And now for today's completely random post...I'd like to talk about heroism. Inspired by this video I found online about first responders and people who intentionally put themselves in harm's way, I've decided to share a personal story of mine.
The year was 2002. I'd just been promoted to head slave at the movie theater and I hadn't had my new "supervisor" badge pinned to my chest more than fifteen minutes before destiny called. A woman walked up to the concession stand and asked one of my minions for the manager on duty. They radioed for me and I responded right away.
"How can I help you, ma'am?"
"I don't want to sound racist (why do people always lead with that?), but I just came out of my theater because four Muslim looking men just walked in."
I was thinking to myself, "You are doing a fantastic job of not sounding racist." I just gave her the "Okay?" look.
"I don't think they belong there."
Just as she said that, one of the guys walked out to go to the bathroom.
"Look, that's one of the Muslim guys right there!"
"Um, you do know that 'Muslim' isn't a race, right? I think the word you're looking for is Arab."
"Whatever! Don't you need to call someone? Do you have security here?"
"Ma'am, the man hasn't done anything. And he's not Arab, he's Black."
"How do you know that?"
I wanted to say, "Uh, all Black people have a database in their head. Kinda like ants recognizing other ants from the same colony." Instead, I just kinda looked down at my arms and hands as if to say, "Takes one to know one."
She didn't give up though. She told me that regardless of what race they were, I should still check them out. She went on to make some valid points: The theater she was in was showing Jonah, A VeggieTales Movie, which for those who don't know is a cartoon about anthropomorphic vegetables acting out the Biblical story of Jonah and the whale. I had to admit that it is kinda weird to see four grown Black men sitting on the front row of a movie like that sans children. Plus she told me that all four of them were wearing long black coats (it was about 80-85 degrees that day) and they had a big black duffel bag sitting on the floor in front of them. She said she was worried that they might have a gun or a bomb or something.
This was around the Fall of 2002, so the DC Sniper thing was going on, and it was a year after 9/11. I realized that even though her suspicions were based on racism, her concerns weren't unfounded. And that brings me back full circle to heroism.
I immediately called the manager of the theater:
"This is Ordale. Can you check out theater 6? A customer just came to the concession stand to report some suspicious guys in the front row with a large duffel bag that she says could be a bomb."
"Okay, well go check it out. Wait a minute. Why are you calling me on the phone? Is something wrong with your radio?"
"No, I think I'm out of range for the radio."
"Where are you?"
"I'm down the street inside the mall. I'm using the payphone next to the bathrooms. The lady said she thought there was a bomb, so I left. I'm just calling so you can go check it out."
I hung up the phone, walked to the car and drove off. I kept looking in the rear view mirror to see if there was any smoke rising in the distance. The next day, they wrote me up. And that's my tale of heroism. I knew that if there was actually a bomb in the building then I might be putting myself at risk by stopping at the payphone to warn the others, but I did it anyway. Of course I was about half a mile away when I did it, but it could've been a big bomb. You never know.
I wonder if they'll put my face on a stamp.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Parent's Pride
Today I'm going to explain why parents dote over their kids. Before I was sold down the river into parental slavery, I used avoid making eye contact with coworkers who had kids. When you're in management it's expected that you'll go cube to cube throughout the day making idle chit chat with your team. They call it being visible and accessible. I called it Russian Roulette.
"(Please don't talk to me about your kids today. Please don't talk to me about your kids today!)"
"Hey Ordale, here's a picture of my two month-old son touching his foot."
"..."
"He knew where his foot was. He's a genius."
"..."
I'm sure you've heard similar situations. Hell, if you found my blog through some lady at your job who claims to be married to me and keeps pictures of me on her desk (stalker), then I know you've heard similar stories. She probably goes around the office with a lyre singing ballads of my daughter's greatness. I promise you she's not crazy and here's why:
Objectively speaking...kids are kinda stupid at first. Now I know that offends some people, but that's because you're not thinking objectively. Your parental instincts and misguided sense of decency are causing you to be offended. Shake that off for a second. Remember when the baby was born and you had to put gloves on him? If you don't have kids you may not know what I'm talking about. Newborns sometimes go through sensory overload and involuntarily scratch and claw at their faces.
