Spring 2010
It’s just better to sit down to put on your shoes; John gave in the other day. Also Oreos, a new watch and peeing in the shower are things he gave in to on other days. NPR said Brazilian and French adverts encourage peeing in the shower because it saves a flush. So, duh.
His sunny terrace and avocado sandwiches are on loan from Dad but he can’t really see himself paying it back, like when he got his guitar, or when he went to college. He’s taking a ‘gap year’—or years—and waiting to hear back from a couple surf shops for a job.
And he’s been seeing a new girl, Ally. She loves to streak but something’s wrong with her laugh. They met drunk and kept it that way for a while. The attraction is mostly physical, but there’s something nice about John, and she’s climbing the ladder at Google.
Saturday in the park they had that Chicago song stuck in their heads (though the men selling ice cream weren’t Italian, or they weren’t singing Italian songs anyway). Someone like Blondie or Depeche Mode was playing a free concert that John just couldn’t pass up, and they danced their pants off.
(art by Andrew Schwartz)
After fucking they would have intimate conversations, naked and comfortable. Families, favorites, life stories and goals, insecurities, relationships, sex, one-night-stands.
How many one-night-stands?
Too few is loser, too many is whore.
“What—” said John, “are we really doing this? …Fine… Four. Or maybe five. Or, maybe seven. Uhh… Five. Five and a half. Mm yeah, five and a half I think.”
“Oh, really—five and a half?”
“Yeah, I mean, they’re blurry sometimes… you know. Well, anyway, what about you?”
She waited. “Two.”
“Really. …Really? Huh, not that I thought you were a slut or anything but I just figured you were liberal and crazy like that.” She took no offense. “Yeah, well, I’ve had a couple boyfriends that took up some time, too.”
Other discussions:
“How should I shave?”
“What’s the coolest place you’ve been?”
“You’re an Atheist, right?”
“Do you have a record player?”
This morning John asked, “What do you do to get that feeling, where all you can think about is exactly what you’re doing and nothing else? Like when you’re super focused and passionate and everything.”
“Hmm, let me think… well, taking a test I gue—”
“No, like surfing or mountain biking, or playing music. Or sex or whatever.”
“I guess probably tennis. And reading, and swimming. And… Legos.”
“Oh, nice one! Huh.” Snuggle. Then John pulled back to take a breath like he was going to say something, but then he didn’t, but then he did.
“What about other stuff though—like… like…” He thought he might be going in over his head. But he had started it, so he’d finish it; that was something he’d been working on. “Well like, when my cousin died I didn’t cry. But it’s not like I saw her everyday or like she’d really be something I’d miss in my life. Which made me feel even weirder that I didn’t feel that weird. But death is like something that’s just really like, real and there and just, real, you know like something that’s really epic and passionate and real, where you should feel really real and in the moment, you know, like, like super surfing or something. But,” his commas were long, “I mean, I can’t really take anything seriously. And it’s weird, and it kind of sucks.”
She rubbed his back, and thought, and kissed his cheek. “When my grandma died, I did cry. She wasn’t in my life that much either, but I cried because I loved her.”
“Yeah but, well… I guess love is weird then. Sure I loved my cousin but it was just that she wasn’t really a part of my life, so I wouldn’t really miss her, you know?”
“Everyone else cried; I cried. It was the natural thing to do, I guess.”
“Yeah but did you feel like crying? Your grandma lived in Austria and you’ve seen her
twice.”
She began to cry. John put his arm around her, waiting for her reply.
“I guess I don’t really know… You’re right—she was…”
“An idea. What difference would it make if she were really dead or alive? She’s halfway across the world—you’d never know! An idea! Life, an idea!” He shrugged his shoulders. “Philosophy? Meh, whatever.”
She almost wanted to slap him.
“Let’s go skydiving. I’ve never been skydiving—let’s go skydiving.” He lit a joint and they shared it. “Mm, I’m gonna go surfing now though,” and saying this, he jumped out of bed, put on some shorts, kissed her once more and left.
John spends hours surfing. The saltwater is refreshing yet repetitious and familiar, repeating forever. He lies on the waves and thinks about life. He could travel the world, but he needs money. He could work for his dad, but that’s in Minnesota. He could try to get a real job, but that’d be a real job. He could marry rich; it’s always been in the middle of his mind. He cooks, he musics, he has good taste in design, he’s good-looking— he must be a trophy husband. And then he could just keep surfing.
