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<\/p>\n\n<\/p>\n
\nThis is not a love story. <\/p>\n
And yet. <\/p>\n
When I write about M.<\/a>, I end up using romantic terms. The impulse is authentic. Cliches are sometimes useful, especially for someone like me, the last to know what the hell is going on in her own life. You need to talk to me about emotional stuff in very blunt terms<\/i>. Say it twice. Make sure I get it.<\/p>\n I was 24 when M. and I met. He was 26. We were two wild children. I was strolling around with an undiagnosed monster of a mental illness (diagnosis would come 20 years later. See my opening statement about being the last to know what the hell is going on.). My sense of self was in pieces all over the floor. My perception at the time was M. was WAY wilder than I was. (This was incorrect which I figured out late in the game. He was wild behavior-wise<\/em>, but extremely stable inside<\/em>. I was the opposite.) Despite his young age, M. somehow had the maturity to sense what was going on with me – he probably couldn’t have put it into words, but he had a sense for it. He picked up those pieces on the floor. He did not try to fit the pieces together. He did not judge the pieces for being broken or judge me for having lost track of the pieces. He did not flee into the night at the sight of the broken pieces. He just handed the pieces over, like “I have no idea why these are scattered on the floor, but I think they’re yours.” <\/p>\n I have written a lot about him. I even quoted him in one of the pieces I wrote<\/a> for my Film Comment<\/i> column. I laughed at myself as I was doing it, but it was appropriate to the subject, I swear. I never forgot what he said to me. We met in the thick of the improv scene in Chicago. He’s extremely well-known in the field. <\/p>\n \n<\/p>\n \n \n \nThere were two moments of picking. One: the first moment I saw him. Or, I had SEEN him (onstage) but I’m talking about the first moment I really SAW him. The second moment of picking was the “Tsk tsk tsk” moment I will (eventually) describe. Not too many people would withstand the “Tsk tsk” moment, especially someone with my hypervigilant fight-or-flight temperament. But I did push through him “Tsk tsk”ing me, for reasons not clear at the time.<\/p>\n How could I have known how it would unfold over the coming years? Did I guess? Lust was so much a part of our “thing” together – a constant whirlwind, it never cooled down – which is awesome, but … did I somehow guess at the depth of what would develop? It so often goes the other way. You hook up, and on closer “inspection”, the bubble of fantasy bursts. This was the opposite.<\/p>\n In looking back on those first couple of years, the “Tsk tsk tsk” episode takes on an almost eerie importance. I am now fully aware of how much he meant in my life, but it goes deeper<\/em>. This is what I want to try to put into words. I want to make language do what I want it to do, but language is inadequate (he actually said something along these lines to me at one point). Only time shows the real impact he had, and it goes way WAY beyond the comfort of a good memory.<\/p>\n \n \nYou ain’t lyin’, lady.<\/p>\n It’s more accurate to just reiterate what I already said, because it’s closest to what I mean: M. saved things for me I had dropped along the way, and gave them back to me, and in so doing, protected these things for the future<\/em>, when I would REALLY need them. This experience goes way WAY beyond language, and I am not sure how much of it was conscious on his part. Probably very little. It was just who he was. He was a listener like no other. I was going to say “he should give a course in listening” but he already does, with his improv workshops. Improv is all about listening. He heard shit I didn’t even know I was saying. I listened to him on a supersonic level too. So it wasn’t just him. It was who we were when we were together. <\/p>\n All of this being said, as amazing as it seems, I never was in love with M. I never “fell” for him, not in the traditional way. And so I “discounted” him and the emotional impact he had on me for years.<\/p>\n \n \nHe “got it” way WAY before I did. <\/p>\n Enough time has passed that now I can say he was the one. Not “the one” as in soulmate, because I don’t believe in soulmates, and also not “the one” as in the guy I was supposed<\/em> to be with. There is no “supposed to be with” going on here, and I do not write from a place of regret. I’ve been in love. Since I never felt “in love” with him, I put him in his own unique category, as opposed to … the genuine article. A friend of mine called M. a guardian angel, which is pretty close … but I must reiterate: we were two wild KIDS careening around in a muscle car and staying up all night playing pool. This is not a woo-woo Richard Bach narrative. My experience of him was pretty basic and I assumed the same was true for him. I had zero idea at the time he was standing guard over things I would need in the future. <\/p>\n Did M. know what he was doing? Did I?<\/p>\n When I met him, I was on the run from my former life. My first relationship was a stressful situation, and since it was my first I had no perspective on whether or not what was going on was normal. I also could not defend myself from the psychological stress. I completely “took on” his assessment of me: I was immature, I needed to grow up. (I was 20-23 years old. He was older.) It was just wayyyy too serious a relationship – in its outer form – than I was ready for.