I have the proclivity to find myself in toxic and heartbreaking scenarios. Once I tried playing Donkey Kong Country 2 in one sitting without pausing or saving. And guess what, the power went out that night. Life’s a bitch, right? Needless to say, when I found my Super Nintendo under my bed years later with the cartridge still in its slot I remembered the black out rage that illuminated the dark bedroom it once sat in. But being the glutton for punishment that I am, I turned it on in hopes that God still loved me and had angelically saved my game progress. Nope, he didn’t and sitting there in the void was an empty save slot, waiting for me to click it and start over from the very beginning. No bananas, no Krem Coins, no balloons and most importantly a big fat 0% for game completion. That 0% cajoled the memories of my childhood of when and how I learned to swear, but more importantly what it feels like to completely start over.
Five years ago, for the first time in my life I heard the actual negative response to the common query, “Would you mind if…” This statement is often tethered at the end with a menial request. For example: “would you mind if I had a bite of you food”; “would you mind if I grabbed one of your beers” or personally the most used “would you mind if I use your bathroom?” In plain english, the verb associated with “would” takes its order from the noun “mind," thus becoming a conditional clause. It’s as if we have already asked this question in the past, or some other parallel universe where our actions and our desires never materialized, thus needing a follow-up orally rather than being stuck with our subconsciously abstract thoughts. Basically when saying, “Would you mind if…” it simply translates to “Bruh, I just laid down some phat auras of hopes and dreams, coupled with social queues that has not yet been addressed, therefore I’ll spell it out for you…”
Whenever we as species ask “Would you mind if…,” we often hear, “yeah, sure dude,” which gives us the go-ahead. And technically “Yeah, sure dude,” is still a negative, but that’s not incredibly important. What is important though is the context and tone of the responder, because if the tone is as welcoming as that power outage in the middle of Toxic Tower with only two lives left, one might as well be saying, “Better luck next time bro.” Anyways, you kids ready for the story? Yeah, me too. So, now that we have the preliminaries out of the way, roughly about five years ago, the power went off again and I lost all my save progress, metaphorically of course. Her name was Laura Marie, and she brought me to 0% completion with four words.
It was roughly three weeks into January 2012, and it was freezing cold. My classmates and I just arrived back to Cambridge from visiting Bath. Bath, the home of Jean Austin and presumably thousands of people that are politely quiet about their repressed sexual fetishes. I got to meet the Mayor, he wore a Simpsons tie and had a delicate hand shake. Either way, we were back in Cambridge and I had just broken up with my girlfriend back in the Americas. We connected literally on nothing. I loved Air Force One with Gary Oldman, she asked if those shoes were expensive. I would say things like, “That women’s intellect nauseates me,” she’d say, “that bitch is rachet.” I thought chapter seven of R. Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet” was the best, she thought some dudes tractor was sexy. She loved Dave Matthews and my friends thought I was possessed or was exhibiting early signs of dementia because I could make it through the first 45 seconds of “Crash” due to social conditioning. Either way, we weren’t meant to be and living in Cambridge didn’t really give us a lot to talk about when we Skyped. So the one time we did, I broke up with her. If I was a house in Harry Potter, house Effler would have been awarded 10 asshole points.
During the breakup process I had several close confidants, and one of them was Laura Marie. Laura, well she’s the 5’4 punk-ass that would shove you at Bayside concert because you didn’t look like you ‘believed in the music.’ Laura’s face was littered with tiny fading freckles that pop whenever it’s above 90 degrees. She’s a fan of denim, crust gear, Oasis, Star Wars, actual literature and presumably most of Toontown at Disneyland. And to top it all off she had this little snarky laugh that was more of a snort that made me want to impress her. Oh, and by the way, that shade of denim was very complimentary to her eyes. Laura, despite her soft spoken cadence, was very stern and deliberate with her words, actions and track order on any mix CD.
