Lately I've been hearing a lot this quote from Sam Harris: you might have done something for the last time today. We go through our lives thinking we have endless horizons. That we will have yet another shot at everything. But this isn't true. Sometimes you tell a friend goodbye, and it truly turns out to be the final goodbye.
Today I've been thinking about the time Jeannie was waiting for me at Larry's. Somehow my mom had convinced me to allow her to cut my hair. I'd fidgeted around too much and she made a big error with the buzzer. She spent 20 minutes trying to even out everything as much as she could, but I couldn't stop bickering about how long it was taking. I had to go, I told her. Just a minute, she said. The falling hairs pricked the skin on my face and neck, reminding me of when haircuts once feel like torture as a kid. I really need to go now, mom!
We blow dried the remaining hairs off my head and I looked in the mirror. See, you should give me five more minut--. Where are dad's hats? I said while walking over to the shoe closet. Is this all he has?
Jeannie's eyes glided over to my hat and she gave me a loud, sardonic laugh. What the hell is that? she said while covering her mouth with her left hand. I quickly took the hat off to reveal the reason and slipped it back on. Oh come on, that doesn't look that bad, she said while waving a hand at me. You think so? I mean it's kind of bad, but you're a guy. Do you think I should just buzz it off?
We spent a minute talking about my hair when she finally said, let's talk about something else. You're not one of my gal pals. We're not going to talk about hair and nails all day are we?
No. Well, sorry I'm late. You've now witnessed the reason. Hope the laugh makes up for it. Immediately after saying this I felt like a simp begging to be culled. Jeannie took a swig of her
coffee
. Nice and slow, without saying anything. She instead took a deep sigh of enjoyment that made me wonder where the waitress was.
You're being moody. Her cup was now down on the table and she was smiling. Her lips naked of lipstick, but still feminine due to it's plumpness. Her teeth were coated in the kind of caramel coating that black coffee left behind. I loved how her teeth were stained that way. Not stained due to lack of hygiene but rather because they had been purposely stained by a craftsman. Dipped in black coffees and purposely steamed with cigarette smoke over and over again for years... until you had this cream colored
enamel
that society deemed ugly.
I myself had quite white teeth. I needed to, because the cream color wouldn't look good on me. If I was as good looking as Jeannie then I could pull off such societally deemed defects, but I wasn't I was just a regular dude, so I had to make sure that the easily measured attributes were dialed in. White teeth, nice hair. Stuff like that while Jeannie could walk around cream colored and her hair in a mess. I could see why girls never got along with her. How could they? I was a dude and here I was becoming jealous. I couldn't imagine being a supposed competitor to her. I couldn't imagine how Imogen felt.
Right then I wanted to ask about their friendship. Just a plain, direct, but open-ended question: the kind that can either yield a generic response offering no insight whatsoever... or the long winding stories that you can't even tell in one sitting. The kind that keeps the two of you speaking over time. Sure you meet and make small chat at first... ask how school or work's going. Blah blah blah. But the real reason you are gathered is that story. The winding story: the string you pull until the sweater is unraveled and you get to see it for what it essentially is. Just string.
Considering my own story lame, I never subjected anyone to such stories of my own. I didn't want to bore them with the actual me. Who I was. I'd rather remain an enigma to them. If they were to suddenly connect the dots of who I was, am and becoming then I would appear so incredibly boring.
But I loved hearing other people's string stories. They usually came off as different. Unique. Didn't fit the standard character of regular society people. At first you might think that they're that way because they're special. But there's always something hidden, and yet in plain sight. Once you discover that... then their whole uniqueness unravels and you see just a regular person, like the rest of us. Someone who makes sense. And I had become convinced that this story for
Jeannie Hammond
was the story of her friendship with
Imogen Howe
. The odd puzzle that didn't belong in the box. I wanted to find the other box that the odd piece had come from. That was the picture of Jeannie that was invisible from the world.
The waitress came with my coffee. We ordered food. I took a deep swig as soon as the waitress was gone. I thought about what I was thinking about, and suddenly I felt a bit guilty. Jeannie wouldn't like that I was trying to understand her in a way that she didn't control. She wanted to have the hands on the levers that controlled the parameters and variables.
But I couldn't help myself. This was one string story I couldn't not hear.
Jeannie.
Yes?
You and Imogen Howe weren't just friends right?
What do you mean?
Like she was your best friend?
Oh yes. Best friend.
Not anymore though?
No. Not friends at all.
She looked at her coffee like she was remembering somebody who had passed away.
But that's kind of a long story.
For a moment I remembered my bad haircut. Then I stopped thinking about it. I took my hat off and stared at Jeannie as she opened her mouth and revealed her cream colored teeth to me as she took me back to when she was in highschool. Junior year. When she had a car.
