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And here we have the real story of High School Pothead (HSP). My senior year of high school ended, and I broke up with the Stalker. Newly single, I began classes at UT, avoiding guys so as to avoid another disaster, yet eyeing them hopefully. Meanwhile, I was of course still thinking of high school, and I remembered HSP. He lived not too far from me, and I drove past his house on the way home from the park and ride almost every day. Once I saw him and a few of his friends standing in his driveway; apparently his band had just finished practice. Since I was majoring in Radio-Television-Film, I quickly learned of the college radio station, KVRX. I attended the first meeting, where the station manager asked if anyone had friends in bands for an upcoming benefit. I of course thought of HSP and wrote down the necessary information. On my way home a few days later, I passed HSP's house and saw him in the street, apparently checking his mail. I screeched to a halt, leaped out of the car, and said hello. "Hey!" I cried. "Hey!" he repeated, apparently surprised but not displeased to see me. "I drive past here all the time on my way home," I explained, "but this is the first time I've ever seen you." Kind of. "Oh, right, that park and ride over there?" "Yeah. I skip a couple of lights if I come this way instead." Also not true, but fuck it. "Oh, yeah, I think I know the light you mean." Thanks for playing along, but it didn't exist. Enough of this. "So, um, anyway . . . you ever listen to KVRX?" "Uh, sure, why?" "Well, because I'm volunteering there now, and they need bands for an upcoming gig, and if I remember correctly, you're in a band." "Oh! Yes. Right." "Awesome!" "So when is the gig?" "Um. Thursday." "Crap!" "I know." "Well, hang on a second." HSP pulled out his cel phone and called one of his band mates. "Hey," he said, "I have a friend here who has some information about a possible gig for us." There was an excited-sounding beat. "It's on Thursday." I could hear the sudden shouting from where I was standing and concluded that the gig probably would not happen. HSP hung up. "So um . . . is it happening?" I asked. "Um. We'll see." "Well . . . why don't you come down to the radio station for the meeting tomorrow night and talk to them about it?" I suggested. HSP and I worked out the details of where to go and when, and I went home. The following evening, I waited on the Drag for HSP to show up. He saw me from across the street and jaywalked to me. We exchanged greetings and walked to the meeting. The meeting proved uneventful, the gig was doomed, and HSP and I boarded the same bus to return to the park and ride. I briefly touched his arm once, which, judging by the look on his face, gave away my intentions once and for all. Embarrassing, but groundwork. A few days later, I stepped off the bus on the Drag one morning. The Stalker (who was at the height of his creepiness) disembarked with me and stood watching me at the intersection of Dean Keeton and the Drag. I stared fixedly at the RTF building across the street, scurrying toward it as soon as the light changed. Right in the middle of the street, the Stalker abruptly asked, "Are you mad at [HSP]?" I jumped out of my skin, shook my head, and vanished into the RTF building. Inwardly angry that HSP had obviously talked to the Stalker, I mostly just wondered what on earth had transpired to make the Stalker think I might be mad at HSP. Most likely it was just an idiotic attempt at conversation. Perhaps the Stalker divined the truth and jealously wanted me not to talk to HSP. Yeah right, dickhead; I'll talk to whomever I want. I did not mention the incident to HSP, though I did start seeing more of him in person. I would stop by a couple of times a week on my way home from the park and ride, and we started to become regular friends, though I did not have the courage to attempt any more obvious flirty moves. I figured it was up to him now. I was sure, by the way he looked at me, that he found me attractive, or at least he definitely had the previous year in high school, but I couldn't figure out why he wasn't making a move. There's always a reason for everything. Usually the obvious one. Yeah. One day, I stopped off at HSP's house on my way home (almost as usual by now), and we stood in his driveway and talked. As we talked, a car pulled up, and a large girl got out. I glanced questioningly at HSP, who introduced her to me as his friend. Relieved, I went on home. The next time I saw HSP, of course, he mentioned his girlfriend. "!" I said. "I thought you met her?" "I don't think so." "She was here the other day; I introduced you two." "Oh! Was that her?" "Yeah." "Oh . . . uh, yeah, you just introduced her as your friend." "I did?" "Yeah." That explained the look on her face when he introduced her to me, I reflected; who wouldn't be upset if a boyfriend introduced her as just a friend? HSP was telling me about his girlfriend, who, he said worriedly, was having lunch with her ex. "Not necessarily anything to worry about," I said, glancing awkwardly around and wondering how to extricate myself with as little humiliation as possible. HSP droned on for another minute as I prayed my cel phone would ring so I could get the hell out. 