Five years to cross the street...

It’s late. It’s very, very late. And I think I have a job interview tomorrow. I’m not entirely certain of that fact but it seems highly likely that I will receive a call tomorrow in which my being awake would be beneficial. So I am just going to write one quick story for the night because there is no better night than this one to retell it.

Five years ago today I packed up my car and drove from my parents’ house to Kansas City. Now while my car was packed it was only packed with the items that I felt were necessities in that they must travel with me and not the moving company. If I remember correctly that entailed mainly my computer, parts of my stereo and my Duke Basketball poster. Some paperwork and financial stuff of course but really, that was all I was concerned with and it was a Grand Am so it wasn’t like I was going to fit much in there to begin with. So I made the eight hour drive, pulled into my apartment, picked up the keys and moved into my place.

After unloading my car (and getting introduced once again to the brutal Kansas City summer) I took a look at my apartment. At this point I realized I would need a few things. Food being one of them. A chair being another. See, my movers weren’t going to arrive for several days and I neglected to pack something to sit on. Or sleep on for that matter as while I had blankets and a pillow I did not technically have a bed to sleep in.

So if I remember correctly I drove to Target that first night just to pick up the barest of essentials in terms of food (I recall Doritos playing a vital role in my diet over the next several days as I was also lacking plates, silverware, or any type of cooking instruments) and the ugliest deck chair imaginable as I would otherwise have to stand all the time. Then I did what many people still consider legendary.

I walked down to Kelly’s, which was just a few blocks from my apartment, and I sat down at the bar. I ordered a beer and a pack of cigarettes (this was back during that brief moment in which I tried to smoke under the mistaken impression that it made me look cool) and just sat there and relaxed. Eventually the bartender came over, asked about my story and I went

“I just moved here. My furniture isn’t arriving for a few days so I’m drinking until the floor looks comfortable.”

I was treated well for the rest of the night, the rest of the week and quickly became a regular. It was a rather good introduction to the town.

That was five years ago tonight. I didn’t quite expect to be here five years later especially not in the same apartment. But it just happened to turn out that way. How did I spend my five year anniversary? By sitting in Harry’s and having a beer. There are two big differences though. First off, I can’t smoke in the bars anymore thanks to the new law. And tonight I had much better company than I could ever have hoped for. And that truly makes all the difference in the world.

I really can’t tell you where I am going next. I’m interviewing across the country on a daily basis. Everything is up for grabs at the moment. But I’ll have to admit, the past few months have made the five years here worthwhile.

What causes a thick skin...

[Author's Note: I woke up at 6 this morning with this essay running through my brain. At 6:30 I realized that the only way I was going to sleep was by writing it and getting it off my mind. I wish my mind wouldn't go off into so many dark corners on a Saturday morning but that is just part of who I am. In a better mood now, thanks to the people who know they are responsible for it, but I'm still listening to every Josh Rouse CD I own until I lift the gray from my own eyes. And find the Josh Rouse song I sang to myself last night before I fell asleep that I have an unnerving feeling doesn't actually exist. Here we go.]



(I may have told this story in the past. If I did it was probably for a different purpose. But right now I really need to use it to explain a certain aspect of my personality that not too many people know about.)

I’ve written before about being picked on and beat up as a kid and along with everything else that falls under the 75% rule most people wonder just what part of that is true. For the record, I’ve never been in a fight in my entire life. I’ve been pretty lucky in that regard. I come from a big family so I always had numbers on my side while growing up. I also figured out early on that by being funny you can defuse most situations before someone starts throwing punches at you. Fear of getting beat up helped to form my self-deprecating brand of humor. I realized that if I called myself a geek and a nerd, played up my own awkwardness, that I could avoid confrontation. Who wants to beat up someone who is already beating up themselves? What is there to gain from it?

