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The Search, Part ThreeJan 02 '05 Write an essay on this topic.
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The Bottom Line Copyright 2005 David MacDonald
http://www.epinions.com/content_4202406020: part one http://www.epinions.com/content_4202471556: part two http://www.epinions.com/content_4202537092: part three http://www.epinions.com/content_4202602628: part four It became my new tradition, at least for a while. Sunday morning was an important thing for me. I’d always get up early and get ready to go to church. Never again would I be waking up at 11 am after a long Saturday evening. And eventually, it got to the point where I wouldn’t be staying out late on a Saturday night either...... “Hey Carol,” I would say to her one evening, “I think I’m going to leave you.” “What time is it?” She would have been well in the bag by this point. 㥷 pm.” “Eleven? It’s not even tomorrow yet and you’re going home now?” she exclaimed. “Are you crazy? Or tell me, have you drank too much, are you all right?” We would have been at a house party with a hostess who had a habit of making sure our wine glasses were always filled to the brim. She had an attraction to cheap ten dollar wine, but even her liver wasn’t strong enough to keep up with her credit card, so occasionally she’d have a house party to get rid of the excess. “No, I haven’t -- it’s okay.” I say. “I didn’t bother drinking my last glass.” “Oh!” She looked rather worried. She thought I had a problem. “Well, if there’s anything bugging you, you can always talk to me about it.” “Sure, I will.” I say, humoring her. Even if I did have something pressing to tell her, it could wait until she and I met at Cafe Diem on Wednesday, as we always did. My other engagements with her fell in number, however. Occasionally, I had some worthy excuses. I needed to work some Friday or Saturday nights, so technically I had no choice but to skip a wild night out. But as the weeks went by, as the amount of times I hung out with Brian increased, I just didn’t bother going out to parties anymore. I’d be waking up with a hangover. I’d be having transitory physical feelings, having been fed by drinking, sex, loud music, whatever. But they’d all evaporate the next morning, to be replaced with an emptiness. Before I met Brian, I’d replace that emptiness with another weekend of short-term fun. This time would be different, I swear. And I was enjoying myself, I swear. * Going to church. Taking walks with Brian. Visiting his friends. That’s what I did all summer. I was always doing things with him, never the other way around. I never would have felt comfortable telling him we ought to visit my friends. I needed to be saved, not him, and I didn’t want him to suspect my situation was even more dire than he was led to believe. Yet I ended up doing something far less obvious in giving my game away. “Why did you wear that?”, he asked me one day, after we went back to his place. “Wear what?” I ask. My socks? My shoes? What was he talking about? “That... that shirt.” “It’s summer. What am I going to wear? A fur coat?” We had went to a barbecue organized by the church. I wedged myself in between Sarah and Celine for much of the trip, where we engaged in small talk, and really got to know each other. It was probably the best event I’ve been to, as I had been able to open up to other people at the church, outside of the regular services. He appeared embarrassed to be using my clothing as a discussion point. His hand gesture toward me was paired with a turning away of the face, as his eyes wandered somewhere beyond my left. “It’s .... well, it’s just an old shirt, Brian.” “But... don’t you think it draws attention to yourself?” His tone was reasonable. Self-effacing. Whatever. I drew my chin toward my chest, and from where I was looking, all I saw was the cusp of my shirt looping around my chest. “Hey, I don’t mind as long as it’s you who’s looking at me,” I laugh. “So is everyone else.” “Are you sure about that?”, although I knew he was right. I mean, I was already privy to the experience of people regarding my shirt-covered chest. “Is it any big deal?”, was the more accurate question. “It... it is if they start making judgments about you.” “Like what? What would they say? If they really don’t like the way I dress, maybe they should stop shopping at Zellers like I do, and find some more Christian-flavoured shop to frequent.” I was only trying to be witty, but I don’t think he appreciated my sense of timing. “But... what could happen if you were walking alone at night, without me or someone else? “ So apparently he was my superhero as well. Kind of like George Bush as the superhero of democracy, he was the superhero protecting my poor, helpless body. “It’s going to happen to me regardless of what I wear, Brian.”, I said, the fringes of my eyes trembling with fear at the images he painted. “If.... if