<\/p>\n \n \nInstead of saying, “Ya know what? I’m not ready to settle down. Peace out”, I stayed. This is not to blame him. He did nothing wrong. We just weren’t a good match and I was too immature to extricate myself. Since sex is part of this story, although I will spare you the details … my narrative in my head about myself was harsh<\/i>, lethally so. I wasn’t “meant to be” in a relationship, I wasn’t sexually adventurous, all that sex stuff probably “wasn’t for me”. Again, he is not to blame for this. In the final year of the relationship, I was in an almost completely dissociated state. I don’t remember much of it. <\/p>\n We were somehow unable to break up. We were friends for years before we started dating, so we really were letting go of a really good friend, and we just couldn’t manage it. Instead, we put ourselves through a protracted series of death throes. We sold off our stuff, bought a camper van, and drove around the country. Or, the continent, really. We drove up into Canada, we drove down through Minnesota, Wisconsin – we spent time in the Dakotas, in Nebraska – we went to Montana, to Wyoming, then down through the Southwest. We were on the road for months. This is pre-Internet. Pre-cell phone. We were way WAY off the grid. <\/p>\n \n \nMeanwhile, we were slowly breaking up. Why we didn’t cancel this trip is a mystery! Yeah, let’s live in a van for months on end when we can barely stand each other. I was so suicidal at Tetons National Park I shiver even now to think about it. I shouldn’t have been off the grid. I should have been in the hospital. <\/p>\n \n Eventually we reached California. He started his job at a corporate law firm in San Francisco, and I decided to move to Los Angeles. I knew nobody in Los Angeles. I lived in a bedroom in a random woman’s house in the Valley. I drove the camper van around. It kept breaking down. And STILL my boyfriend and I kept in contact. I’d fly up there for a weekend. For whatever reason, breaking up was this really hard thing to do. Eventually, in a fit of urgent claustrophobia, I moved to Chicago. In my memory it happened in a matter of days. My overall vibe was FUCK THIS. The life force – the ME of me – re-asserted itself. Two of my best friends – David and Jackie – already lived in Chicago! It would be a soft landing.<\/p>\n I arrived a frantic mess from the FIREBALL I escaped. I stayed with my college friend Jackie. My ex-boyfriend and I would have these long tearful phone conversations. Jesus, Lord, cut the cord. I look at photos from my time with him and I don’t recognize myself. He basically wished I was older, and ready to buy a summer house, take cooking classes, and think about getting married and having kids. I was 21 years old, I was a cashier in a grocery store, I took acting classes at night. He did ask me to marry him, by the way. I have no idea where I found the strength, but I turned him down. And we kept dating.<\/i> <\/p>\n \n \nSince he was my only boyfriend-experience, I was unprepared for the male attention I got immediately upon arriving in Chicago. This makes it sound like men pounced on me at the baggage claim in O’Hare, and of course it’s an exaggeration but … not by much. I walked into the vibrant theatre world of Chicago, where men outnumbered women by 10 to 1. Everyone was in their 20s. And everyone was where I was at, or where I should have been at, which was: The now is what matters. Let’s wait tables, do plays, and hook up with each other up and down the Lake Shore. I felt intoxicated by freedom.<\/p>\n \n I made up for lost time. I was legit surprised men would be interested in me. Being “hit on” was a new experience. I LOVED it. I didn’t take any of it seriously. I wanted to have fun, enjoy the attention, sow some wild oats, catch up on everything I missed out on by being in a thirtysomething relationship when I was a twentysomething. I wreaked havoc. I hurt some people. Because, who knew?, sometimes people “hit on” other people because they actually want to pursue a relationship, or at least go out on proper dates, like going to the movies and having dinner and seeing where it all might go. I was opposed to the whole thing.<\/p>\n \n I am not a mixed-signals kind of person. I am the opposite of a tease. The only time I am good at flirting is when I mean business. Don’t flirt with me unless you are prepared to finish the job. (I actually said those exact words once to a guy hitting on me at some party in Chicago. Sheila! CHILL.) Forward-ness like this is sometimes misunderstood, mainly because it’s not expected. Sometimes being honest is just being an asshole. I made a lot of mistakes, but I grew up a lot. Those first months in Chicago were a whirlwind. <\/p>\n The weird thing is I met M. my first night out in Chicago. It was brief, but he was there the first night. He noticed me, too. This adds to the eerie feeling there was Right after my arrival, Jackie and I both got horribly sick. It was the dead of winter. We nursed ourselves back to health. When we felt the slightest bit better we decided to go out and see some improv at Improv Olympic, where Jackie took classes. Improv Olympic, at the time, perched on the second floor of a bar called The Wrigleyside, right next to Wrigley Field. The guy this essay is about was heavily involved with Improv Olympic (IO, by the way, just shut down this year<\/a>.) <\/p>\n Jackie knew everyone