Laura encouraged me several times that I did the right thing when it came to ending my relationship. But little did she know though, the moment she played for me her ukulele cover of the Clash’s “Charlie Don’t Surf,” I was perplexed as to why I had not found her earlier. Therefore breaking up with “Honey-Bun” back in the Americas was the only way I could begin to get closer to her. So the grieving process wasn’t really a big deal. It was fixed with about four pints of Guinness and Laura laughing at one of my many dead baby jokes. I waited a couple of days and did the usual. I sat on my hands and waited for them to go numb so I could concentrate on the numbness rather than the emptiness from not having Laura in my life the way that I had desired. Once the numbness overpowered me, one day after class I approached her.
“So, I have an idea about Valentine's Day.”
Laura’s eye brow raised to her hairline, “Oh, and what idea is that?”
“Well,” I swallowed hard, “you’re single, I’m single and we’re just to gnarly to be bored, and feeling sorry for ourselves on the loneliest day of the year.” I was subtle back then, I know.
“Therefore, let’s go out. But like, you know, as awesome people?”
Laura was standing in the sunlight. She placed her hand over her forehead as if to see if this dude was being real. She squinted and then facial revealed that she realized I was being 100% serious. Laura smirked.
“Okay.” God her voice was soft.
“Okay?!” I coughed, “I mean Yes, cool. That’s (awkward sounds) Um, okay but there are four rules, okay?”
I fairly positive no dude had every told her that there are rules to date before based upon her giggled sigh, “Um, rules?” she said.
“Yes, rules. Number one: No talking about our ex’s or failed relationships. Two: We gotta dress up. Three: Go dutch, or let me pay for you. And lastly, be on time.”
“Wait, you want me to be on time?”
“Yes?”
“Okay, what time?”
“Half pasted seven.”
“Half pasted seven, okay.”
“Yep, um. Thank you. I mean, have a nice day. See you soon.” Gave her the finger guns and attempted to make my graceful exit. But I about ran into a trash bin.
“Shit!”
I looked straight at her as she stood there waiting for me to leave like a tree in the sunshine.
“Peace out… girl scout…” I walked away fast. Now we can just fast-forward knowing that I was an awkward balloon for the next several days.
It was 7:30p.m. on the 14th of February 2012, the year of our Lord. I was standing out side, behind my flat. Normally when waiting for a girl to show up I run through all the shower conversations I previously had with my self. You know, going over scenarios that are statically proven not to happen. “What if she gets hit by a bus, and I’m the one to hear her last breath. Or what if she tells me that she is madly in love with and is sitting on a pile of cash and just waiting for someone to run away with?” But I didn’t have time to go over the next 1,000 scenarios because Laura was on time. She rounded the corner and appeared before my eyes, and my astonishment was akin to Dr. Grant seeing the brontosaurus when he first arrived at Jurassic Park, Laura was gorgeous. Her brown hair was tucked back by a blue hair band with a bow. She wore small grey flats, a grey dress and draped over her shoulders was a clean denim jacket. I wore a bowtie, for the first time ever in my life.
She spoke, “Hi…”
My face exploded.
“Sup… Daaawwg? I mean, hi. Okay… let’s do this.”
I was at peak performance.
That evening we walked the cobbled streets of Cambridge as if we were extras in a new synth-pop video. At any moment I expected us to grab each other by the hands and run until we flew above this english town. But we didn’t, instead we went to a local gastro pub and laughed, the way everyone wants to laugh. I discovered that she had never seen High Fidelity, she discovered that I never read The Things We Carried. We made lists for each other as if we’d be together forever. We never talked about our past relationships, we never had an awkward moment, we never felt shy or embarrassed, it was what every date should be like. I offered to pick up the tab for the evening: One Sweet Chili Noodle Dinner, one Jacket (potato) with extra toppings, two cokes, a mildly priced bottle of red wine and one beer. She reached for the check and insisted that we go dutch, splitting it right down the middle. Laura remembered all the rules, and she subscribed to each of them with eloquence.