Now I'm not saying that there is a mental deficiency there. It's normal, it's natural, it's what new babies do. I get that. I'm just saying that right out of the gate you have to stop your child from turning himself into The Phantom of the Opera. And trying to stop them from maiming or killing themselves is a behavior that doesn't go away for years, but that's much later down the road. First...
They're boring as hell. You'll hear people tell you "They grow up so fast." That's hindsight talking. A year goes by fast, unless you're sitting in a prison cell. Then, it goes by reaaaally slow. I read the What to Expect book, but I must've skipped over some pages because I had it in my mind that my daughter would crawl around three months and start walking around six months. This wasn't me expecting to be advanced or anything, either. I just assumed that all babies operated on that timetable. My daughter was four months old before she could roll from her back to her stomach. So four months of my life were spent watching her stare at the ceiling and do the Stevie Wonder head movements side to side.
There is of course tummy time which is the inverse of what I mentioned above. Instead of the Stevie Wonder sway, you get the heroin addict head rock up and down. Occasionally they'll get your hopes up and pretend like they're gonna crawl to the toy that's a half inch out of their reach. Usually they reach and reach and then get distracted by the threads of carpet that their goldfish memory forgot they were laying on.
So yeah...go through all of this for a few months and you'll find yourself excited when the child finally does something that displays even the faintest sense of intelligence. I remember the day my daughter kicked off one of her socks while I was in the bathroom. You would've thought I missed the game winning Superbowl Hail Mary. I tried to recreate the moment a million times. "Okay, you were laying right here on the bassinet and the fan was oscillating to the right..."
Moments like that are the little bits of hope that keep you going. They let you know that the creature whose been living in your house and eating up your food will actually turn out to be a human. That's why parents are so excited when the most mundane events occur. Those moments are the equivalent of drowning and getting another full breath of air.
I got one today. She did everything from fall out in the store to throwing her shoes at me from the back of the car because I told her I forgot to bring a snack bag of potato chips. When we got home, I opened up the toy farm I bought earlier. She started playing and said:
"Cow! Yes, good job. This is cow! Mooooo!"
"Chicken! Yes, good job. Chicken bock, bock, bock!"
"Car (tractor) Vrooooom!"
Then she put the little man in the car and drove it into the barn.
"Close the door! (She closed it herself) Goodbye!"
It wasn't exactly a Mensa moment. I doubt they'll put up a statue in her honor because of it. But to me...After thinking about that same person laying in that same spot just a little over a year ago staring at the ceiling...My baby's a freaking genius!
"(Please don't talk to me about your kids today. Please don't talk to me about your kids today!)"
"Hey Ordale, here's a picture of my two month-old son touching his foot."
"..."
"He knew where his foot was. He's a genius."
"..."
I'm sure you've heard similar situations. Hell, if you found my blog through some lady at your job who claims to be married to me and keeps pictures of me on her desk (stalker), then I know you've heard similar stories. She probably goes around the office with a lyre singing ballads of my daughter's greatness. I promise you she's not crazy and here's why:
Objectively speaking...kids are kinda stupid at first. Now I know that offends some people, but that's because you're not thinking objectively. Your parental instincts and misguided sense of decency are causing you to be offended. Shake that off for a second. Remember when the baby was born and you had to put gloves on him? If you don't have kids you may not know what I'm talking about. Newborns sometimes go through sensory overload and involuntarily scratch and claw at their faces.
Now I'm not saying that there is a mental deficiency there. It's normal, it's natural, it's what new babies do. I get that. I'm just saying that right out of the gate you have to stop your child from turning himself into The Phantom of the Opera. And trying to stop them from maiming or killing themselves is a behavior that doesn't go away for years, but that's much later down the road. First...