there, so it was a fun night. The improv shows were raucous. IO was a small space, crowded with chairs and little round tables, waitresses maneuvering through the crowd. This was in the good old days when you could smoke inside (I didn’t smoke), so it was always smoky up there. You’d come home and your clothes would reek. After the shows, the cast and audience would go downstairs and basically take over the bar. If you were a straight lady in mid-90s Chicago and wanted to get laid, you could just go to an improv show at Improv Olympic and hang out in the Wrigleyside bar downstairs. If you didn’t score, you needed to ask yourself what YOU were doing wrong. I’m sorry but these are the facts. Improv was a boy-heavy scene (the situation has since improved a little), and the Chicago theatre scene in general was filled with men. Men outnumbered women, one of the reasons why it was such a fruitful environment: women had the advantage. <\/p>\n \n Improv Olympic was a small scene, you saw the same people week after week, and so I was an unfamiliar face and therefore a magnet. A guy came right up to me and said, huge smile, “Who are you?” This was in the days before cellphones when you were forced to engage personally. He seemed so friendly (and it wasn’t a front: he IS friendly) – so I told him my name, he told me his, and we launched into a conversation. He was with a woman, a friend, and we were introduced, but then she went off to socialize. Now the weirdest thing is: these two people would become hugely important to me and we are all still friends. Phil and Ann Marie. I wouldn’t become friends with Ann Marie until 7 or 8 months later, after which we became inseparable. So it’s so weird I would meet her, however briefly, on my first night there. Same with Phil. I’m telling you, to use Ann Marie’s phrase, something was going ON that night, “cosmic tumblers clicking down.” I met three people – Phil, Ann Marie, and M., in one night, my first night out in Chicago. <\/p>\n As Phil was blatantly hitting on me, I became aware of a guy sitting at a table behind Phil. He was one of the performers (as was Phil). I knew his name because he was on the house team. M. made an impression on me when I watched him onstage. He was fearless. But Phil got to me first, and he was so nice, I was all about Phil. Meanwhile, though, M. started to … basically … poke Phil in the back. Or nudge him. Trying to interrupt Phil’s flow with “the new girl.” Phil would laugh and say, “Please go away.” “No.” Poke, poke. I understood they were jostling for my attention. As I hope I have established, this was an entirely new situation for me. I was in heaven. M. was razzing Phil mid-pick-up, but also – for sure – trying to get MY attention. <\/p>\n \n It was all in good fun, with everyone openly acknowledged what was going on. They turned it into a bit – they were both improvisers after all. “Yes?” “Oh nothing.” “Why are you poking me.” Poke poke. “Go away.” “No.” And I would laugh and they would both be happy because I found them funny and wasn’t uptight about it. Making girls laugh was, like, their raison d’etre<\/em>. As I left, Phil chased after me and reached me, just when I touched the door. He asked for my phone number. I gave it to him, and he wrote it down on a scrap of paper. Those were the days. <\/p>\n There’s a sequel to the Phil story, and our subsequent date. For our date, Phil took me to see … this guy<\/a> perform … and … well. Nothing would be the same again. Time has revealed M. was more significant, in terms of … well, everything, including how I feel about my own past. Guardian angel, you see. He kept things safe I would need later. Little things like … hope. And self-esteem. The important thing is: On my first night out in Chicago, I literally met the four people who would mean the most. I mean, a couple years back, I wrote a post in honor of Phil’s birthday<\/a>. We are still friends. <\/p>\n Soon afterwards, I had a brief fling with a guy, 6 weeks tops, someone I met in my acting class. Unfortunately for him, I realized pretty soon I wanted nothing to do with monogamy or one man or anything. I was not ready. I had no business hanging out with him so much. He wanted a girlfriend. He was so much fun though! I was like, “why do you have to ruin it by getting all SERIOUS?” He took me to all kinds of wild events, introducing me to the pleasures of Chicago nightlife – midnight miniature golf, art openings in abandoned warehouses, breakfast at 3 am with a gaggle of actors. But … I didn’t want to be exclusive. I dropped him with no warning. He was shocked. He really thought we were dating even though I felt I was very clear with him. I probably wasn’t clear. I was a novice with the dating thing and I was an asshole. <\/p>\n \n Side note: Coming as I was off of a year of almost-constant suicidality, my freedom in Chicago most probably (in looking back) catapulted me into full-blown mania. I vibrated, thrummed, I felt like there were electric bolts coming out of my fingers. <\/p>\n \n About a month after I landed, I moved into a studio apartment. I didn’t bother to get any furniture, besides a mattress which I put on the floor<\/em>. I bought a pot, a colander (this will be relevant later), and I taped up a picture of Tori Amos on the wall, which I ripped out of a magazine. I went and saw Tori at the Park West, by myself. Another novelty. There were three big windows in the studio apartment, looking out at an apartment building across the way. I didn’t put up blinds or curtains or anything. I had just come out of a relationship where THINGS mattered. Things like furniture and cookware, stuff I did not care about at the time. It was such a relief to not give a fuck<\/i> about THINGS. My rent was $450 a month. !!! The first thing I did after I signed the lease was go to the pound and pick out a cat. I was ready for pet commitment at least. I got the best cat in the world… until Hope came along, of course. His name was Sammy. He was sweetness personified.