But Ally isn’t really quite the girl of his dreams. She’s cute and fun of course, but just different from John. Which could be good, though. Example: in college John would sit across the table every other day from the same not-so-cute girls, and eventually they’d grow on him and become cute. The odd nose or that speech impediment would become the exact little quirk that was especially cute. And on rare occasion the newly-cute girls could even become cuter than some born-cute girls—it was almost like that saying that things are better when you have to work for them. Or maybe just good things come to those who wait. Ally will grow on him.
By different, she’s a suburbanite. The kind that doesn’t know what kind of music to listen to or how to drive stick-shift. Growing up, her backyard was on hole 12 at a private country club with a low fence between the tee box and her pool chairs. She was brunette, and very good at tanning. In high school she flirted and poured drinks from the ClubCart, making awfully good tips from the men with cigars. They’d say, ‘You can call me Frank,’ and wink and pretend it was cool. Then she went to college and ended up at Google in San Fran.
Her apartment has too much IKEA, bright scarves on the wall, a cat, and lots of fruit and vodka. She decided against a TV in favor of creativity, and writes mediocre songs on her keyboard if she’s not out with friends or on FreeRice.com. Cooking is a pain—food in pill form would be ideal—luckily, Google provides most meals. Their headquarters are very lovely in San Francisco, but she’s worried she’ll miss the four seasons.
It’s nice to have a boyfriend, especially when you’re new in town. John’s taken her to some hip bars and cool beaches that she never would have found on her own. He’s also introduced her to some friends outside of Google—not that she’d have trouble meeting people, but still, it just helps to have someone help.
She’s pretty sure that John is definitely a ‘nice guy.’ But he oscillates between being either very insensitive or way too feely. He’ll talk about adventure and death, then feelings about relationships and commitment, then science, and then adventure again, or his favorite sandwich. It’s tough to say if that’s just a ‘guy thing’ or if he really can’t deal with certain emotions or understand empathy. He hasn’t had many long-term relationships and he mentions his mother more than the average 23-year-old male. So Ally’s not sure exactly what he’s up to, just bumming around California, meeting women like her on his family’s money. But when they had ‘the talk,’ a while ago, they left it open: if things get serious, great; and if not, that’s fine too. For now, Ally is content with a friend and sex.
One day while John was waiting for the next set of waves to roll in, he chatted with his buddy Zach, a real pro surfer.
“Hey, you should come out tonight, dude,” said John. “I never see you around much.”
“Yeah I don’t really go out. I usually get up early and head up north in the mornings to catch some nar nar before work. I’ve never taken you, but the early waves there, at like 5 in the morning, are fucking sick.”
“Oh, nice.”
“Yeah bro.”
“You think I could handle ‘em?”
“Uh, probably not, dude. You’d just get pounded. They’re pretty big and nasty. I took out Alex the other day and he just got hammered the whole time and could barely even paddle out.”
“Oh, bummer. Huh… well, let’s go somewhere cool sometime.”
There was an awkward silence, though John doesn’t believe in awkward silences and Zach has never experienced one.
Then John asked, “What about the ladies—gettin’ much action lately?”
“Dude, I got a girlfriend, so I’m set. I’m surprised you’ve never met her. She’s out here almost as much as me.”
“Oh cool. Yeah, I’ve never met her. Is she cute?”
“Yeah bro, she’s fucking hot.”
They smirked, and John said, “You would. …But so you don’t like going out at all, eh? Like, you should just come out for a couple drinks or something sometime.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Zach—tan, muscular, cool, livin’ the dream—is set with one girl. It’s surprising to John—to John, commitment is a problem. Commitment is serious, which is a problem. Commitment is a serious problem.
Meanwhile, Ally talked with Henrik at Google. Henrik seems like the type that reads GQ—in a tall, manly, five o’clock shadow sort of way.
“Hey Henrik, how often would you say you bring up your mom on the average day?”
“Huh?” chuckle, “I don’t know.” He made a funny pondering face, sticking out his chin, and continuing in his deep Swedish accent, “I think of her maybe once or twice, but I don’t say much. Why?”
“Oh, just wondering. This guy I’ve been seeing is always talking about cooking techniques, or antiques, or other stuff he did with his mom. Don’t you think that’s kind of weird?”
“Mmm, maybe. But maybe he’s just real close with her. Maybe he has no dad, or brothers and sisters.”
