he swore on his mother's grave, but then, he swore on just about anything. like the time he swore on the president's life, and on his brother's. or when feeling more spiritual, to God, the Bible and, just to cover his bases, "on everything holy." funny part is that he never swore on himself, but everyone and everything else around him was game. that was his thing, his motto, his life's goal: all the gain should be personal, but certainly none of the risk.
coincidentally, it is because of this that i met him in the first place, three years ago. three years and i still hadn't been able to shake that friendship off like the parasite it was. friendship only by the popular definition of a person i hung out with and involved in my life on a consistent basis, of course. it was a disease, i think; there was something inherently wrong with me that i continued to answer his phone calls, continued to meet up with him, when i knew that all the money we spent would be mine, all the conversation would be one-sided (my ears, the victims), and i would inevitably be cleaning up his vomit from my living room rug while he snoozed drunkenly in my bed. he wore my clothes (and never returned them), he monopolized conversation and he manipulated me out of money and time. yes, some degeneration of my brain must be to blame.
it was another sort of disease that led to our acquaintance of one another. we were at a kind of AA meeting for workaholics. it wasn't AA by name but we all knew we were there because we realized our problem and wanted to find some connection outside of the office. something that, perhaps, was strong enough to yank us from our swiveling leather desk chairs and mahogany three-piece desks with satin finish. i don't even know how we originally connected. perhaps because he loved talking, and i was lonely enough to listen without reciprocation. my marriage was beyond repair, as my wife had already left me and i had returned to the echoing loneliness of the bachelorhood of my previous life, of my life before her tenderness and beauty. he had never been married, but had plenty of destroyed relationships in his wake regardless.
our group met twice a week after work at a local pub and we sat around a large table in wooden booths nursing cold beverages. the one rule was that we could not talk about work. EVER. even if you had to make something up to be interesting, NO work talk. it was the point of the group, after all, to force each other to turn our eyes outward, outside the glass walls of our top floor, corner offices to the world spinning 30 floors down and beyond. he never had a problem doing that but we had our doubts that anything he said was even true. in fact, we began to suspect that all of the harrowing stories he spun were actually metaphors for work and that when we gave him commentary or advice, we were being accessories to his addiction. two nights of my week with the group, and the other five he somehow claimed as his own. i, of course, had nothing else to do.
so it was really a conglomeration of reasons that when he asked to borrow my car, i refused. the first time, anyway. i was proud of myself for that, since i am one of those people who can never bring myself to say no; even if someone were asking to borrow my arm for a moment to retrieve their lost ring dangling from the jaw of an angry lioness, i probably would shrug and stutter and finally say "sure." that should say something to my level of affection for him--i resolutely and determinedly said "not a good idea." perhaps that statement didn't have the strong "no" that i intended it to, because he was prompted to ask once more. and i handed over the keys. he had his own car--a red Porsche that he paid exorbitantly for in insurance--but it would be so unlike him to risk his own property. he was driving up-state to meet this girl he'd been talking to on the Internet and he was afraid that his low-rider wouldn't make it over the ice that was loosely forecast for that weekend. it was probably a good thing--i justified in my head--seeing as how he took off of work so little that he was beginning to pay the company for his own vacation days. and i would get to drive a Porsche around all weekend. by the time i realized he had no intention of switching cars, it was too late.
i had a cot in my office anyway.
he was on cloud nine when he returned and i had such an awful crick in the right side of my neck that i was spinning all of the way around just to look left. at least i had been able to alphabetize my office supplies, which i'd been meaning to do, and believe it or not, i even rode the train (surrounded by a mass of other humans in the "real world") to the theater to catch a flick and eat popcorn, a few kernels of which i believed were still lodged in the lining of my stomach. he had never had physical evidence to support the alleged stories and alleged people in his alleged life but this time, he had snapped several pictures on his pristine Blackberry Storm with the plastic still on. he passed it around the table, proud of this gorgeous woman he'd somehow scored a weekend fling with (probably fooling around in the back of my Ford Explorer, no doubt), and whom he predicted might become his first real long-term relationship. when it got to me...well.
"i swear on my mother's grave, i had NO idea she was your ex-wife!" i was able to get back my keys before satisfyingly ending that pathetic friendship. of course he got his back, too, but i doubt they'll do him any good. i wonder if a red Porsche at the bottom of a lake is enough to teach him a little about personal cost, or if it serves in no way other than a payment to myself for how much i have lost.
3 years ago