<\/p>\n \n In my first week in Chicago, I signed up with a temp agency and I got regular work in various office jobs. When I got my first paycheck, I felt RICH. It was so great to not have to SHARE it with anyone. I paid my rent. I was going to be able to support myself. I was DOING it. I was still just a couple of months out from my suicidal visit to the Tetons and look where I was now. Incredible! I deposited my first paycheck, and withdrew some money. I was in the Loop and walked by an H2O, member the H20 chain? I went in and bought <\/p>\n 1. A gel-like sleep mask you put in the freezer. I went into my totally bare-walled little bathroom and slathered my face in it. I felt so free. I bought this with MY MONEY. I took a picture to commemorate the moment.<\/p>\n \n \nI look insane. But I was SO HAPPY. <\/p>\n The apartment was right on Lake Shore Drive, and every day I would go for a run along the lake shore. I would listen to the B-52’s Good Stuff<\/i>, one of the reasons why the album is SUCH a time-machine. It’s Proustian, any song launches me back to those first months, when I vibrated with freedom and exhilaration and excess energy (mania?), working off all of it during these lengthy runs. (Side note: There is copious evidence regular exercise helps regulate bipolar, so much so that the first doctor I talked to said if he could get away with it legally, he would refuse treatment to patients who refused to exercise.) My theory is: My obvious (in retrospect) mania was “managed” by my daily 5+-mile runs.<\/p>\n The night after I unceremoniously dumped the guy who wanted to be my boyfriend, I went to an Improv Olympic show. Jackie was on a team (with a guy who would be her future husband – still married! Two kids! Happy ending!) and they were performing. I loved it there. Everyone knew each other, everyone got a buzz on, the teams were all excellent, you would be laughing for two hours straight. <\/p>\n And this was the night M. and I really MET. <\/p>\n M. was one of the stars at Improv Olympic. He was on an all-boy improv team called The Family. (Google it. They are legendary in the improv world.) They were put together by improv-guru Del Close. Every one of the guys on The Family has moved on to various degrees of fame, writing for SNL, Colbert, Conan… One recently became an Oscar-nominee for Best Director, no less. People literally still talk about those shows. Ann Marie and I can still quote them at length. (“What in tarnation …”) The Family were the headliners on Friday or Saturday nights. You had to arrive early to get a ticket, the shows sold out quick. Stars and “alumnae” who were in town would stop by on those nights to see them. Chris Farley showed up once to catch The Family in action. (RIP.)<\/p>\n One of the “games” The Family played every week was called “A Day in the Life.” They would ask an audience member to come up onstage and describe what they did during the day. The team would then act it out. It was always side-splittingly hilarious. I don’t know what possessed me but I raised my hand when they asked for volunteers. They picked me. I remember what I was wearing, because my memory is NUTS (obviously). I wore a little mini-dress, ripped lace gloves I found in a second-hand store, and combat boots. My hair was long and wild and red. One of the guys interviewed me about my day. Was it the Oscar nominee? I can’t remember! The only two things I remember sharing is 1. I bought a colander (to go with my one pot) and 2. on my way to the lake for my daily run, a guy pulled up his car alongside me, and said something rude, like “How much for a half-hour?” The audience booed the guy. All of the guys of The Family were sitting around me, listening very closely. I remember suddenly being conscious of HIM, sitting there to my left, listening, smoking a cigarette. I don’t remember having any specific THOUGHT about him, I just remember him being there. Then I sat down and watched these guys re-enact my day. <\/p>\n It was one of the funniest things I’d ever seen in my life. The things they picked up on about my totally nothing day, how they expanded the colander purchase into pure absurdity. One of them “played” me, and I was crying. These guys had ESP with each other, one of the reasons why their shows were always so phenomenal. Someone would “start” something, and the other guys instantly knew what it was and how to add to it. Whoever played me started to jog across the stage in slo-mo, and M. instantly knew what “moment” of my “day” it was, and said, in this over-it bored tone, “Oh, look. A whore running.” <\/p>\n I am laughing as I type this. <\/p>\n The laughter of the audience was like a WALL of sound.