The Sweetest Sound (Blog #83)

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When I was a kid, my sister and I would spend at least a couple of weeks every summer in Mississippi. There we would stay with our friend April and her family, who used to live in Fort Smith. I remember the small town they lived in with one stop sign, where we made our fun by splashing in cheap, plastic swimming pools in the backyard, hanging upside down from trees in the front, and walking along the cotton patches while dragging sticks behind us in the dirt. It’s funny the memories that stick with you, like the feeling of the antique chair that needed a new spring in the seat, the taste of cold milk in a glass mason jar, the clink of silverware on blue and white patterned china. Even now I can’t look at a kudzu vine without thinking of April and Carrolton, Mississippi. It seems all of these things are tied together in a knot that’s so tight I can’t imagine it will ever come undone.

Recently I came across a three-ring binder in my parents’ garage overflowing with handwritten letters from April. I guess when we were young, she was my best friend, my confidant, and we used to write each other ten, twenty, thirty-page letters about every little thing that happened. As kids, we all went to summer camp together. As teenagers, April and I worked at that same summer camp, a place I called home for nine summers of my life. I don’t have the time or space to tell you what that place meant to me, but I don’t think I ever drove back home to Arkansas without crying.

For a couple of summers, April and I taught canoes together. We used to get pretty silly, so every day we’d teach the campers a different way to spit water out of their mouths. I’m sure the parents didn’t realize they were paying for this sort of education, so I considered it like a bonus. Sometime you’ll have to ask me about the water pump spit, the inverted water pump spit, and the sprinkler spit, but until then, here’s a picture of a spit whose name I have forgotten. (Damn if my pecs didn’t look fantastic.)

As we got older, April and I grew apart. Life takes everyone in different directions sooner or later. April got married, had three children, divorced. She and my sister reconnected, but April and I weren’t even friends on Facebook. A lot of people at camp used to say that April and I would get married, and even though we never dated we were so close, so it felt weird, maybe intrusive. Plus, I hadn’t come out to anyone at summer camp. I simply didn’t know how to handle any of it, so I didn’t.

They say time changes everything. A few years ago, April and I spoke online. She talked about her family. I said I was gay. She said she figured, didn’t matter. Since then, we’ve kept up in messages, not like the ones we used to send–about every little thing–but still in long, uncensored, run-on paragraphs that feel familiar, comfortable like an old t-shirt you like to sleep in.

A few months ago, just when I moved back in with my parents, April sent me a message that said, “Get your butt to Texas. You can stay with me.” Even now I’m a bit floored by the offer.  I mean, I haven’t seen her in ten years. Who says that? But I guess the answer is a dear friend. A dear friend says that.

Yesterday April noticed online that I’m currently in Austin and sent me a message that said she was coming into town with her boyfriend to have dinner and would like me to join them. So Bonnie loaned me her car (a convertible!), and I went. April got there first, and she sent me a text that said to walk to the back. Well, I looked everywhere and was just about to go back to the front door and start over. But then out of nowhere April swooped in and gave me the biggest hug.

As we sat down, it felt a lot like any reunion. How are your brother and sister? Where do you work? Whatever happened to the other counselor in your cabin? For the most part, it was nonstop like this for two hours. April’s boyfriend joined in, but it was mainly the Marcus and April show. As the night went on, I kept thinking how much both of us have changed, how much shit we’ve both been through.

Some things are timeless, safe from the grips of gravity.

Sometimes I look back at that kid in the swim trunks at summer camp, and I can still remember what he was thinking, the way he loved singing Bill Grogan’s Goat and giving the kids piggy back rides, the way he hated the mosquito bites almost as much as he hated saying goodbye to his friends. When I think about camp, there’s so much that’s palpable, but when I look in the mirror and see pictures of other counselors with other campers online, I’m reminded that “they” are right–time changes everything. My days at camp are a distant echo. I’ve been through hell and back since then. Parts of me are still the same, but so much is dramatically different. I know it’s the same for April too.

“Remember when I accidentally hit that one girl in the face with my canoe paddle?” I said.

“Yeah, that must have hurt.”

“I mean, she seemed to take it well.”

