Before you get too involved in reading this, please allow me to warn you: This is not a love story. It is a story about love, and to be more accurate – stupid, unrequited love. If you’re looking for a happy ending, Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, love conquers all-type of story – then you’ve seriously come to the wrong place. This story is about a dumb little boy, and all of the evil things that a deviously malicious little girl did to him. Okay, maybe it’s not that bad, and maybe the boy deserved exactly what he got. You’re going to get to be the judge of that. I’m just here to give you the facts.
The story is about me, and a girl named Chrissy. Obviously, her name has been changed to “protect the innocent”. Wait a minute… She’s really not that innocent. I can think of one thing that she is most definitely guilty of: Breaking my heart into a million – no, a billion – pieces and then walking away like she did nothing wrong. So, I don’t need to protect her. She is not innocent. She’s been tried and convicted by this jury of her peer. Her name wasn’t Chrissy, it was Suzy. And Suzy broke my heart, badly. I don’t think I deserved it, but after you hear everything, maybe you will. It’s a long story, and there’s a lot of back story and details and introductions and things that you’re going to need to know. I should probably try to be coherent when I try to tell you this story, but I’ll warn you now: I’m guilty of going off on tangents. Long ones.
Let’s start with today, though: It’s about four o’clock in the afternoon, on a Sunday, when I finally roll off of bed. By bed, I mean the single mattress that I have lying on the floor, and when I say that I roll off of it – I literally mean it. I roll off of the mattress, and onto the hardwood floor where I stumble up to my knees and crawl across the floor to the bathroom. I sit patiently in front of the toilet, while my body fights for which orifice will get to spew out liquid first. After they both get their chances to punish my body, I take a good long look at my naked self in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. What the hell happened to my body over the past ten years? It looks like I ate myself; I’m literally one hundred pounds heavier than I was at age eighteen, when I weighed one-twenty-six on the day I graduated high school. Twelve years later, I find myself looking at a double-wide beer gut and a three chins. How did I let myself go so badly? I don’t like what I see, and it reaffirms why I only get laid sporadically – and usually after a long night of drinking, when I stumble upon a lady who doesn’t mind this later-years-Marlon Brando-version of me, while I prefer this drunken-saggy-in need of Botox version of her over the option of going home alone. Loneliness is not something I do well with. I don’t like it, and when I find myself alone, I have too many bad vices that I use to help me forget that I currently have not found a female who is willing to spend any extended period of time in my presence. I know I’m not the best their eyes, but I will be the best in their mouth. Wait that sounded wrong – I meant that I like to cook, and I fancy myself to be pretty darn good at it; especially omelets. I remember my first one-night stand after I turned twenty-one. I picked up this random girl, and the next morning she was upset that I didn’t have anything other than dry cereal for breakfast, and she got even more upset when she poured a big glass of orange juice, and tried to take a normal drink – thinking that it was really just juice. I seemed to have forgotten to inform her that my roommate (at that time) would pour out two-thirds of the OJ to make room for vodka in the container – she wasn’t expecting that. It was at this moment that I realized these nightclub girls had much higher expectations than the sorority sisters and house-hoppers that I had dealt with so far in college. “Oh crap! You need to leave, I have class in an hour” was the easiest way to get them rushing out of the house, so that I could honestly go down to the basement and spend the entire day playing foosball and table tennis with the brothers. I quickly learned that tactic wasn’t going to fly out in the shark-infested-ocean of professional female barflies. It was after that first that I decided I wanted to have something to offer in the morning, so I spent almost an entire week, and close to thirty dozen eggs, as I taught myself – with help from the internet – how to make the perfect omelet. Someday I’m going to add fruit crêpes to my morning after menu, but I’ve been too lazy to get around to that. The omelets seem to be satisfactory for the majority of my overnight guests.
I return to thinking about this massive pounding in my head, which must mean that I had a great time after work last night. Obviously, I blacked out, so I don’t really remember too much. But, I did make it home. As I exit the bathroom, I quickly check the bed and find no other human being – which means, I didn’t have as much fun as I would have hoped I was going to. Probably for the best, I doubt I would have performed well, judging by the lingering pain in the front of my brain. I make my way to the kitchen, pop about ten Tylenol and drink an entire large Gatorade in about three minutes. I hear the extremely loud sound of The El outside of my kitchen, and constantly remind myself that I need to move soon; somewhere far away from The El. Then, I remind myself how convenient it is to walk one hundred and eighty steps from my building to the platform. Convenience wins that argument.