They're boring as hell. You'll hear people tell you "They grow up so fast." That's hindsight talking. A year goes by fast, unless you're sitting in a prison cell. Then, it goes by reaaaally slow. I read the What to Expect book, but I must've skipped over some pages because I had it in my mind that my daughter would crawl around three months and start walking around six months. This wasn't me expecting to be advanced or anything, either. I just assumed that all babies operated on that timetable. My daughter was four months old before she could roll from her back to her stomach. So four months of my life were spent watching her stare at the ceiling and do the Stevie Wonder head movements side to side.
There is of course tummy time which is the inverse of what I mentioned above. Instead of the Stevie Wonder sway, you get the heroin addict head rock up and down. Occasionally they'll get your hopes up and pretend like they're gonna crawl to the toy that's a half inch out of their reach. Usually they reach and reach and then get distracted by the threads of carpet that their goldfish memory forgot they were laying on.
So yeah...go through all of this for a few months and you'll find yourself excited when the child finally does something that displays even the faintest sense of intelligence. I remember the day my daughter kicked off one of her socks while I was in the bathroom. You would've thought I missed the game winning Superbowl Hail Mary. I tried to recreate the moment a million times. "Okay, you were laying right here on the bassinet and the fan was oscillating to the right..."
Moments like that are the little bits of hope that keep you going. They let you know that the creature whose been living in your house and eating up your food will actually turn out to be a human. That's why parents are so excited when the most mundane events occur. Those moments are the equivalent of drowning and getting another full breath of air.
I got one today. She did everything from fall out in the store to throwing her shoes at me from the back of the car because I told her I forgot to bring a snack bag of potato chips. When we got home, I opened up the toy farm I bought earlier. She started playing and said:
"Cow! Yes, good job. This is cow! Mooooo!"
"Chicken! Yes, good job. Chicken bock, bock, bock!"
"Car (tractor) Vrooooom!"
Then she put the little man in the car and drove it into the barn.
"Close the door! (She closed it herself) Goodbye!"
It wasn't exactly a Mensa moment. I doubt they'll put up a statue in her honor because of it. But to me...After thinking about that same person laying in that same spot just a little over a year ago staring at the ceiling...My baby's a freaking genius!
Monday, September 17, 2012
Working Day and Night
I know that I'm supposed to continue the bill collector story, but I'm tired as hell. I've slept a total of six hours this weekend, so that's gonna have to wait. But I appreciate you, dear reader, too much to not share some aspect of brokedom with you. I just spent the last ten minutes drifting in and out of consciousness while I thought about all of the part time jobs I've had.
I have a friend whose mutant power is the ability to grow up in the projects and not work a part time job. Somehow he went straight to the corporate world. It's like watching David Blaine. I see it, but I don't understand how you did it. I was on an parenting forum and one of the topics was "When is it okay to discuss money and finances around the children." The consensus was junior high or high school. HA!!!
I learned about money the same way most poor people learn about it: "You got any Transformers money?" I NEVER (Capital N-E-V-E-R) went into the toy store and actually expected to leave with something. That didn't stop me from begging, but I didn't feel entitled to shit. I also didn't believe that I could earn anything. I was a straight A student for the majority of my life and no one EVER gave me something for getting good grades in school. If I even mentioned making the honor roll, all I heard was,"That's what you're supposed to do." When I overheard one of the slow kids in class saying that his mother gave him $5 for every D that he could turn into a C and $10 for every C that he turned into a B, I almost lost my goddamned mind.
"What do I have to turn my A's into? A fucking number? This is some bullshit!"
I applied for my first job when I was eleven. I didn't know anything about child labor laws. I walked down the street to the Blockbuster on Good Hope and Naylor Road and handed them an application. Those ignorant bastards took it like they were really going to consider me. For about a year I applied once a month and just assumed that they had picked someone more qualified.
I tried a lemonade stand in front of my grandmother's house. I sold one cup the whole day. It probably would've helped if it was actual lemonade and not a gallon of lemon drink. I didn't have ice or even a pitcher. I was just trying to sell it straight out of the jug.