“Marcus.” April put her elbows on the table and leaned in. “A face is a face.”

And then it happened. Both of us reared back in our chairs and burst out laughing. In that moment, I realized I hadn’t actually heard April’s laughter in over ten years. To my delight, it sounded just like it did when we were children all crammed in the backseat of a hot car, just like it did when we were teenagers and we’d tump over a canoe full of kids on purpose.

Yes, twenty years changes a person. His chest falls, his waistline slumps like the seat of an antique chair. Everything fades with the seasons, the way unpicked cotton eventually falls to the ground. In the end, gravity wins, changing our bodies the way that hard times and disappointments change children into adults. But some things, I think, are timeless, safe from the grips of gravity. Among them are memories of cold milk in glass mason jars, children riding piggy back, and canoes filled up with water. But perhaps the best thing that doesn’t change is the sound of a dear friend, reared back, laughing. A friend’s laughter, after all, takes us backward and carries us forward simultaneously. Growing only richer and deeper with age, it’s a beautiful sound indeed, best enjoyed by one who has heard it hundreds–if not thousands–of times before.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Everything is all right and okay.

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friends are for fun (blog #37)

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Today for lunch, I met my friends Margo, Eddie, Jennifer, and Chase at Cheddar’s Scratch Kitchen in Fort Smith. I wish I could tell you they came all the way from Northwest Arkansas exclusively to see me, but that’s not the case (and I’m okay with that). Rather, the four of them made the long haul to the River Valley because Chase wanted a Monte Cristo sandwich, and Cheddar’s is the only place that has one. Talk about dedication. I know people who won’t drive an hour for a booty call, let alone a sandwich. Chase actually created a Facebook page about it—that’s how much he loves the Monte Cristo.

After lunch, we took a moment to digest and made our way to Chase’s car. We all piled in, and I was in the back between Eddie and Margo, and it sort of felt like the Partridge Family bus, except we weren’t singing, and none of us are related, so maybe that’s a terrible comparison. Anyway, we went antique shopping, and Margo bought a cat with flowers on it to use as a doorstop because she likes cats and, I can only assume, has a door that won’t stay open. She also bought a set of glow-in-the-dark Madonna and Jesus statues because they were amazing.

Amen.

When I was a kid, my sister and I had a camera with actual film in it, and when we’d return from summer camp, we’d be so excited to get it developed. However, there was always a partially used roll with pictures yet to be taken, so we’d go to Walmart and take pictures of ourselves, you know, in shopping carts, next to a “for sale” sign, stuff like that. Well, even though the days of actual film are long gone, I still like to take silly pictures when I’m out shopping. So that’s what I did today.

Here’s one of me and my lord and savior, Jesus Christ. (For some reason I thought he’d be shorter. And don’t worry, I plan to go back and talk to him about those eyebrows.)

This is Chase in one of those machines that’s supposed to shake away body fat. The lady at the shop said it worked (although she didn’t know if it “worked”), but that you have to plug it in.

I took this photo because the ugly couch reminded me of a “gay test” that went around the Internet that pictured a hot guy in an ugly chair. It said, “If you think the guy in the chair is cute, you might be gay. If it occurred to you how ugly the chair is, you are gay.”

Lastly, here’s one of me with my head in the mouth of a golden crocodile. When I took it, there were several people standing nearby, and I almost decided not to take the picture. But then I reminded myself that I didn’t give a shit what they thought. So if you ever wonder what three years of therapy will buy you, you’re looking at it.

After the antique stores, we went to the mall in search of cheese on a stick, fried in corndog batter. (This was apparently another reason for the trip from Northwest Arkansas, and if you don’t have friends with this level of vision and dedication when it comes to food, I suggest you reconsider your friendships.) Well, the teenager at the corndog shop said that the corndog fryer was broken, and that it would be forty-five minutes before the repairman showed up. I think Jennifer said, “We drove all the way from Bentonville.”

First, damn it. Second, I don’t remember my teachers in high school ever mentioning that “corndog fryer fixer” was even a career option. Frankly, I feel let down.