'How the hell did I get myself into this?' I thought, mentally smacking myself in the head. 'Surely the signs were there. The weird look on his face when I touched his arm, the way he didn't respond, how he doesn't usually initiate contact . . . dammit, I thought I was being obvious. God, oh no, I was obvious. I must have been. Shit! How the hell do I get myself out of this?' I stared longingly out the window at the car. "She used to be a lesbian." "Wait what?" I snapped back to the present. "Her ex?" "No, her." "Your girlfriend 'used to be' a lesbian?" There might be hope yet. "Uh-huh." "Um. And they're having lunch in a couple of days?" "Yeah." "Um. Well. I don't what to tell you . . . though I'd be a little concerned." "You're the only one who's said that," HSP said, sounding relieved rather than accusatory, thankfully. "Heh. Well, good luck with that. I better get home. Let me know how it goes." I retreated with my tail between my legs and reflected that I couldn't just vanish without a trace; after all, we were still friends and nothing had actually happened. I'd have to back off slowly. A few days later, I stopped by HSP's for what I knew would be one of the last times. I told him about the Stalker and how he was freaking me out. "I talked to him, actually," HSP said. Already aware of that, I nodded. "Recently, I mean." "Oh?" I asked, thinking, 'Ugh, why would anyone remain friends with someone they knew was so creepy?' "Yeah, um . . . he said he hacked into your email and has been sending out emails as you." "What!" "And um . . . he also said he was going to key the hell out of your car." "What the fuck! Does he think that's going to get me back with him? What a fucking—oh my—UGH!" I spluttered. " . . . I'd better get home. I have some things to do . . . like calling the police." HSP laughed and nodded in agreement. I quickly went home and changed the passwords to my two or three email accounts. I couldn't really do anything about the car beyond parking at a different park and ride, and I would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd scared me off. I decided that I didn't mind HSP talking to the Stalker if it meant getting safety tips passed my way. Several weeks had passed now, and I met the Republican in early November. A week or so after meeting him, I visited HSP for the last time. "Well, I met someone," I informed HSP chirpily one afternoon, as though I had been looking in every direction but his for the last six weeks. "Oh?" "Yeah, a guy at UT. His name's [Republican]. Um . . . he's a Republican." HSP laughed. I joined in and continued, "Yeah, I know. I really don't think it's going to end well." With the convenient excuse of the Republican, I no longer had time to stop by HSP's house on my way home from UT. Gradually, we stopped talking online as well, which was really quite a relief because I knew I had been so obvious, and he had been, in all likelihood, totally aware of my intent but utterly clueless as to how to handle it. My huge embarrassing crush abruptly ended with the commencement of my ill-conceived relationship with the Republican. By the time that relationship ended, I was no longer interested in HSP and was too embarrassed to get back in touch with him. It would never have worked anyway; he wasn't interested in furthering his education and smoked a lot of weed. I still miss his hilarious sense of humor, though; he remains to this day one of the funniest people I have ever known.
I would like to add a non-diegetic note to this story. When I was typing this story, I based most of the paragraphs of text off cursory notes, simple phrases that serve as reminders of topics on which to expand. Typically, I delete the notes after I've elaborated on them, but this time, I was really very tempted just to post the notes of this story and no story. Because really, you can deduce the story from the notes I wrote in the typing of this story:
I mean really; who couldn't figure that out? *sigh* It made me snicker. One of these days I most likely will post some such nonsense and refuse to provide an explanation. |