I tried washing cars. I put up all of these signs around the neighborhood that I made by hand with construction paper and markers. I got a bucket, a rag and some Palmolive and stood in front of the house like a jackass all day one Saturday. Some guy paid me $5 to wash his car and his wife's car. Halfway through, my grandfather made me stop, because he said I was wasting up all of his water with the hose.
I even spent the better part of an evening making library cards and a small card catalog of all of my Disney Adventure magazines. I took those to school the next day and told the kids that they could pay me fifty cents to read them at lunch. They looked at me like I was a damned fool. One girl gave me a quarter out of pity.
With all of that said, you can understand how happy I was when I was finally old enough to work. Of course as soon as I got my first job I became responsible for buying my own clothes, deodorant, soap, bus tokens, hair cut and anything else besides rent and utilities. I was just happy to make my own money. I happily wore my little movie theater uniform to school. I was so happy to work that I started collecting jobs. In the two years between 11th and 12th grade I worked at the movies, the hospital, two ice cream shops, interned in a congressional office and did part time janitorial work at my school during the summer. Sometimes I was so tired from working so many jobs at the same time that I'd go to work in the wrong uniform. But you couldn't tell me nothing. I was employed!
College was even worse. I can't tell you anything that happened in pop culture in 2004 or 2005. Superbowl, NBA Finals, Grammys...nada. I was at work. My wife lost her job, so I dropped out of school and got two jobs. 40 hours a week at the bank in the day and 38 hours a week at Blockbuster in the evening. We saw each other during my 20 minute break every night. We lived down the street, so I'd rush home where she'd have dinner waiting. We'd squeeze a whole day's worth of time into 20 minutes: Listen to a song, fast forward through a TV show with her narrating along the way and sometimes even play a game of Wipeout against each other and then I'd go right back to work. As hectic as it was, I was grateful to be able to work and pay my bills.
More than anything, I'm glad I finally "got McDonald's money!"
I have a friend whose mutant power is the ability to grow up in the projects and not work a part time job. Somehow he went straight to the corporate world. It's like watching David Blaine. I see it, but I don't understand how you did it. I was on an parenting forum and one of the topics was "When is it okay to discuss money and finances around the children." The consensus was junior high or high school. HA!!!
I learned about money the same way most poor people learn about it: "You got any Transformers money?" I NEVER (Capital N-E-V-E-R) went into the toy store and actually expected to leave with something. That didn't stop me from begging, but I didn't feel entitled to shit. I also didn't believe that I could earn anything. I was a straight A student for the majority of my life and no one EVER gave me something for getting good grades in school. If I even mentioned making the honor roll, all I heard was,"That's what you're supposed to do." When I overheard one of the slow kids in class saying that his mother gave him $5 for every D that he could turn into a C and $10 for every C that he turned into a B, I almost lost my goddamned mind.
"What do I have to turn my A's into? A fucking number? This is some bullshit!"
I applied for my first job when I was eleven. I didn't know anything about child labor laws. I walked down the street to the Blockbuster on Good Hope and Naylor Road and handed them an application. Those ignorant bastards took it like they were really going to consider me. For about a year I applied once a month and just assumed that they had picked someone more qualified.
I tried a lemonade stand in front of my grandmother's house. I sold one cup the whole day. It probably would've helped if it was actual lemonade and not a gallon of lemon drink. I didn't have ice or even a pitcher. I was just trying to sell it straight out of the jug.
I tried washing cars. I put up all of these signs around the neighborhood that I made by hand with construction paper and markers. I got a bucket, a rag and some Palmolive and stood in front of the house like a jackass all day one Saturday. Some guy paid me $5 to wash his car and his wife's car. Halfway through, my grandfather made me stop, because he said I was wasting up all of his water with the hose.
I even spent the better part of an evening making library cards and a small card catalog of all of my Disney Adventure magazines. I took those to school the next day and told the kids that they could pay me fifty cents to read them at lunch. They looked at me like I was a damned fool. One girl gave me a quarter out of pity.
