The following story is one that I’ve been recounting to my friends lately, so I figured I would add it here.  It came into my mind for the first time in many years for reasons unknown…

From ages sixteen through eighteen, while attending high school in central Pennsylvania, I worked at a multiplex movie theater.  I began my illustrious career at the theater, or theatre as the marquee said, as an usher.  I tore your tickets, I cleaned up your messes, and I pocketed any and all loose currency I found on the sticky theater floors.  It was a decent job for a high school junior.

I also met my first girlfriend at the theater.  She was a co-worker of mine from a different high school.  Our relationship ended disastrously as I think I mentioned previously in another tale, but at the time, things were swell.

At some point in time, a new usher was hired.  This usher, however, was different from the rest of us.  His name was Peter.  Peter was about 40 I would say, with brown and balding hair, and brilliant blue eyes.  He was also, unfortunately, confined to an electric wheelchair and was mentally slow.  His speech was quiet and mumbley; and his hands were unsteady when he tore the tickets, which was all his job required—none of the cleaning duties were ever given to Peter.

Peter always had a man helping him out.  I don’t remember the man’s name, but I remember him pulling me aside one day and telling me Peter’s tragic story: Peter was a normal child until about the age of ten when he was struck by a car and left with irreparable brain damage.  It was hard not to feel sorry for Peter.

Peter, at first, was reserved and said little.  But as time passed, he became more comfortable with us employees and would tease us and joke around.  He also liked to talk up the female workers.  Not in a creepy way, but in a sweet, complimentary fashion.

One day, according to my then girlfriend Audrey, Peter was talking to her.  Their conversation went something like this:

“You look nice today,” Peter said.

“Thank you, Peter.  That’s nice of you to say.”  Audrey said.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked.

“Yeah, I have a boyfriend,” she said.  “You know him.  He works here.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, you know, Mike.”  And Audrey described me to Peter.

Then, unbelievably, Peter said, “Oh, him?  You can do much better!”

Ouch.

Here’s another example of why I don’t like clubs…

So, once again two of my female friends (the same ones from Dancing Machine) dragged me to a club, this time a club in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.  Once again, off the top of my head, I can’t remember the name of the club, which gives you an indication of the impression it left on me.  At any rate, at this point in the evening, I was tired of dancing and was leaning against the wall in a darkened section of the club, drinking a beer.

From where I was standing, I could still see my two friends dancing.  This club, if I recall correctly, had these platforms (with vertical bars) interspersed throughout the club where only girls were allowed to dance.  Kind of cage-like, I guess.  Anyway, while I was watching my friends from afar, I saw an African-American gentleman in oversized clothes approach my then-ex-girlfriend, who was still in one of those cage things.

This guy started chatting up my friend, which was fine with me, but then my friend starting pointing in my direction as if to say, “I’m here with him.”  Now, technically, I was there with her, but not in any kind of romantic capacity, so I was kind of annoyed that I was being singled out.  Leave me out of it, I probably thought.  Anyway, the guy stepped away from my friend for a moment but then returned moments later with what appeared to be a piece of paper and a pen.

He approached my friend again and was ready to either get her number or give her his own.  Again, my friend pointed me out to the guy as if to say, “No thanks, I’m here with him.”  Yes, me.  The short, wimpy guy standing in a dark corner looking totally uninterested in what is going on.  So, this guy gives me a strange, smug look then proceeds to write his information on the piece of paper before handing it to my friend as if to say, “Who?  That guy?  Whatever…here’s my digits, baby.”

What the fuck?  If I was my friend’s date, this guy’s move would have been a total slap in the face.  At this point, I had a vague urge to throw my beer bottle at this guy or at least the crowd in general and run for my life.  But instead I probably just sighed, took a sip of my beer, and tried to look inconspicuous.

Stupid clubs.

Many thanks to my artist friend A. Declet for contributing the awesome original picture for this blog post…

I rarely go to clubs. In fact, I don’t ever think I’ve initiated a club visit, rather I am usually dragged to a club by one of my female friends much to my chagrin. And I’ll give you one example here of why I don’t like clubs…

Two of my female friends, one of them being my then-ex-girlfriend, came to visit me while I was living in Philadelphia. And I got dragged to a club (the name of said club escapes me). Now, if I were left to my own devices, I would have stood in the darkest corner of the club, the one closest to the exit, and drank beer. My friends, however, wouldn’t stand for such behavior, and they made me dance with them, which I have to admit, wasn’t all bad. Now, I’m no dancer, but I had a decent time getting down, boogying, and cutting a rug with my two female friends.