I plop down on my only piece of furniture – a loveseat that is probably as old as I am, but it was the lightest one at the thrift store, on the day that I moved into this small, one bedroom apartment. I turn on the TV, which is still an old tube TV. I’ve never gotten around to buying a flat screen, high definition thing. I have tons of them to watch at work, and I rarely spend any extended amount of time watching anything important at home. Being that it’s Sunday, I turn on some football – although I’m pretty sure I’ve missed the home team’s game, but I’m too lazy to check. The first game I come to, I leave it on that channel, and the next thing I know, its six hours later, and I’ve missed fourteen text messages. The only thing that woke me up, was the fact that I was getting an actually phone call from my buddy William – or “Dub” as we all call him. William Westermann is one of my oldest friends, we go back to the fifth grade, when we got in a fight on the playground over Melissa Eloro. She was first girl that I kissed on the lips, which in my mind instantly made her my lifelong soul mate. It turns out that she didn’t see that kiss as an eternal vow, and two days later I saw her kissing William on the basketball court. In a preteen rage, I ran up on him and hit him right in the shoulder – I’m not sure why I didn’t hit him in the face? Obviously, I didn’t hit him that hard, and he got in a few got retaliatory punches, before a couple of teachers marched us down to the principle’s office. It was while we were waiting that I noticed his Transformers T-Shirt, and we bonded forever that day. With the initials “WW” we eventually started calling William “Dubba Dubba” throughout high school. At some point after that, it just got shortened to “Dub”. We went to college together, we were fraternity brothers together, what Melissa Eloro never knew was that she brought me together with my best friend, despite the fact that she was a whore. Please don’t think that’s me being bitter, because Melissa did end up a stripper for a long time, and is on her third – maybe fourth – husband now.
I look at the clock to see it’s past ten, I look at the TV and notice it’s no longer on football but instead some stupid show about women who cheat on their husbands. It’s no wonder the divorce rate is through the roof, and that women cheat just as much as men do these days. With crap like this on television, it’s practically written into the women’s psyche from the moment they start watching. It’s one of the many educational devices that have created the man-crushing mentality of the modern female.
Ring. Oh, that’s right, Dub is calling me – there was another one of those tangents, I’m serious – they happen a lot. I finally pick up the phone.
“Dude, where are you?” Are the first words that Dub throws at me.
“Asleep on my couch…”
“Nicole and Staci are dominating karaoke at L'artiste Spiritueux!!!” Dub always sounds intense when he talks. He makes everything important, epic, and grandiose. This time, however, this news was somewhat elevated in priority. Nicole and Staci are partial members in our group of regular drinkers. These two lovely ladies perform at one of the larger theatre houses downtown, which is really cool for them, but it doesn’t afford them a lot of free time. Sleep is their number one priority after eighteen hours of rehearsals. The second reason why I’m not considering taking a shower and meeting up with everyone is a more devious reason. Staci was the last girl I had sex with, and that was a while ago. Over the past few years, Staci and I have had a very open sexual friendship. In her few moments of freedom, if she wanted anything from me, she knew she could usually have it, and I wouldn’t see it anything but friends helping each other. The last time we had sex was a few weeks after the Three-Mile-Suzy Meltdown. It was one of the things that I thought helped me get over Suzy, only to find myself relapsing a few weeks later. But, I’m not going to think about that right now, I’m focused on the opportunity to hang out with Staci and to see what may potentially happen.
“Give me an hour, make sure they don’t leave.”
I hang up the phone, I don’t even check my texts yet. I’m sure the majority of them are from Dub, and I’ll have a solid twenty minutes on the train to read them. I grab another Gatorade and drink it while I am in the shower. I try my hardest not to get my hopes up, but I’m also really consumed with the idea of sleeping with Staci again tonight. I make sure to take extra time making sure every crevasse of my body is immaculately spotless, should her fingers find themselves anywhere. I finish up and take a little extra time on my hair. I put on some nice dress pants and the nicest button-down shirt I can find. The fall weather outside is perfect, because while most people are starting to wear jackets, I enjoy the brisk cool air at night. I grab my phone, check the texts while I’m walking, and then jump on the train, which I hope is the beginning of the story that ends with Staci waking up in my bed tomorrow morning.