With all of that said, you can understand how happy I was when I was finally old enough to work. Of course as soon as I got my first job I became responsible for buying my own clothes, deodorant, soap, bus tokens, hair cut and anything else besides rent and utilities. I was just happy to make my own money. I happily wore my little movie theater uniform to school. I was so happy to work that I started collecting jobs. In the two years between 11th and 12th grade I worked at the movies, the hospital, two ice cream shops, interned in a congressional office and did part time janitorial work at my school during the summer. Sometimes I was so tired from working so many jobs at the same time that I'd go to work in the wrong uniform. But you couldn't tell me nothing. I was employed!
College was even worse. I can't tell you anything that happened in pop culture in 2004 or 2005. Superbowl, NBA Finals, Grammys...nada. I was at work. My wife lost her job, so I dropped out of school and got two jobs. 40 hours a week at the bank in the day and 38 hours a week at Blockbuster in the evening. We saw each other during my 20 minute break every night. We lived down the street, so I'd rush home where she'd have dinner waiting. We'd squeeze a whole day's worth of time into 20 minutes: Listen to a song, fast forward through a TV show with her narrating along the way and sometimes even play a game of Wipeout against each other and then I'd go right back to work. As hectic as it was, I was grateful to be able to work and pay my bills.
More than anything, I'm glad I finally "got McDonald's money!"
Friday, September 14, 2012
Bill Collectors They Ring My Phone...
Someone was recently telling me how broke they were and cited not being able to buy the new iPhone as an example. Anonymous person, if you're reading this please come closer to the screen. That doesn't make you broke. I know broke. I studied it in undergrad and have the plaques on the wall to prove it. Some would call them credit reports, but I prefer to think of them as diplomas. I've graduated from middle class concerns. Not being able to buy a telephone doesn't necessarily make you broke. Getting a bill collector to pray for you over the phone...Now that makes you broke.
The year was 2004. I went through a Lemony Snicket's series of unfortunate events and found myself under the ire of bill collectors everywhere. I felt like I'd just won the lottery because so many people were calling and asking me for money. It started to look like Groundhog Day. The same thing happened over and over again. Just like Bill Murray's character, I started to feel like a god too. I could predict the future: "Gust of wind, car passes by, Visa calls Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays."
"Hi is this Ordale?"
Surprisingly, she hung up. But that still doesn't explain how I got one of them to pray for me. That's a long story. I'll share my dissertation on that Monday.
The year was 2004. I went through a Lemony Snicket's series of unfortunate events and found myself under the ire of bill collectors everywhere. I felt like I'd just won the lottery because so many people were calling and asking me for money. It started to look like Groundhog Day. The same thing happened over and over again. Just like Bill Murray's character, I started to feel like a god too. I could predict the future: "Gust of wind, car passes by, Visa calls Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays."
"Hi is this Ordale?"
Yes, this is Ordale and you're calling from Visa about my account, but before you can proceed you have to inform me that this is an attempt to collect a debt and any information obtained will be used for that purpose. You want to talk to me about the $958.43 that has been outstanding for four months. You're going to ask me what I want to do about this balance. Then you're going to end your script by telling me that you can accept check by phone.
I'm going to tell you that a job has not magically appeared since I last spoke with you two days ago and that even if one did manifest from thin air that there is no way I could work enough hours in just two days to pay that amount. I'll go on to say that even if I did find a magic job and I worked 48 hours in a row just to pay you and not my rent or anything else, then I'd still have to wait because most places pay bi-weekly and two days is only 12 days shy of bi-weekly.
You'll ask me in an absurdly casual manner if I can borrow the money from someone, perhaps a friend. I'll turn around and say that since I've spoken to you every two days for the last few weeks and you know so much about my personal affairs, that I consider us to be friends. I'll then ask you if I can borrow $958.43. One of us will hang up on the other.
Surprisingly, she hung up. But that still doesn't explain how I got one of them to pray for me. That's a long story. I'll share my dissertation on that Monday.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Nine
Nine Years
That's how long I've been married. When you get to nine years you earn the right to do away with those cliched posts about the person being your soul mate. You don't have to break out into a Dreamgirls number (When I first saw you, I said 'Oh my!' That's a dream. That's my dream.) Nope, I'm above all of that now. I'm gonna speak the truth.