To make up for The Great Fried Cheese/Corndog Disappointment of 2017, we got cookies and brownies instead. And then after we at those, Eddie said he was going back to the corndog shop to see if the fryer was fixed. A few minutes later, he sent Margo a message that said something like, “Jackpot,” which I took to mean that the fryer was working. So the rest of us started walking, and I silently thanked my insulin for all it had done for me over the years and said, “Now’s your time to shine.”

Well, every single one of us had cheese on a stick, fried in corndog batter. And we all lived happily ever after.

Okay, that’s not the end of the story, but it’s close. I was in a rush to get to a dance function, so we all took our cardiologist-approved food to go, and Chase drove me back to Cheddar’s where I’d left my car. Ever since we all said goodbye, I’ve been trying to figure out how to turn our time together into a blog post. I mean, all four of my friends have amazingly quick wits and wonderful senses of humor, so I kept thinking that I could write about some of the hilarious things that were said today. But of course, stuff like that usually falls flat on paper. (See what I did there?)

But here’s something. Over the years in therapy, I’ve had a number of friends who have been brought up in conversation with my therapist over and over and over again. At some point, I realized that if I was talking about someone to my therapist on a regular basis, it probably meant that I had a problem with that person, some sort of drama. Maybe I needed to fix a boundary, have a confrontation, or even apologize.

One day my therapist said, “Friends are for fun.” And I think her point was that often our friendships become too serious, too filled with drama, and we forget that friendships are relationships we choose in order to make our lives lighter and more enjoyable. Some days, I think, need to be spent with friends who like to laugh. And even better if they like to eat cookies and comfort food and cheese on a stick fried in corndog batter on days like today because those things are not only fun, they’re delicious. And God didn’t make stretch pants so they could hang in the closet and collect dust. So this is my letter of gratitude, both to my friends and to my stretch pants.

[Thank you, Margo, Eddie, Jennifer, and Chase for lending your beautiful faces to this blog and my day. I had an absolutely marvelous afternoon.]

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Your life is a mystery. But you can relax. It’s not your job to solve it.

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it’s time to soften up (blog #1)

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My friend Marla says that she could be a bank robber because no one ever remembers her. Most of the time, she’s quiet. She doesn’t get in anyone’s way. Like, you could probably step on her shoe on purpose, and she’d apologize for not having a smaller foot. By her own admission, she tries to blend in, to not stand out. I guess we all develop strategies for getting by in the world, and at least for now, this one is working for Marla.

Which is too bad.

This morning I woke up at 6:45 to hear Marla speak to a group of local business leaders. She currently writes and edits for a magazine in town that I used to write for, which is how we met. So six years ago she was just my editor. Now she’s also my friend, which is the only reason I got out of bed so friggin’ early.

Getting dressed, I threw on a white t-shirt that I bought as part of a three-pack deal from TJ Maxx. I love a white t-shirt first out of the package, but as they start to shrink, I usually grow to hate them. For this reason, I’ve recently taken to not putting my t-shirts in the dryer. Well, now that I’m living with my parents, of course, my mom has started doing my laundry. Turns out, she uses fabric softener on t-shirts. Well, I guess the scent is extra strong because the shirt wasn’t put in the dryer, so every three minutes, I get huge whiff of the stuff, and it smells like a brand new teddy bear on a glorious spring morning.

It makes me want to vomit.

The event this morning was held at a local bookstore and coffee shop, and the hosts provided a free waffle bar that was so fantastic it’d make even the Holiday Inn Express jealous. So I’m in the waffle line this morning, just holding onto my coffee cup and smelling my t-shirt, hoping that no one will talk to me or stand too close. And just at that moment, the guy next to me calls me by name and strikes up a conversation. All I could think was, “Shit” because I hate it when people know my name and I don’t know theirs, especially when there’s a timer ticking away on a waffle iron two feet away. It’s like the universe hitting you over the head and saying, “You’re stuck here for another two minutes and sixteen seconds.”