<\/p>\n At some point during the show, maybe it was “a whore running”, but I think it was more of a general feeling, I turned my focus to M. I was very familiar with him, mainly because Jackie and I came to Improv Olympic every weekend. He seemed a little untouchable. A big fish in a small pond. My “relationship” to him was purely audience\/fan. However: I also remembered the moment, months back, when he tried to interrupt Phil’s pick-up. It was my only “personal” interaction with M. thus far. And it seemed … promising. I thought, hmmm, I think I could “work” that. But my overall sensation in the moment, sitting in my seat watching them act out my day, was bigger than all of this, and actually rather alarming. I suddenly got this overwhelming feeling he was “for” me. I didn’t think, “My God, he’s hot” (which he was), or “I want him” (which I suddenly 100% did), it was nothing specific or even down-to-earth. It also wasn’t, “I am interested in him as a potential boyfriend in my life.” No. What happened was an explosion of NEED, yes, but I didn’t feel desperate. I felt certain<\/em>. It was like: “Oh. I will have him. He’s mine.” <\/p>\n \n \nPheromones? Sure. But I was in the audience and he was up onstage. It was like thinking Mick Jagger was “meant for you” when you’re sitting in the back row of Madison Square Garden. <\/p>\n But I couldn’t shake the feeling. It was so big it was embarrassing. I didn’t even KNOW the guy.<\/p>\n After the show, Jackie and I and our group of friends trooped downstairs. We perched at a table and ordered a couple of pitchers. I was still a little bit shaken from the weird moment when it felt like a klieg-light in my mind turned to him. I said to Jackie, “This is so weird. But I’m having this feeling about M … ” She was supportive. “GO FOR IT. HE’S HOT.” <\/p>\n Now remember: all of this so far was just going on in my mind. <\/p>\n But … in looking back … and the way it all went down eventually, I think a similar thing happened with him, from the second I stalked up onstage in my combat boots and lace gloves. He said to me later, “I just remember you shouting something like ‘I’m not a whore'” – which is a total exaggeration of what I said, lol, but regardless … I think we BOTH experienced internal moments of like, “Huh. Him.” and “Huh. Her.” <\/p>\n \n \nLike I said at the jump, it is hard to write about M. and NOT make it sound like a love story. <\/p>\n In the midst of the maelstrom, I went up to the bar to order another pitcher. I realized he was sitting about 2 stools down. By himself. A part of but also completely separate from the debauchery around him. (This was his thing. he was the center of attention onstage. Offstage, he withdrew. Maybe it’s more accurate to say he sat in the same place and held court.) I ignored him. I felt way too out of control to just strike up a conversation. But he was staring at me. Watching me, more like. He meant<\/em> to stare, and he meant for me to notice<\/em> him staring. It was so weird: I had just<\/em> been talking about him to Jackie and here he was staring at me. I felt like I summoned<\/em> him. I gathered myself together and turned to look at him. Confronting the stare. He didn’t avert his eyes. He was very direct and he put my direct-ness to the test. I failed. I flailed for normalcy and said, “Good show!” He nodded a curt thanks (“curt” was a huge part of his anti-charm), and then said, out of the blue, “You look so erotic in those gloves.” <\/p>\n The first words he said to me. <\/p>\n I knew then I could have him. Easily. Without breaking a sweat. <\/p>\n \n \nA surge of triumph overtook my body. But I was still shocked he just came out and SAID it. This was not normal social behavior. Also, it’s not like I had been harboring a crush for months. I literally just pricked up my ears towards him 15 minutes ago, and here he is. I almost felt like he picked up on my crazed internal monologue, even though he had been onstage and I was in the audience. Probably the most rational explanation is I walked onstage to tell the team about my day, he took one look at my ripped gloves, and … to put it bluntly, wanted to tap that. <\/p>\n \n Okay, fine. True. BUT. Considering what eventually happened between us … considering we were together, off and on, for eleven years<\/i> … you’ll forgive me if I think there might be something more to it. Something a little cosmic. <\/p>\n There is zero reason this thing should have lasted beyond one night. It makes NO sense. So much of my life has involved getting over men I wanted but couldn’t have. I didn’t have to do that with him. Everything clicked into place. Well, it really clicked into place after the “Tsk tsk” moment, which I’ll get around to telling in the next 30,000 words. To have two un-tame-able people be in sync about our chaotic relationship was no small feat … and again it makes me think the rip-tide of “wow, the guy up there onstage is FOR me, he’s ABOUT me, he’s MINE” was right on the money. I knew.<\/em> <\/p>\n What was my response to “you look erotic in those gloves”? I turned and walked away. Without saying a word. I didn’t flounce off, like I was pissed at how “forward” he was. (I wasn’t wearing a tiny dress for no reason. Attention was the point.) I walked away because the rip-tide was a flood and I was going to get what I wanted.<\/em> It was just a matter of time. And I freaked the fuck out. <\/p>\n \n \nIf you had said to me that night, “You will still know this person 11 years from now” I would have laughed in your face. If I had to say what I wanted then I would have said, I wanted to kiss him. I wanted my hands on him, I wanted his hands on me. Pretty straightforward and not cosmic at all. Pretty basic. Male attention was new to me and I wasn’t sure how to handle it. Phil came on to me like a normal socially-adjusted male. He flirted with me, got my phone number. M. didn’t play that way.