted me in middle school. They would say Vicky
likes Dick. Then in high school there were two guys in my Spanish class who
called me Los Buen Tits, although I didn’t find that out until later.” Jared
just looks at me quizzically, leaning across the table.

“I took French, so you’ll have to translate that first part,
although I think I’ve got the Tits part down,” he says with a laugh.

 “It means ‘The Good Tits’,” I say laughing and covering my
chest with folded arms. “You’ll have to determine the truth of that statement
on your own time!”

“I think I’ve already made up my mind as to the validity of
that claim,” he replies, giving me a heated teasing look.

“You are very naughty,” I reply, shooting him a prim virgin
mocking gaze. “I’ll have you know that they are real and they are fabulous!” I
laugh, quoting Seinfeld.

“Ha!” he replies, “Did you watch that show when you were
younger?”

 “YES on rerun! And I loved it!”

 “I loved it too,” he says, “that Kramer!’

 “Yeah,” I say laughing as he begins to quote lines, doing
funny impressions and reminding me of hilarious scenes from the show. “Ok, ok,
now you have to tell me your nickname,” I ask, bringing us back on topic.

“Oh God,” he says, putting his head in his hands, peeking
his eyes through two fingers, “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Yes I’m sure,” I reply, pulling his hands away from his
grinning face. “Tell me!”

“Ok, ok…the girls used to call me ‘The Irish Stallion’ in
high school. One of my ex-girlfriends started the rumor while we were dating so
that she could brag to her friends. Once it got around the teasing never
stopped. The guys would give me shit in the locker room, trying to say that my
ex had been trying to make me feel better!”

At this revelation my mouth hangs open and then my eyes
close own to little glaring slits. I can’t hold back my comments on this one.
Sly
bastard!
“Number one, you are totally full of shit!” I say batting at his
arm across the table. “And number two, you wanted to ask me that question just
so you could answer it yourself. Cocky bastard!” He just looks at me for a
moment, trying to hold back a slightly abashed look. I finally break my glare
and grin at him.

“So, is it true?”

“Again, Vicky, you’ll have to determine the truth of that
statement on your own time, I can’t comment right now.”

“Oh you are so full of yourself!” I squeal, giving him a
look of utter disapproval. “Men are sick,” I say, as the waitress brings our
meals to the table. Jared digs into his burger and fries as I pick up the
conversation again. “You must be a total man-whore.”

“Oh, my pride, my wounded pride, Vicky. Of course I’m not a
man-whore. Well, maybe just a little…” he says, pausing to get the full effect
of my reaction, a slow smile spreading over his face.

“Ug. Men are gross, they will sleep with anything,” I say
with mock disgust. “Can’t you please keep that thing in your pants?!”

“Vicky, Vicky, how can you deny the truth that I’m
irresistible,” he teases. “And how can I be expected to resist all the stunning
women who throw themselves at me all the time?”

“Really, Jared, how many women have you been with?” I ask,
not really sure I want to know but I can’t seem to resist asking the question,
at least in jest.

“Well…I think…between 5 and 10,” he replies with a cocky
sarcastic grin, as I narrow my eyes at him again.

“You think?? You think? Gawd, men are nasty!” I say, teasing
him, trying to pretend that his number isn’t a lot compared to my zero, zip,
nada. I can’t help but feel some heat flush over me at this conversation
because he’s so damn good looking, his eyes warm brown, crinkling at the
corners when he smiles and yeah…that smile is so perfect, lighting up his face.
I can’t believe I’m out to lunch with him and that I
ran away
from him
at the frat.
OMG.

“How many people have you been with Mz. Pure?” he asks,
giving my arm a squeeze across the table.

“A lady never tells,” I demur, giving him a sexy look,
feeling my face heat up again because I’m sure he’s thinking about how I ran
out and wondering what the hell that means. It’s unspoken between us, neither
one of us mentioning the unmentionable. And I definitely don’t want him to know
that I’m a virgin, yet. Eventually he’ll have to find out if our relationship
goes any further, but I’m definitely not ready to divulge that secret.

“Hrmph,” he replies, picking up a fry and dousing it with
ketchup, apparently letting it go. We talk on and on for over two hours at the
restaurant, moving between teasing and sexual comments, to serious topics such
as politics and our futures. I learn that we both enjoy reading and that he had
taken an English lit class that had started him reading biographies. And like
me, he enjoys history, music from the 60’s and 70’s including my favorites Pink
Floyd, Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin, and Creedence.

We also share an interest in playing musical instruments. He
plays the guitar and I tell him about taking piano lessons as a child. Neither
of us are faithful to practicing now, but discussed how we could read music and
start playing again whenever we wanted.

I’m finding myself spellbound by his voice and interested in
everything he tells me. He seems to know how to do everything and has tried
lots of different things. I even find myself telling him about my writing and
how I love to create art work in my room at home while listening to Pink
Floyd’s
The Wall
. We even share an interest in funny movies, both having
loved
Old School
,
Super Troopers
and
Slackers
. Then Jared
asks me if I’ve ever seen
The Big Lebowski
or
Caddy Shack
. I tell
him that I haven’t and he replies that I need to, even hinting that maybe we
could watch them together. He laughs at my jokes and teases me unmercifully and
I find that I enjoy doing the same to him and am even relatively comfortable
around him. I can hardly believe I haven’t panicked all afternoon, I’ve been
that caught up in our conversation.

