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Sun | October 09, 2005
KGB
I ran into Todd at KGB. This doesn't happen to me, I don't run into people, mostly because I am not out that often.
I mostly remember Todd Zuniga for channeling Willy Wonka in a dapper suit. Or maybe that's what I envision because I friendster stalked him and he's wearing a velvet blazer in his photo. Or maybe he's not but this is how I envision him in my head. No, I'm not in love with him. I don't know him. I can count on my fingers the things that I know about him. One— if he won 3K, he would "go to Paris, ASAP!" That's what he wrote to me in an email. I had written, "if I won 3K I would throw a party. what would you do?" He had emailed me about a writing contest, which expired about two seconds after he emailed it to me. I mean, not me personally, but, me and however million people he knows.
Two, I went to his Opium reading and he is kind of effeminate and flowy in his movements, shall we say gay? without actually being gay, while being clearly straight. Which you know by the way he looks at you. That, really, is how you tell. Like my MCM TA in college. I knew she was gay because of the way she looked at me. I can still remember that moment when, after class, when a few people were standing around to ask questions/ discuss things, and I was waiting my turn, she looked over and winked at me. Twice.
In retrospect that was really obvious. But Chrissa disagreed, years later, when I told her on the phone that that had happened. Maybe she had something in her eye, she said. No, I told her, she turned her head and winked. It was very deliberate. Chrissa didn't think it necessarily meant that, but she wasn't there. I mean, actually, she was, right next to me, at the time, but she didn't notice it. I turned to her to see if she saw, but she hadn't. She was thinking about film theory while I was formulating personal theories about everyone. I did this especially in humanities classes, rather than science classes. I hardly ever speculated about the people in those classes. Except for Hannah, who seemed to hate me for no, fucking, reason. Like she hated me. I swear, I have no idea why. I have turned this puzzle around in my head for years.
I would have doubted it except that she did it twice. Did it once, went back to talking for about thirty seconds, then looked over again. Why did she do that? So that is my gay experience.
The reason I am perpetually single, perhaps fated to be permanently so, is that I live off of these snippets. If I had a real relationship, like with Eric, there would just be too much to analyze. so much would be happening at once, all the time. He could never keep up with me, in the number of thoughts being had about the relationship. I always had a million and he had none. I think, in a way, you are only evenly matched, well matched with someone, if you have about the same number of thoughts in your head about something. or at least certain things, that are very important to you. or at least, about the relationship itself. if you don't have equal amounts of thought, one of you gets frustrated.
I said goodbye without even talking to him. There's that part of me that doesn't want to admit that I want anything.
This is why when Nick said, "I hope to see you again," I said the alienating conversation stopper, "I hardly ever go out. I live in New Jersey."
I really said that, I swear. I didn't even mean it as a back off (as opposed to a come on). I just said what was in my head. Nick is this other guy that was there.
I am a writer because I always say the worst thing. And then I rewind and revise it in my head on the train ride home.
"I hope to see you again," he says.
"Well do you want my number?" I say pleasantly.
You know-- he said it casually. "I hope to see you again," while, like, moving, like already on his way out. There was no stopping for the collection or exchange of numbers. That's why I kind of said whatever the hell I felt like, which was completely the wrong thing to say.
And then he looked put off, about new jersey, and I said "it’s ok," because I really am ok with it, now, for the most part. and he said, "well denial is a stage," or something like that. He was putting on his jacket. "I’m past it," I said. we were still acting friendly. we had just started to say mean things. but they didn't feel mean. they only look mean on the page. I swear the conversation was pleasant and cheery. But he probably felt like I had put him off when I was just like, you’ll never see me again. God, the more I review it the worse that conversation was. This is why I never talk to people.
Real life isn't like Sex and the City (or any television show or movie I've seen recently). Sex and the City is this La-La Land, where people just say and do these impossible things and relationships start in these impossible ways. They start just like that. It's a snap!
Everything is snappy on television and horribly wrong in real life. If even writers can't say the right thing, how will anyone end up with anyone?
After Nick and Tao went, I put on my jacket and left also, immediately, like in the next twenty seconds. Then I realized I was inadvertently following them and so went in a deli and stood there for about thirty seconds, and then resumed walking. And then I regretted being so honest because I actually wanted to follow them, but knew that I shouldn't, but that they would never have found out.
I am not religious but I say, "oh my god," "I swear," all the time. I picked it up from growing up in waspy chatham.
I am a writer because I analyze what I just said, and say, why did I say that? where did those words come from? They came from my head. But they also came from everything I've heard previously.
It never ends.
Three, he's tall, reminiscent of string, and kind of a goofball. He is allegedly like, 30, which I neither believe nor disbelieve. It's a hypothesis to be tested. Shirley's friendster says she's 41, because that's how old she feels.
I am too old for him anyway. I gather he's two or three years out of school. He looks older. He looks like he could be my age. I look like I could be his age. If you want to see me again you must have my number, I say archly. At any rate I want more writer friends, they need not be love interests. They need not be older; I am young as a writer.
I would know if I were in love. I am just crazy, I replay all these things in my head for no reason. And now I type them out for no reason. They're not even important, they are a look, a glance, a movement of the arm. I look at them again and again. I am not in love with them, but in a way, I am, in love with all of them.
I walked briskly home tonight. I walked faster than usual because I felt happy. I wondered, is the pace that people in general, walk, in the city— you know, there is a definite pace, that people generally walk, en masse, on the sidewalk, and you run into trouble if you are walking slightly slower or slightly more quickly— is that a reflection of the city's overall happiness?
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