<\/p>\n I got back to our table and hurriedly told Jackie what happened. We were all pretty buzzed. Jackie flailed around in excitement. “WHAT DID HE SAY TO YOU??” “I looked erotic … EROTIC. I just blew him off. WHY did I do that?” My guess is, when I walked back to the table, M. kept his eye on me. He saw all of this go down. He knew I wasn’t offended, he knew I just needed to re-group. (He was a genius with women. Seriously. He should give seminars.) He also clocked Jackie as The Friend. He knew her already from the improv scene. But now he knew she was my friend. The bar was filled with people whooping it up, smoking, drinking, playing songs on the jukebox. He sat at the bar, biding his time, waiting for the right moment to come over and try again. Improvisers are brilliant about finding the “right moment”, sensing when to step into the ring, when to step out, when to make a move, when to hold back. <\/p>\n Eventually, he came over. The 6 or 7 of us at the table were having multiple screaming conversations. And he just STOOD there on the outskirts. I was aware he was there, aware he was there for me, but I let him just hang there. I didn’t turn to him, like, “Hello again”, I wasn’t friendly, I didn’t stop what I was doing to include him, or … to get a proper introduction. I just kept talking. RUDE. And he kept standing there. Hovering. Noiselessly.<\/p>\n \n Can you imagine the courage? I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t walk over to a table filled with a group of good friends and just stand there, waiting to be noticed by my crush. I CRINGE at the thought. Well, he didn’t cringe. Even though I walked away from him, he KNEW I was into it. So he came over to try again. Hats off. <\/p>\n As I continued to pretend M. wasn’t standing there, he moved his way around the table to get to Jackie. I saw him do this. I sat there watching him lean in and whisper to Jackie. Jackie told me later he said, “I really like your friend but I think I just scared her off.” lol Jackie came armed with the memory of me from 20 minutes before, gushing about him. So she encouraged him, “She’s so cool, try again.” I watched him hesitate. By now, I was basically just gawking at what was going on at the other end of the table. M. was so fearless onstage, and yet he seemed almost shy. He then asked JACKIE for my phone number. I HEARD him do it. She started to tell him and I intervened, I took control. <\/p>\n \n “HEY.” I yelled down the table. M. and Jackie came out of their huddle and looked at me. I said, “You don’t have to ask HER for my phone number.” This was in front of the whole table, and everyone suddenly subsided, realizing what was taking place. If there was popcorn, they all would have been munching on it. I gestured at him, saying, “Get over here.” He obeyed. He was enjoying himself. He loved being bossed around, me yanking the reins into my hands. We both knew what was happening and we both knew the answer was “Yes” witout having to even ask the question. Even though I walked away from him.<\/i> How many men would have been turned off or put off by a girl walking away from them? Not him. I said to him, “You don’t have to ask her for my phone number. I will give you my phone number.” The moment had arrived, and I was ready for it. I wanted this and I was getting it. <\/p>\n He took out a little notebook and a pen from his back pocket and gave it to me. I opened the notebook, which was filled with writing, and I started to flip through it, wondering what he wrote in there. I didn’t know who he was. He was a complete unknown to me. As I flipped through the book to find a page (and remember, our only exchange at this point was: “Good show” “Erotic gloves”), he stood there next to me. We made no small talk. We did not “start again” with a normal getting-to-know-you conversation. It seems unreal to me, now. My head was down, looking at the notebook, so I didn’t see him coming in to kiss me. Out of nowhere, and surprising me completely, he kissed me on the cheek. <\/p>\n The whole table was watching. Jackie screamed<\/i>. I was so startled I jerked my head away and looked up at him. He looked down at me. He said, “I couldn’t help it. You’re so pretty.” Matter-of-fact. I wrote my number down and gave him the notebook back saying, “I’m going out of town on Wednesday.” “I’ll call you before then.” “You better.” “I will.” <\/p>\n Then he walked away. No other conversation occurred. No other guy could pull this off. If anyone ELSE came onto me the way he did, I’d probably be like, “Listen, get to know me first.” But I was already primed for it since I made up my mind he was “mine” earlier. I felt like I made it happen. <\/p>\n \n Unbelievably, M. called me. I don’t think it was the next day, but it was definitely before Wednesday! We made a date. My old journals are filled with blow-by-blow descriptions of these first dates, which were – on the whole – hugely entertaining – but the dates blend together now. I remember his car getting towed once and I leant him money to get it out of hock. I remember making out with him at some bar. I remember watching him play pool in such a sketchy joint I was the only woman there. I remember M. parking illegally everywhere we went (hence: the towing). I’m not sure when these