Then, at the end of the night, a large, African-American gentleman pulled my ex-girlfriend aside and started talking to her. He was obviously some kind of bodybuilder, wearing a tight-fitting white shirt with a giant silver cross on his necklace, his muscles bulging. In other words, his physical appearance was the exact opposite of mine: short, skinny, white, and generally secular.

Anyway, after my ex-girlfriend removed herself from conversation with this large gentleman, I asked her what he had said to her.

“Oh,” she said. “He asked me who I was here with, and I pointed to you.”

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He said, ‘Him? Man, that’s so messed up!’”

Yeah, I don’t like clubs.

High school. One of my best friends, Chris, had been dating his girlfriend Rachel for over two years, which is a lifetime when compared to the usual impermanence of most high school relationships. But they were having some problems. In spite of this, however, the three of us spent a lot of time together. We would see each other in the mornings before homeroom, at lunch, and on weekends. Occasionally, Rachel would call me at home and we would chat. I wasn’t sure why they so often involved me in there plans, but my adolescent mind figured it was because Rachel in some way felt bad for me, as I was perennially single and particularly lovelorn.

I was wrong.

One Friday night, the three of us rented a movie and were watching it at Rachel’s aunt’s house, her aunt not being home at the time. Rachel was sitting between Chris and I on a large, wraparound couch. At some point during the movie, Rachel and Chris started cuddling. Then they started making out. So, pretty weird for me, right? Apparently not weird enough.

While Rachel and Chris were kissing, their eyes closed, Rachel deftly reached over and took hold of my hand and held it. When I realized what was happening, I jerked my hand free of hers. But she immediately groped for my hand and tried to hold it again. I pulled away once more, but this time I slid down the couch, putting enough distance between her and I that she could no longer reach me. Then they stopped kissing. I continued to watch the movie, my feeble mind wheeling, trying to understand what had just happened.

The next day Rachel called me at home. She was sorry, she said, for holding my hand. Part of me still considered the notion that she felt bad for me, and in some strange way didn’t want to exclude me from the whole kissing incident. But this thought was short lived, however, as she soon told me, after a prolonged silence, that she had feelings for me. But I couldn’t tell Chris. Please, I couldn’t tell Chris. Rachel then assured me that she would no longer call me and probably wouldn’t see me anymore outside of school. I was stunned, but also relieved. A month or two later, she told me, simply, “Mike, I don’t like you that way anymore.” And the matter was settled.

I kept my promise for years and never told Chris about the incident. But I felt bad about it. Then one afternoon, while talking to Chris on the phone–he and Rachel had long since broken up–I told him what had happened that one Friday night. His response: “Man, that must have been awkward for you.”

Yes, yes it was.

When I was in high school, I had a girlfriend. Her name was Audrey. I loved her; and in my youthful naivete, I imagined spending my life with her. But our relationship had been going sour. We had been arguing over trivial things and were constantly making amends with one another. One night in February, after a brief argument, we had driven her back to her parent’s house in silence. When she exited the car, she didn’t say goodbye, and she slammed the car door. I drove home, pensive.

The following afternoon after school, I was sitting in my parent’s basement. What I was doing, I can’t remember. Perhaps I was idly clicking away on the Internet or passively playing a video game. But I remember hearing the basement door open. The stairs creaked as, to my surprise, Audrey made her way down to the basement. She was wearing blue jeans and a downy white sweater. We exchanged hello’s, then she reached into her back pocket and handed me a sealed envelope.

“What’s this?” I asked.
She said nothing.
Suddenly, I knew what was happening. I was being dumped. My hands, still holding the unopened letter, trembled.
“I just wanted to give you that,” she said finally.
“Aren’t you going to at least stay while I read it?” I said, my voice cracking.
“I can’t,” she said, “Danielle is waiting in her car outside.”

I stared dumbly at the letter in my hands for a few moments. I was on the verge of tears. I looked at Audrey imploringly. Then the phone rang. I didn’t move to answer it. The ringing stopped.

“Mike,” my mom called from upstairs, “telephone.”

I picked up the phone.

“Hello,” I managed to say.
“Hey, man, what’s up!?” It was my friend Dave.
“Hey, Dave.”
“So, what’s going on? What are you up to?”
I started crying. “I’m gonna have to call you back. It’s a bad time.”
“Oh, Ok. Well, give me a ring, buddy.”
“Ok.”

I hung up. Audrey said she had to go. Fine, I said. And, with that, she left. I don’t remember calling Dave back.

Great timing, Dave.