So while I was never given a black eye by a playground bully I have been picked on for pretty much forever. It goes with the territory. I happen to be an extremely intelligent gawky guy with glasses and slightly inadequate social skills. Those qualities tend to bring insults along with them. I’ve never quite understood why. I could never comprehend why people would fault me for wanting to learn things and viewing the classroom as my playing field. But it is apparently fine to make fun of someone for knowing the presidents over being able to throw a tight spiral. For the most part when I talk about being picked on I’m not referring to that. What I am usually referring to are moments like the following, which still ranks as the worst moment of my life.

I was probably fifteen at the time. Puberty was not kind to me. It still isn’t given the fact that I might still be going through it. Basically all of my gawkiness and awkwardness was emphasized as I tried to figure out how to deal with a six foot one frame and these weird things called emotions. I remember that I was happy when this story started. Don’t know why but I was feeling good about myself. It wasn’t a rare occurrence but it was always nice to leave the house thinking that I was doing things right for a change.

I left the house to go return a movie at the video store. It was just a couple blocks so I walked there in my usual blissful ignorance. Walking down the street I saw these two girls sitting at a bus stop and I gave them no notice. Didn’t know who they were, hadn’t seen them in my entire life. As I approached them they started yelling at me, “Hey faggot. What the fuck are you doing faggot? Where are you going faggot?”

(I remember being taken back by the insult. Last time I checked I wasn’t gay so I was really confused by it. That and the fact that having your manhood questioned at fifteen is not enjoyable in the least.)

Remember that I hadn’t spoken a word to these girls. I was just walking down the street with a few movies in my hand. The only crime that I had committed was my very existence. Yet these girls insulted me as I walked towards them and as I walked past them. I was nearly two blocks away and I could still hear them yelling at me. I got to the video store, returned the movies, looked around for a little bit and hoped that the bus system was working that day. I left and decided to cross the street early in an attempt to avoid confrontation.

Didn’t work. They were still there and still calling me a faggot and wondering why I crossed the street. I walked home silently, just listening to them rip on me in every way imaginable. I didn’t say a word the entire time. I just took the abuse. It was the worst feeling I have had in my entire life. I just wanted to crawl under a rock and die.

This story bothers me to this day. It literally was more than half a lifetime ago and I still hate thinking about it. I was a few blocks from my home, one of those places where you should always feel safe, and I felt like I was going to be attacked for nothing more than just existing. Like my very presence made people just out and out hate me. Hate is really the right word for this. That is what I encountered that day.

As a result of this (and other instances like kids throwing rocks at me when I walked home from school when I was seven) I am really, really sensitive to being picked on. I simply can’t stand it. Seeing it brings up all of these emotions in me and I go to a very bad place mentally. Now that I’m an adult I realized that if people start insulting me I can just get up and leave. I’ve done it on occasion with people thinking I can’t take a joke. They don’t realize that insulting what I’ve accomplished in my life is an unforgivable sin in my eyes. But I also feel the same way when I see other people being made fun of. It kills me to see people I like treated badly. It makes me just want to tell everyone to go to hell if they don’t want to be a compassionate human being for once in their existence.

Of course I don’t actually say that. The politeness gene in me is too strong for that. Instead I just stew there silently, hating myself for not being brave enough to speak what is on my mind. For all of my visions of being the gallant white knight in this world, fighting for honor and integrity and chivalry, I sure do a sucky job of it.

I wish I wasn’t like this. I wish I could take good natured jokes for what they are instead of viewing everything as a personal affront. I wish I could just relax around people, take down the masks and the walls and not worry what people think. To live life without being afraid of getting hurt. It’s caused me to cocoon myself much more than I would like. It’s easier for me to hide behind a façade, to live life from behind a computer screen because that way people can’t get to me as easily. It is not the person that I feel that I am and certainly not the person that I want to be.

So when I say that I was picked on as a kid this is what I am referring to. It’s having people who never accomplished anything close to what you have done hate you for simply existing. And it’s why sometimes it seems like I can’t take a joke. Because for as long as I live I will never let anyone make me feel that way again.