memories lie in the timeline. It’s hard for me to re-create what it was like to “get to know” M. Eventually, much later on, a couple years in, we were so comfortable with each other he’d call me in the middle of the day when he was free for an hour and say “My back hurts – could you come over?” – and I’d walk the four blocks to his apartment, let myself in through the back porch, make him lie down, turn on a tape recording of seagulls and waves (which I brought with me) – and then literally WALK on his back for an hour. Then I’d go home because he had rehearsal or I had rehearsal or whatever. Our relationship eventually was THAT casual and taken-for-granted and it’s how I mainly remember him. But there were indeed, 3 or 4 “dates” where we got to know each other. Believe it or not, I made M. wait. This seems RIDICULOUS to me now but it was somehow important to me, maybe because of the rip-tide. If he touched me for real, I would become Mt. St. Helens, and … was he ready? Was I? It was hard to get any details out of M. about his life, but he was (still is) voluminous on improv. Improv was (still is) his religion. I don’t remember him asking me many questions either. We met up at bars and pool halls. Then he’d drive me home in his blue muscle car. <\/p>\n Eventually, I invited M. up to my one-room apartment where there were no curtains. And you know, we took it from there. There were signs immediately this might be deeper than your run-of-the-mill hookup (which … I’d never done random hookups so what did I know). Some of the bad shit I mentioned before – the stuff I wasn’t conscious of – ambushed me. I didn’t have time to stave it off.<\/p>\n \n \nI was with this person I didn’t even know and suddenly I was in an altered state. I was so embarrassed. I put the brakes on. I wouldn’t have blamed M. if he had tiptoed out of the room thinking, “Sheesh, wayyy too heavy …” But he didn’t. It took me a long time to appreciate how he kind of just casually acknowledged what was going on. His ego might have been involved – of course – mine was too – but he just tried to figure out what the fuck was going on. “Wait … is it me?” “No no you’re fine you’re great…” “Did I hurt you?” “No!” I was, let’s be honest, slightly hysterical, and I started laughing. Or, scarier, cry-laughing. “Are you laughing at me?” he asked. “No! NO.” “Okay. Let’s take a break.” So we took a break. We chilled out. You see? M. was brilliant. Probably a nightmare for other women, perfect for me. I was a nightmare for other men, but perfect for him. <\/p>\n This little exchange was a sign of things to come. Not every guy would handle such a moment with grace, especially not on the first night. And let’s not give him all the credit: I could have suppressed my altered state. I could have faked it, in other words. Lied, in other words. But lying was beyond me so I let him know what was happening. This is pretty brave. He could have reacted badly, like I was bumming him out or ruining his good time, or, worse, he could have flipped out because his ego was bruised. I didn’t know him at all.<\/i> Anything could have happened. M. didn’t take me pushing him away personally. Or, he did – he was afraid he had hurt me, or I was laughing AT him – but he SAID both of those things out loud so I could then reassure him, and so it was all out there in the language. After the brief interruption, we moved on and … afterwards I was like: <\/p>\n \n \nHoly shit. I wanted to call in sick. I can’t go to WORK now. Interestingly enough, years and years later, M. told me what he thought during the laugh-crying – which we didn’t discuss back then and never referenced afterwards. I won’t report what he said but I will say: If I had an eerie presentiment about him and who he was, then the same was true of him. I’m not exaggerating: he – a 26 year old boy – saw me better than I saw myself. AND. He was kinder to me than I was to myself. The cry-laugh moment – and me pushing him away – was – according to him – when he really figured out what I was about. AND … he was still interested. Not a lot of guys would be.<\/p>\n \n \nThere was a weird profound moment the first night. M. was asleep on my single mattress on the floor<\/em>. Let’s be honest, I barely knew him. I sensed his wild-ness though, which I liked and found exciting, but I sensed something darker. I sensed a self-destructive streak, maybe even a death wish. He was 26, and he seemed way older. It was like he was a grizzled cranky old dude, near the END of his life, not just starting out. He could be crotchety, like an old man. He was free but he wasn’t CAREfree. He drank a lot, which scared me, but it went deeper. There was something else there, something I didn’t know yet, some shadow over him. (I was right on all counts, by the way. There WAS “something else there”, which he eventually told me about. I saw some scars on his body the first night and I touched one of them and he said “Oh it’s nothing”. It wasn’t nothing.) <\/p>\n In other words, on our first night together, I started worrying about him. I felt like there was a fire within him burning too bright, or like he was trying to douse something within by drinking too much. He drove recklessly too. Without a seat-belt. My head was on his chest, and I could hear his heartbeat, and I remember … the only reason I feel okay about sharing this next bit is because we lasted as long as we did. I feel vindicated. Sometimes a manic state – which I now believe I was in for the first year in Chicago – provides clarity. You take wild leaps of insight. You cut through defenses of bullshit. And I FELT him. I didn’t know him but I felt him, his whole LIFE … in the heartbeat through his skin. His life. Not his life STORY, I’m not talking about a metaphor, but the animal part of him, the LIFE force, and I remember feeling like I was in there, with his pulse<\/em>, cheering it on, “Go go go you can do it go go go go …” <\/p>\n \n \nEncouraging the blood to keep pulsing. I wanted him to live. <\/p>\n WHERE did all this come from? <\/p>\n We got up the next morning, ate breakfast at the diner at the corner, and went our separate ways. But his touch lingered on me for what felt like days.