someone wanted to rape me..... they’d do it if I were wearing five layers of sweaters and snowpants!” “uh... maybe.” He fought weakly against the urge to completely agree with me. “.... but you... I think modesty would work better for you.” I laugh, but I felt insulted. He expanded upon his findings. “I think being modest is the way to be for you. You’ve got such a lovely face -- when I talk to you on the phone, you sound so true and pure.....” Please, God. Please tell me why You made me so ..... cute! “I don’t know why you would flaunt yourself in this way. You’re just leading yourself astray. I don’t want you to be like I was a few years back.” “Who said I’m being led astray? It’s just a dumb shirt. I don’t see what the problem is.” “It... it’s just that I’ve liked the times we’ve spent together, and I’m even thinking if we should get married someday.....” Whoa, now! “... and I don’t want to feel as if I’m making the wrong choice... or that you’re not as willing as I hoped you were.” This came as a shock to me! I never expected him, or any other guy, to make a comment about marrying me. Normally, the best I can do is a short-term relationship. I don’t know where he was getting at. I don’t know how he’d believe I was even debating the idea of tying the knot. “Oh....” But , even so, I found myself deficient in offering total disdain of his meditation. “I.... never realized you felt that way.” “Yea, well, I do.... I mean, I’m getting older. How many more times will I be sitting in church, watching different people from the congregation getting married, before I actually stand in front of everyone, and being a part of that important union? When will I marry someone, start a family? When will I fulfil the thing God hopes of all of us? When’s that going to happen, Sandra? I was disappointing him. Might as well ease him out slowly. “Hey, don’t worry. Someday you’re going to find a truly nice girl, a girl with your values... and you’re going be married and living together in a nice house with all sorts of nice kids who will grow up just like their daddy. Good and pure... and decent.” That’s if his eye didn’t keep wandering over to waitresses with vague spiritual conflicts who one day decided to stumble into church one day, and become another of his charity cases. He turned himself away from me. “Maybe... you’re just not what I hoped you’d be.” “I didn’t want you to hope anything of me.” I didn’t. I didn’t want him to expect anything of me. I was too busy expecting something from him. I expected something I would never get, and vice versa. * The last thing we did was only a couple of weeks ago. We attended a special screening of The Passion of the Christ. At the end of the picture we were both weeping. But I think this was just his way of torturing me. “Do you love me?” I asked him before the movie started. “No.” “No?” “We’re not married yet. The only one I can truly devote myself to is God. To love someone else is idolatry.....” Man, this guy really took everything seriously. “Oh...... “ “You have to understand this..... if you love anyone, you’re cheating yourself. You’re loving something like yourself. You’re not loving something better than yourself. Other people can only walk the path with you, or lead you into the wrong path. They cannot replace the love Jesus gives to you.......” I understood now. I thought going to church and finding a new crowd would result in something a little better than the guys I hung out with before. But it wasn’t true. The guys I was with before used me for sex. Brian used me to fulfill some spiritual path for himself. And then we watched the damned movie. This was Mel Gibson’s look at the final hours of Christ’s life. We got to see every whipping, every puncture, every tearing of flesh. And it was all in fucking subtitles as well. I cried and cried. All I saw was pain and agony like nothing I have seen before. The poor bastard. He had no right to be tortured like that. No human being deserved that. This was all I could see. I wasn’t seeing Jesus dying for our sins. I wasn’t seeing the Lord made flesh. I was just seeing some guy who was an incredible glutton for punishment. After the movie, I said “... Brian.... “ through spattered tears, the clear blood of emotional injury, “..... I.... can’t be what you want me to be. I’m the sort of girl who goes out, drinks once in a while, takes guys home to sleep with them.” Brian’s eyes were stamped with wet already, but my confessions shocked him further, I think. “...... and I liked it. Sure, sometimes it bothers me. I suppose I’m punishing myself. But that’s the way it goes.” “What... what are you saying?” “I’m saying we’re all punishing ourselves for whatever reason. I don’t know what it is. But this is what we’re doing.” “I’m... I’m not punishing myself.” I realized he wasn’t going to see things my way. He never would. What’s the point? “Well..... all I can say is, I can’t