Oh Staci. That’s a name that has long been troublesome in my life. Well, honestly it’s Stacey. Staci was the first one to spell it with an “I”. There were three Stacey’s in my life: going all the way back to the age of fifteen, when I met First Stacey. First Stacey was the first girl that I ever actually truly believed that I was in love with. We were young, I was dumb, and it lasted about two years – part of which was long distance. I grew up in a moderate-sized Midwest town, which was where I met Stacey. Our Freshman year of High School together was awesome, my life seriously felt perfect. Then, her parents dropped the bombshell that they were going to be getting a divorce, and that just threw everything into a terrible downward spiral. Her father was going to move back to Kentucky, because he had a good job offer there, but her mother had no intention of leaving our town. Sophomore year was marked with a few ups, but a massive amount of downs. Stacey wasn’t dealing with things in a good way, and she was constantly fighting with her mother, which led to many fights with me. In the end, she decided to move to Kentucky with her father. I don’t know if it was to get away from her mother, or to get away from me, or maybe to get away from both of us? We didn’t officially break up after her move. We gave the long-distance thing a shot. A couple of days before she moved, I gave her a promise ring, nothing big or fancy, but I dropped a nice three hundred dollars on it – and to a sixteen year old kid, that was some serious cash back in the day. I still remember three months later, when I opened a letter from her – this was before email was the standard method of communication, which was before the current standard of texting. When I ripped that envelope open, that ring popped out and dropped right onto the floor. My heart sank. Then, it sank some more as I read the letter…
“Adam,
I can’t be with you anymore.
I’m sorry to do things this way, but I could never bring myself to do it in person or on the phone.
I have met someone else, but know that I will always love you.
-Stacey.”
On the List of Top Ten Worst Moments in my life, this one ranks pretty high. Eventually I’ll tell you about Number One, as it’s a pretty pivotal moment in the Debacle of Suzy. After that day, we went over ten years without talking. Then, due to the wonders of social media in the early twenty-first century, we’ve been able to “reconnect” – and she’s able to brag about how wonderful her life has turned out, while seeing how terrible idiotic and pathetic mine is in comparison. So, that’s a little rough to deal with. It’s never fun seeing the original love of your life so happy with someone else. She was what I compared every girl to after her, and none of them ever came close to living up to how she made me feel.
In college, it was Second Stacey. I was an English Lit major, and she wanted to be a journalist. Second Stacey was always a lot of fun, and I really enjoyed and loved all of our time together. Over the course of eight years, Second Stacey and I would end up dating four different times. Second Stacey is an amazing girl, with one small problem: The fact that she has Histrionic Personality Disorder. Which, wasn’t always the easiest thing to deal with. In all of the years that I have known her, Second Stacey has had over twenty jobs, and has never lived in the same building for longer than one year. At the end of each lease, she’d always find somewhere else to live. She would easily get bored at jobs, and quit for no real reason. Sadly, she carried this attitude into our relationship. Suddenly, I’d go two or three days without hearing from her. Then, she’d tell me she’s too busy for a boyfriend. Months later, she’d be asking me to hang out every night, and it would feel like we were going to get back together, then nothing. I actually got a guilty pleasure out of the times when she would contact me, but I would be seeing someone else. I always felt like it was a nice retaliation, when I would ignore her texts – because I didn’t need her company to make me feel like a significant contribution to the dating world. It’s not that I was with someone better than her, but something about me wanted to let her know what it felt like to be ignored. But, then there were later times, when she would contact me and we would spend long period of time together. One year, I ended up with a ridiculous tax return, and Second Stacey and I had been talking pretty frequently, so I paid for us to take a trip to Tuscany, Lombardy, and Umbria together. Second Stacey was the biggest win connoisseur that I have ever dated. She knew what she liked, she taught me what I liked – all of which I have since forgotten. But, we spent ten wonderful days together. Three weeks later, she wouldn’t return my phone calls. That was the end of our third attempt at dating. I don’t really know what prevents us from clicking on that next level. Second Stacey is awesome, and has so much to offer a guy. She’s going to be a wonderful significant other – she always was to me, I suppose sometimes I blame myself for not being able to keep her interested – and she’s got wonderful motherly qualities that are going to make her perfect when she fills that role. For whatever reason, it just doesn’t seem to be meant for her and I to take that next step. Unless, someday, our Fifth Attempt is the time when we finally get it right?