I wanna believe that on the day I got married seven or eight hundred women all got a text message on their we-don't-exist-yet-iPhones that said "Ordale J Allen has exited the tournament." Truth be told, I wanna believe that somewhere on the other side of the country was an arena filled with eight or nine thousand women all staring up at a jumbotron screen to watch a closed caption feed of my wedding and that they all broke out into tears when I said I do.
Some caught the holy ghost like at church and the old women with the white blouses and little white hats had to come lock arms around them to keep them from holy ghosting over a rail and falling to the ground below. At the same time over at the Staples Center in LA it was standing room only as a stadium full of men watched the wedding and celebrated my exit as a sign that they no longer had to compete with me anymore. Ordinary, sub-par, tacky "balloon with the bear inside of it" Valentine Day gift buying men rejoiced all over the world. That's what I choose to believe. If you're shaking your head at the screen you can stop now. 1) I can't see you and 2) You don't know any more than I do whether that happened or not.
In any case, what I do know is that I stood up at the front of that church and watched my wife walk down the aisle crying the whole time. As she approached me and we turned to face the preacher I leaned over and whispered something very sweet, touching and personal. "Well goddamn, did you change your mind? What's the crying for? Expecting somebody else?" In classic Ordale's Wife fashion she immediately stopped crying, leaned over to me and whispered back, "Ever since the day I was born, I've been trained to serve you."
It was in that moment that I knew we were gonna be okay. As the preacher stood there reading something about marriage and fidelity and blah blah blah, we stood there whispering back and forth:
"Bark like a dog."
"Arf, arf, arf."
"A big dog."
"Woof, woof, woof, woof"
"Hop on one leg" (She just laughed at that one)
"Make a noise like an orangutan"
At that the preacher shot us an evil look like "How dare you!" By this point someone was singing a song and I leaned back over and whispered, "It would be funny as hell if she broke out into 'She's Your Queen to Be' right now." My wife laughed out loud, the preacher shooshed us and I just rolled my eyes like "This is my damned wedding. If I wanna do the little African dance from the movie right now there aint nothing you can do about it."
Nine years later...here we are. I only have one thing to say to my wife:
Who the hell told you to stop barking?
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute
I wrote a post on Facebook to this girl I sorta met last night. Now I can't get this song out of my head:
Chorus:
Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute
Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute
Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute
Harlots that are half-dressed
Harlot Power!!!
They're the world's most fearsome fighting team (Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute)
They're harlots that are half-dressed
and they're mean! (Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute)
When the evil 'Pimpin' attacks
These whoring girls don't cut em no slack
Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute
Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute
Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute
Harlots that are half dressed. Harlot Power!!!
___________
I know that was random. Here's my facebook post that inspired it.
Dear Black Girl That I Met Last Night,
Chorus:
Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute
Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute
Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute
Harlots that are half-dressed
Harlot Power!!!
They're the world's most fearsome fighting team (Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute)
They're harlots that are half-dressed
and they're mean! (Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute)
When the evil 'Pimpin' attacks
These whoring girls don't cut em no slack
Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute
Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute
Teenage Mutant Ninja Prostitute
Harlots that are half dressed. Harlot Power!!!
___________
I know that was random. Here's my facebook post that inspired it.
Dear Black Girl That I Met Last Night,
I really enjoyed meeting you yesterday. Sometimes when fate puts two people in the same place, magic can happen. That's how I describe not running over you with my car when you decided to jaywalk across the street even though I had the light and then not speed up your pace when I obviously didn't see you because you were walking across a dark street dressed like a Thundercat on your way home from your job which I assume is either Black Power Ranger (It's morphin time!) or Teenage Mutant Ninja Lady of the Night. I felt like we shared something special last night, and no, it wasn't that heated exchange as you cursed me out like I did something wrong. The magic that I'm talking about can only be described as God's love. It was either that or the fear of going to prison that prevented me from reversing back down the street and running over you and your outstretched middle finger as you cursed me out while completely oblivious to the bus that was also about to hit you. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I felt it too. Til we meet again...Ordale.