be what you are. I can’t be what you want me to be.” I suddenly felt empowered. “I can only be myself.” The muscles of his face settled. If it weren’t for the fact his eyes were still damp from earlier emotions, I’d say he was contemplating... .and then accepting what he saw, with no ill judgment. “It’s okay.” he said quietly. “You’re truer than most. God will forgive you” Oh, He will, will He? I guess I was supposed to feel better about that. “Thank you.” was all I could respond with, however, as usual. We stood, saying nothing. “Will you be able to drive me home?” I ask after a moment’s silence, after a moment’s reflection. He nodded his head in affirmation. He drove me home and dropped me off at my place. We didn’t exchange any important words. We just said our farewells, unsure of whether or not we were ever going to talk again. He was probably a lot more upset than I was. He was expecting me to be his lovely Christian wife, even though we only hung out. He never even kissed me, for God’s sake. Such a marriage with him wouldn’t have been based on love, but on a blind hope. A blind hope of being rewarded in another life. He obviously hoped I’d be rewarded too, so it wasn’t entirely selfish of him. But where’s the joy in that? I would have been punished if I actually dared contemplate and follow through on spending the rest of my life with him! But punishment is his thing too -- he willingly wanted to suffer through watching Jesus’ horrific murder. Brian was hoping I’d willingly suffer through the murder of my passion. But this ain’t going to happen. Well, I guess I’m a sinner. Or at least imperfect. This much I’ve learned. * A few days ago at work, Bruno walked up to me as I was wiping off my serving tray. “How’s it going?” he said. “Oh..... it’s okay. I can’t wait until the hot weather goes away though.” “What are you talking about? It’s great. Me and my friends often go out to the beach and play volleyball ... well, on the days we have a net. Otherwise we just kick the ball and some sand around at the same time!” Volleyball. Now that would have been something to do on a Sunday afternoon. “Well...... I guess that’s my problem. I just haven’t been having a lot of summer fun, huh?” I laugh. “You know what.... you’re going to have to get used to someone else’s cooking around here. I’ve got a new job starting next week.” I hardly talked to this guy in months. And yet suddenly I felt a scalpel digging at my heart. “Oh.....where?” “At a Chinese restaurant.” “A Chinese restaurant?” I was rather surprised. Did they hire white people? “Yea, I know I don’t have any Chinese blood in my body, but maybe they’re hoping I can make a Chinese version of poutine or something!” “Poutine Chow Mein, maybe!” I smile. “Sounds good!” “Maybe we ought to have a going-away party for you.” I say. “Only if you dress in your white tank-top again.” he replied, wryly. I gave him a foolish grin. “So my little mistake is what you’re going to take away from this place, hmm?” “Hey, I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I suppose this constituted improper behavior. Unless one wants to run the risk of a sexual harassment suit, nobody’s supposed to admit to a coworker that she’s hot, right? She might get offended? If Brian were to walk into this, I’m sure he’d consider me a mistress of immodesty and filth by this point. He’d finally understand I wasn’t made for him. “Even after....” I whisper, “.. our little mishap a few months back.” “I wouldn’t consider it to be a mishap, Sandra!”, he said, waylaid by my description of the event. Before my short-term relationship with the church, I’m sure I would have considered Bruno, maybe not a bastard, but someone whose view of me was shallow. At this point, however, I felt touched by the fact he liked me for my mere existence, and not for what he hoped I would become. “Why.... thank you.” My lungs were unable to exert much more than those simple phrases. “Good luck... with everything.” I droop my head and give a shy smile. I think I felt this way because it was so long since I’ve carried on a conversation of this length with him. It tired me out. But then I mustered up the energy for one more thing. “So... which beach do you go to?” “On the South Shore.... why?” “Well... there’s still a few more nice Sundays before it gets too chilly.” He knew what I was getting at. “Ah yea...... well, are you any good?” “I’m not going to say until I’m there.” I tease. “I’ll hold you to that, now.” he said. I think he suspected something was amiss, but there wasn’t. I really did want to go to the beach with him. It felt like it would be the most exciting thing in the world. “Would you be able to see the ball?” he asked, remembering my disability from our last outing. “Perfect vision!” I say, brightly. “I wear contacts now, all the time!” http://www.epinions.com/content_4202602628: part four  |
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