And then to make matters worse, I realize whom I’m talking to. It’s a guy who’s hit on me a number of times online. On Grindr. (Grindr is essentially a hookup app, but sometimes after five days of feeling lonely and three hours of drinking margaritas, I’ll think that it’s a good way to stumble across marriage material. I could probably compare this mentality to my dad’s believing that God wants him to win the lottery.) Anyway, this guy in the waffle line has straight up asked me for sex before, something that always offends me, at least when it happens before I find out someone’s name. (Once another guy asked me for sex, and when I asked what he did for a living, he told me that information was too personal. But sex is okay. Go figure.)

I realize that my getting on a hookup app and being offended by a quick offer for sex is a bit like showing up to an orgy and sipping tea and crumpets in a three-piece suite with your pinky raised in the air (like, I’m so much better than this), but we all have our standards.

So back to the waffle line. The timer’s up, it’s my turn to make a waffle, and the guy moves on. And despite everything that was going on in my head, it was a pleasant conversation. It didn’t make me want to go on a date or have sex with him, but it did make me think that some people come off better in person than they do online.

When my waffle finished, I topped it off with hazelnut cream cheese, bananas, and maple syrup, and sat down at a table in the middle of the room to hear Marla speak. (I guess I overdid it on the sugar and coffee because I’m actually shaking as I sit here in the library.) True to form, Marla started slowly, quietly. She read from a prepared speech, and she mostly looked down. She talked about losing a former job, about all the shit things that happened in her life before she ended up working as a full-time writer at the magazine. And I can only assume that I wasn’t alone as I sat there wondering where the talk was going and how she was going to connect with everyone in the room.

But then it happened.

In a still, small voice, Marla, whose exact beautiful words I can’t recall, said something like, “We all have times in our lives when we feel like we’re up against a wall, when we feel like things will never get better.” Right then, I wanted to cry, and I guess it’s because I’m single and I’m living with my parents, and my mom’s doing my laundry, and I smell like a field full of daisies. And to make matters worse, now I’m crying into my Belgium waffle at eight in the morning. (I’ll take “Things that are not a turn-on” for a thousand, Alex.)

My therapist says that life always balances itself. Like if you swing a pendulum really far in one direction, you know it’s going to swing back in the other. She says that I’ve been burning the candle at both ends for so long that this period in my life is the universe’s way of saying, “Whoa, Trigger, slow down.” This period of time is about resting, about getting balance. And as for living with my parents, she says that she lived with her parents for a while when she was getting her Master’s Degree and that it really laid the foundation for the good relationship she has with them today.

So maybe being at home again isn’t a bad thing. Maybe it’s about building better relationships and about finding balance, even if it’s in the little things like Mom doing my laundry because she was so sick with depression when I was growing up that she wasn’t able to back then. At that time, I had to grow up pretty fast. I had to take care of myself, do my own laundry. So now it’s like there’s this chance to turn back the clock. It lets her be a mom, and it lets me be a kid. It lets me experience being taken care of.

When I think about balance, I think about how I’ve spent most my life being really hard on myself and everyone else. Like, totally judgmental. Pinky in the air–I’m better than this. It’s like, maybe a little judgment is useful now and then, but I’ve been way overdoing it, like putting too much hazelnut cream cheese on my self-judgment waffle. And I think that Marla’s words hit me this morning because that kind of thinking and judgment can really make you feel like you’re up against a wall. Things don’t go the way you want–say, you might move in with your parents–and suddenly you feel like you’re all alone, that things will never get better.

I like to think that the universe is always trying to get my attention, that it’s actually interested in what’s going on with me, that it’s wanting to spark a conversation, dropping hints here and there. And if that’s the case, I think the fabric softener on my white t-shirt is a big hint. I think it’s telling me, “Hey, you’ve been really hard on yourself for a long time now. It’s time to soften up…a lot. It’s time to swing the other way.”

Earlier I mentioned that I thought Marla’s quiet persona was too bad. What I meant by that is that I think she’s an amazing writer and an even better friend. I think more people might notice her if she spoke in a louder voice. But what I’m finding is that sometimes it’s the still, small voices that have the most to say. They slip in late. They sit on the back row. But if you listen, they disarm you. They remind you that you’re overdoing it. They tell you that you need to soften up. They say, “You may be up against a wall, but I’m right here with you.”

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Perhaps this is what bravery really is--simply having run out of better options, being so totally frustrated by the outside world that all you can do is go within.

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