Now we’re sitting in the booth an hour after the check has
arrived. Jared finally picks it up and pays for the meal, and we both get up to
leave.

“I’ll walk you back to your car,” he says, “as long as you
don’t mind dropping me off at my apartment before you leave. If you’re leaving
campus that is?”

“Yeah, I’m going home,” I reply. “Thanks for inviting me
out, I had fun, and thanks for lunch,” I say smiling at him.

“Yeah me too, I hope we can do this again sometime,” he
replies as we walk up the tree lined street toward the commuter parking lot on
the edge of campus.

I drop Jared off at his apartment and am disappointed that
there is no goodbye kiss. In fact there hadn’t been any physical contact of any
kind between us the entire time, regardless of how positive our “date” seemed
to me. I’m kinda puzzled because most dirty bastards, AKA almost every guy I’ve
ever known, usually have only one thing on their mind underneath all our
conversation and interactions. In fact, it’s often on my mind too. I mean, God,
I really wanted to kiss him, touch him, memories of our fooling around at the
frat all coming back to me whenever I looked at him today. So, Jared is an
enigma to me, the guy who tried to have a one night stand with me at a drunken
frat party, but who doesn’t touch me at all when we go out to lunch.
Damn, I
hope I won’t be puzzled for long.

Then again, what if he doesn’t find me physically attractive
and this is just a friendship? Maybe he had beer goggles on last time
? Shit,
that would suck.
I would hate to be “just friends” with him. I try to shrug
off the feeling as I drive slowly home to my parent’s house, hoping that he’ll
call again soon.

#######################

What is life? What is living and then you die? I’d like a
redo or another life after this one. Maybe another body but still me. Do I
always come from my parents? That mix of genes that created me. Different
people getting together creates different new people. All chance? Choosing a
partner creates the next generation with a mix of specific traits. If you
choose someone else you will get a different child, a different soul. Where
does that come from? The spark, the light in someone’s eyes? Their
intelligence? Two people create a child, genes tell looks, hair color, eyes,
height, intelligence. Inherited traits. But what of the spark, the soul? And
when someone dies and that light goes out, the animation is gone, where does it
go? What happens? The shell, the body is still here, but something is obviously
missing. What happens? Is it gone forever? Is that the end? Brain is still
here, heart, lungs, traits, gene traits, but no animation. No movement. No
heart thumping, no eyes moving. Where is the part that made this person unique
from everyone else? The part that gave them their personality? Is it there in
the genes and traits or is there something more?

What is the point of all this life? How truly fragile it
all seems. Heart always beating, a muscle that somehow never tires and is
necessary for life, to keep the spark inside the shell, the body. Lungs must
breathe. What if we want to escape? But we don’t. We always seem to cling to
life, or try to. We don’t want to die because we don’t know what it means. We’re
scared. Especially now, when death is a less common occurrence in everyday
life. We strive for life, to preserve it, not to die. What if death is freedom?
Or better than struggling with life? All what-ifs. Some people choose suicide. The
unknown is better than the known pain. Did they find peace? What is
nothingness? It’s like trying to fathom outer space. How large, how ever
expanding. Our minds can’t fully comprehend everything in this world. I don’t
think we’re meant to understand death or why we even exist at all.

Such a delicate balance. Teetering on the edge between
life and death. Always. And most of the time we don’t even consider it. I
wonder if I were born again, a new me, a new time and place, would I still
suffer from panic? Is that part of my soul or is it just a manifestation of a
problem in my body?

I’m lying in bed, blankets all tangled around my legs. I’ve
just slammed the alarm clock ‘cause I’m still tired and my mind seems cloudy
and overcast, like when you are forced to wake up during a dream. I’m wishing I
could skip class today. I didn’t sleep well and the air in my room is cold, the
blankets a warm cocoon that I really don’t want to leave. Already my stomach is
tied up.
How lovely it is to wake up ready for panic, already dreading the
day ahead.
 I know I can’t skip class because this is part of my grade.

I’m having a non-fiction essay critiqued by the entire
class. It’s called “workshopping” and all the other students will give me ideas
on how I can improve my writing. I’ve prepared a piece about memories from
childhood. It’s a descriptive piece about the sounds of the night, the stars, a
roaring campfire, friends, family, childhood innocence. I’m proud of the melody
of the piece and am glad that I’ve accomplished something I find beautiful. It’s
going to be hard for me to present and it sucks that I didn’t sleep well.

An hour later and I’m out in the cold air, making my way to
my car.
Now to just make it through the fucking day.
I load my backpack
into my junky old Ford, thinking about how I’ve really got to clean my car,
observing the trash and debris all over the back seat. I shrug my shoulders as
I climb into the front seat behind the steering wheel. Worry about my
disgusting ride can easily save itself for another day.

My stomach clenches itself into a tight little ball as I
turn out of the driveway. Oh how I hate being alone like this in my car where
my thoughts have free rein to imagine all the horrible possibilities. Sometimes
I really hate my creativity, cause I can come up with some fucked up shit. It’s
really all very silly and irrational. Sometimes it helps if I focus on
convincing myself with rational thoughts. Would it really be the end of the
world if I have to leave class? Sometimes reasoning with myself is successful,
other times, not so much.

It’s hard to rationalize in the heat of the moment and I
remember this when I’m finally sitting in class amongst my classmates waiting
for it to be my turn to present. Of course I’m not going first which means I
will have to sit and wait. Not that going first is necessarily my first choice,
but sitting and waiting can sometimes be worse.