“Yeah I know I’ve thought of that, but he does have a full family. It’s like they’re too supportive or something, though. Like, we’re the same age, at the same point in our lives—fresh out of college and into the ‘real world.’ Shouldn’t we be limiting those ‘mother’ references by now down to like, one or two a day, like you?”
Henrik, wise and drinking coffee, responded, “Well, I don’t know. I think a lot of my friends are still close with their parents. It’s nice to be close with your parents.”
“Yeah? Okay.”
(art by Cat Schrage)
Ally began, “He’s either really sweet and sensitive, or just absentminded and, well, a jerk. I don’t get it—like, he understands emotion, but he can’t really… grasp it like he should. And the weird thing is that he kind of knows it. He knows he needs to grow up, but he doesn’t seem to be doing anything about it. Julia, am I dating an immature, self-centered asshole?”
They both took a long sip before Julia replied, “Well… you could put it that way, but I think it might be a bit harsh. You might be the same age and everything, but some people just mature at different rates and under different circumstances. Like the mom thing—I think it’s kinda cute.”
“That’s not really what I wanted to hear… like, it just feels like he’s on a totally different page than me sometimes. I mean, I know guys don’t go around giving each other big hugs or crying at the movies, but still, sometimes he’s just the most stoic boy I’ve ever dated but at the same time he’s the biggest puppy.”
“Well, why don’t you talk to him about it? Try to get him to open up a little more and put him on the same page.”
“Hmm. Yeah, but… well… I… you’re right. Thanks.”
Julia swirled her glass, then drawing on experience, said frankly, “Or, you could be mean. Make sure he feels something. You know, leave him a weird note on his car, or act like something’s bothering you and don’t have sex until he opens up, or start blowing him and just leave.”
John didn’t really deserve that sort of thing, but it might make him think a little, Ally thought.
The next day John went to work—he got the spot at Dave’s Surf School. He’s looking forward to being an instructor, spreading the joy of catching a wave, but for now he’s stuck washing wetsuits and waxing boards. It’s pretty chill around the shop, though, and it’s nice to have some routine in his life again.
Friday night, after a great late-summer day, Ally came over for scallops. They shared a joint out on the terrace, then John set to work chopping vegetables and such. Ally came up behind him and put her arms around him.
“John, you’re kind of an asshole sometimes.”
“Yeah? Oh… Well, sorry.”
“You need to open up, and be more aware of what you’re doing.”
She was being ambiguous. He knew.
He turned around, careful with the knife in his hand. “Yeah, I know, I guess. But do we have to have this conversation right now?”
“Well…” She grabbed a green bean, “before sex.” She bit into the bean with a mocking smile. But she was serious about what she said. “Here, let me cook; you talk.”
He sighed, partly of relief, since sex was still coming. “Fine. What do you want me to talk about?”
“Your mom. You know you talk about her too much, don’t you?”
He did one of those laughs through his nose. “Well, maybe, I suppose. Whatever—I don’t care. She’s my mom. Don’t you like your mom? Just cut the one end off the beans.”
“Yes, I love my mom, but I don’t talk to my girlfriend about her all the time!”
“Well, I figured you’d think I was sensitive or whatever—girls like that, you know.” He was sarcastic, kind of.
(art by Cat Schrage)
“No, I’m sensitive. Here, let me cut the onion. I’m very specific about my onions. I make you romantic dinners, I help you decide what clothes to wear, I listen to you talk about your bad days.”
“Yeah? …Well you also bring up death just to make me cry.”
They looked at each other. John made several faces: caught-off-guard, sorry, thinking, sorry.
“Oh,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I told you I can’t take anything seriously.” He had an apologetic sort of smile on, then raised an eyebrow. “And anyway, your laugh is fake.”
They argued for a few minutes about who was sensitive and who wasn’t, why John was an asshole and a loser and why she sucked too. The cooking went on for the most part, John interjecting corrections and starting the grill. They were also high, which made everything strange. Finally, they decided they’d work together to grow up somehow; they were both being immature. They were both young, and just trying to live. And they both needed sex. By the time the scallops came off the grill—which is only 6-7 minutes once they’re on—they poured another glass of chardonnay. Ally wiped off her running makeup, and they sat down to dinner. They would remain something more than friends.
It was sunny and nice out on the terrace, and John proclaimed, “I love scallops.”
He held up his glass to clink, and they ate in silence looking out over the city. The silence was comfortable, pleasant even.
After they’d finished, Ally raised her eyebrow and wine.
Let’s go streaking.