As we left the pub, the evening began to glow. University students were stumbling in the streets, taxis were zipping up and down the thin roads and the wind whipped through the trees flushing out birds to decorate the living landscape. We walked close to each other and both were grinning from ear to ear. In one small moment I knew, that we both recognized the surreal nature of our situation. Not many people get to go on Valentine's Dates in Cambridge, England, but we sure as fuck were. When we arrived at the Jesus Green, which is large lawn between two of the colleges in Cambridge, the road became a small paved trail and I grabbed her hand. The turquoise sky filled it’s pockets with clouds and dim stars. The wind began to pick up, shuffling our hair in the breeze, and a slight mist began to fall from the clouds making it impossible to light up the post dinner cigarette. I made a gesture to stand under a bus stop and we scooted underneath.
I opened my pack, “Smoke?” Laura nodded her head as if I offered her a piece of licorice, “MmHmm,” she said with a smile. I lit her cigarette and then mine. We weren’t far from our respective flats, probably about a seven minute walk, max. My heart was juggling, its time.
“Ready to go back?” I said.
“Yeah, I mean if you are.”
“Well, no, but it is getting late and we do have class in the morning.”
“Good point, yeah let’s walk back.”
We were now three minutes away from our flats. I couldn’t take it anymore. I stopped walking letting go of hear hand. She stopped and we turned to me as if she had just dropped her glove. The mist now has become tiny droplets, rolling down her face and mine. Laure and I stood under a lamp post that had been serving as a jungle gym for one ornery moth, tapping the glass veil of the bulb with precise and sharp claps from it’s wings. It was half-past eleven at night, and we had been out since seven, just the two of us out on the one night that singles either hate or use as launch pad for a hopefully successful future. Form a distance we looked like a goddamn movie poster, and I knew it in my heart.
“Would you mind if…” I stutter. “Would you mind if I kissed you right now?”
Laura’s eyes removed their gaze from mine. They were slightly glassed over in a mid-February english mist and stray strands of hair that had fallen out of her headband had stuck to her face. My face boiled with anticipation. She looked up into my eyes and spoke.
“Yes, yes I would mind…”
We walked back to our place in silence. If our eyes met again that evening, it would have been to fast to even remember. She told me goodnight and quickly opened the door to her place, shutting it even slower, effectively restarting my Super Nintendo heart. Didn’t even get to save my progress.
Things between Laura and I were different from then on out. I had been exposed, and my vulnerable heart couldn’t take it. For the remainder of that semester I tried to keep my distance, but she wanted to continue to be close friends. I followed her around like a lost puppy, and she enjoyed the attention. At one point, during a final “hurrah” I made a short film with her about “a day in the sun.” Again, I tried to appeal to her heart by being artistic and prove that I could trusted and worth loving. But the video ended and she decided to go on a date with a kid who works at a pastry shop. I haven’t been able to look at a sausage roll the same way ever again.
That was five years ago, and a lot had happened for the both of us between now and then. I’ve been in multiple relationships, each of them dissolving in their own uniquely shitty way. I was diagnosed with cancer. Beat it. Went to England for Graduate school for a masters degree in Popular Culture Theory. Beat it. As far as Laura goes, we remained friends after we moved back in the summer of 2012. She’d come over to my dilapidated apartment every once in a while to listen to records and laugh. Each time I was reminded about the kiss that I never got to have. Laura even visited me after I was released from the hospital. I took her to a soccer game. She told me that she had a great time, with me. The last time I saw her was two years ago, right before I moved back to England to start my master's degree. Like we usually did, I took her to a record store and picked out several albums that she should listen too. Moneen’s “The Red Tree” and Hot Hot Heat’s first EP that had the track Tokyo Vogue on it. Laura gave me one of her favorite records, “Album” by Girls. To which later she had tattooed on her body. When we parted she wished me luck on my studies and I told her the same at the new university she was now attending in Ohio.
Seven days ago I received a text from Laura, ending two years of silence.
Laura: “Are you busy tonight/tomorrow? I’m coming into town.”
Me: “Tonight after 9:30 is good for me.”
L: “Bitter Alibi? I haven’t been there in forever.”
M: “Yeah dude.”
L: “Cool beans. I’ll text you when I head over.”
M: “Can’t wait :) “
To be continued…
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