Third Stacey has always been the Married Stacey since I met her. We used to bartend together, and have a ridiculous amount of fun together. Third Stacey was one of my best friends, and someone that I seriously love to death. I’ve never slept with Third Stacey, despite the fact that we joke about it on a regular basis. Third Stacey and I may have innocently crossed the lines a few times, but never in any malicious manner; just drunk friends, enjoying a free-spirited moment, or moments. Third Stacey has a special place in my heart, and it’s a place I know she’ll never break. We have an understanding, and I like it. I’m not going to lie, there is a part of me that wishes she would get divorced, so that she would have a little more freedom in her life, and have the ability to come out and hang out more often. But, that’s not my place. Third Stacey is perfect, and we’ve gone through a lot of stuff together. Third Stacey was around for The Worst Moment of My Life, as well as the entire Debacle of Suzy. So, you’ll be hearing a lot about her throughout this story. Please don’t judge me on any of the things I tell you that happened between us, you need to know what she is married to a drug-using douchebag who doesn’t deserve her at all. Well, at least not in my opinion. And douchebags are something you’re going to be hearing a lot about in this story. I’m kind of an expert on dealing with them, as you will see.
Finally, Fourth Staci. Staci went to college with Dub and I, and like many of us – she eventually ended up here in the big city. She was a theatre major, and is really good. In college, she was much more laid back and relaxed than she is now. She partied hard with us the first few years, but near the end, she really began to focus on her career path. We actually went a few years without talking at all, until the explosion of social media. That first day that you sign up for it, and you spend hours looking for your closest friends from high school, and then college; and once they’ve accepted you, you spend another few hours looking at their friends for the friends that you forgot you were friends with and now wanted to be virtual friends with. That was how I eventually came across Fourth Staci and after five months of being virtual friends, she finally had the time to grab an afternoon bite of food with me. It was a great time catching up, and hearing about her studying in London for two years, and then getting involved in the theatre company she was with now. After that day, we kept in contact a little bit more often and she would always check in with me on any free night she had. She was always a great wingman, and helped me pick up a fair number of girls. It’s amazing what a few words from another female can do in the mind of your prey. Then, there was that random night of drinking, where we both got pretty wasted and the playful touching evolved into heavy petting, and the next thing I knew her tongue was down my mouth, and an hour later I was down inside of her. The next morning, was like nothing happened. I woke up and found her eating toast on my loveseat, watching TV and we hung out all day like simply platonic friends. Nothing felt weird, or awkward, and it was awesome. Seven weeks later, we repeated. Three months later, we repeated. Randomly, we repeated. And when my mind was shattered by Suzy, I got a knock on the door, and it was Staci to the rescue; for the most part. I did relapsed back into Suzy-funk a few times – in my self-destructive path of burning down the entire Suzy Bridge once and for all. But, I’ll get to all of that soon enough.
As I jump off the El, and make my way down to the street, I’m focusing on Fourth Staci tonight, and happy that two of my missed texts were from her. She wanted me to come out tonight, which had to be a good sign. I walked three blocks east and found the bar. As I walked in and showed my I.D., my ears were tortured into hearing an older woman attempting to belt out “Total Eclipse of My Heart”. It required me to order a shot from the bar before I even found my friends. For the next few hours, we consumed drinks, I listened to (most of) them rock out at the songs they picked. At one point, Fourth Staci came back to the table with the karaoke book and asked me what she should sing.
I flipped through the pages until I found a song by Heart, it was a drunken flirtatious moment – let’s see what reaction I would get? She gave me a half smirk, and then flipped some pages and pointed at a Nine Inch Nails song. When I looked back at her, she gave me a wink – and I knew our evening together was sealed. That put me in a good mood, so I decided to buy a round of shots for our table.
An hour after last call, I found myself on the train again, with Fourth Staci curled up next me. We weren’t holding hands, but we didn’t need to be. We didn’t need any form of public display to know where this was going tonight. She had her eyes closed, so I knew I couldn’t close mine, or might end up riding this train around town all night after we missed my stop. I just sat there in the train car, and had a moment where my mind regressed to a late-night train ride with Suzy. What the hell is wrong with me?
Well, I’ve given you the back-story of all important Staceys in my life. So, I guess it’s time to go back to the beginning and start explaining the Suzy story to you. Then, maybe it’ll make a little more sense? Probably not, it still doesn’t make sense to me. But, here we go, the story starts like many others do…
A pretty blonde girl walks into a bar…