<\/p>\n Meanwhile, I was in a show, the first show I auditioned for, not too shabby! I was having this whole other life going on, and deeply engrossed in the process. Since this was before cell phones, every time we wanted to hook up, M. would leave a message on my answering machine (and they were always SO AWKWARD. And he’d just LET them be awkward. It was so weirdly charming.) If I wanted to get in touch with M., I’d leave a message on his pager. Somehow it worked. Somehow, unbelievably, people were able to contact each other before the internet. <\/p>\n \n The M. thing continued on its idiosyncratic track. We didn’t go to movies or out to dinner. We would meet up in pool halls. (People didn’t want to play with him because they never got a turn. I loved watching him play pool. People would gather around the table to watch him. Cigarette dangling, blue bandana on his head, T-shirt, jeans, he was a spectacle.) I would meet up with him at the Wrigleyside after his shows. He would call and tell me where to meet him. If I was free, I’d go. Jackie and I went to open mics to do our a capella<\/em> renditions of songs, shit we’d been doing since college. We sang “Jordan River.” We sang “The Star-Spangled Banner.” We KILLED at these open mics. There was one on Tuesday night at one bar, one on Sunday night at another bar, and we’d go to both, it was kind of a weekly routine. And M. would join occasionally. There were a couple of times when he got the locations mixed up, and went to the Sunday night place on Tuesday night or vice versa, and I’d come home and find a cranky message from him on my machine: “Hi. I’m at Lottie’s. It’s Sunday night and you’re not here.<\/i>” Jackie said, “Why does he keep doing this?” It was hysterical. No matter how many times I told him, “Open mic at Lottie’s is on TUESDAY, not SUNDAY” he kept showing up on Sundays. <\/p>\n \n I found M. so interesting. It’s like I hung on his every word. Which was quite a feat since he wasn’t a big talker. But it was the whole spectacle: His ice-blue eyes, big black hair, pale skin, how his body moved through space, his clumsiness but also weird grace, how he’d manhandle me, how he’d turn to look at me when I was talking, how he’d wince when he’d reveal something about himself. He was never sure how much to tell me, he’d squint at me suspiciously before telling me anything about himself. Just checking if the water was clear. Those moments were tests. <\/p>\n We were so not into the “here’s my life story” thing I was still discovering stuff about M. years into it. Like, four years in I learned M. was fluent in ASL, a pretty big thing NOT to know about someone. We were at a bar and he ran into a guy he knew, they were excited to see each other, it’d been years, and they started signing at the speed of light. I just stood there and watched. After the friend walked away, there was a long silence and he said, almost cranky, “Yes. I know sign language.” I hadn’t said a word. FIVE years in, I learned he could recite Kipling’s “Mandalay” by heart. WTF?? And – cosmic tumblers – I can recite Kipling’s “If” by heart! <\/p>\n \n
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\nBut I want to write today about how I picked him<\/em>. Because I did pick him. This has been on my mind since we went into lockdown. It hasn’t been on my mind consistently, but in the first month and a half of lockdown, things got a little bit spooky around here, and the past was on my brain, and how the past connected to the present. This is usually a danger zone, and it was here too, but I lost control of being in control of my mind. So I have been thinking about my life, and where I’m at, where I’ve been, how I got here … and he kept coming up. I began to realize just how much<\/em> I picked him. It was so deliberate. It was like I KNEW. <\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/10\/giphy-1-1.gif\")
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\nWow, you look like you’re having so much fun, Sheila.<\/i><\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/10\/1931403_45099322631_4773_n.jpg\")
\nHere I am in the Badlands. Literally and metaphorically.<\/i><\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/10\/giphy-5-1.gif\")
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\n1. something “meant to be” about the whole thing
\n2. something precarious about it too: it might not have happened at all. <\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/10\/giphy-20.gif\")
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\n2. A honey-oatmeal face mask. I can still smell it. <\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/10\/3219673501_9071069d79_c.jpg\")
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