A Simple Twist of Fate
I was sitting on the stairs of the Lincoln Memorial last night taking in the view of the "refurbished" Reflection Pool when I began eavesdropping on the conversation going on beside me. This guy was sitting on the stairs staring off into space when someone walked up him and said "Eric!?" It turns out that Eric was from out of town and the guy speaking to him was a former coworker.
Somehow they both took vacations at the same time to the same place and ended up on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial at about 9PM last night. The guy's wife walked up the stairs a few minutes later to meet her husband and yelled, "ERIC!!! Oh my God! The steps of the Lincoln Memorial must be where the fates converge." I turned my headphones back up after that, but her comment about fate and those steps reminded me of something.
A little over nine years ago, sometime in the Spring of '03, I was sitting on those exact same steps with a girl who I was feeling at the time. We sat there for well over an hour having a conversation about absolutely nothing. All I remember is trying to read her to see if there was any hint that she was feeling me too. I had broken up with my girlfriend a few months prior and was a little rusty at reading women.
I couldn't make heads or tails of it, so I decided to just let it go. What's interesting about this story is that much later I learned that she was interested in me after all. Very interested. She actually recounted that night and said that the only reason she sat out there so long with me was because she was working up the courage to say something to me. She also said that it didn't help that I left town the very next day, before we could talk again.
So where is this story going? Well, that night my ex-girlfriend called me to see if I wanted a ride back to NC. We were trying to do the "we can still be friends" thing, so she asked me if I wanted a ride back and we could go see the second Matrix movie that was opening the next night. Since I thought that the spark between me and the other girl was one-sided, I said what the hell and went back to NC the next day. Me and my ex went to the movies (only as friends) and I went home.
Later that night, just as I was about to fall asleep, my phone rang. On the other end of the phone was a girl who asked me for my number about a month after I broke up with my ex. She never called me in that time and I forgot all about her. She told me that she was going through her stuff and found my number. She assumed that I had gone home for the summer, but she was bored and figured it was worth a try.
We ended up talking on the phone for the next five hours about...everything. It seemed like every five minutes one of us would say, "I can't believe I'm telling you this. I don't even know you." Childhoods, families, sad Oprah-worthy stories, favorite foods, what kind of perm she used...everything! It was one of those conversations that you don't want to end. So we didn't. Tomorrow's our ninth wedding anniversary and the conversation is still going strong.
Every time I go to The Lincoln Memorial I can't help wondering what would've happened if I had just told that girl how I felt or vice versa. I know it wouldn't have lasted a month, but it would've lasted long enough to keep me from going back to NC the next day. Either my wife wouldn't have called back, or, when she did call, I would've politely told her that I was in a relationship and that would've been the end of that.
It adds a whole new meaning to the phrase, "Some things are best left unsaid."
Somehow they both took vacations at the same time to the same place and ended up on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial at about 9PM last night. The guy's wife walked up the stairs a few minutes later to meet her husband and yelled, "ERIC!!! Oh my God! The steps of the Lincoln Memorial must be where the fates converge." I turned my headphones back up after that, but her comment about fate and those steps reminded me of something.
A little over nine years ago, sometime in the Spring of '03, I was sitting on those exact same steps with a girl who I was feeling at the time. We sat there for well over an hour having a conversation about absolutely nothing. All I remember is trying to read her to see if there was any hint that she was feeling me too. I had broken up with my girlfriend a few months prior and was a little rusty at reading women.
I couldn't make heads or tails of it, so I decided to just let it go. What's interesting about this story is that much later I learned that she was interested in me after all. Very interested. She actually recounted that night and said that the only reason she sat out there so long with me was because she was working up the courage to say something to me. She also said that it didn't help that I left town the very next day, before we could talk again.
So where is this story going? Well, that night my ex-girlfriend called me to see if I wanted a ride back to NC. We were trying to do the "we can still be friends" thing, so she asked me if I wanted a ride back and we could go see the second Matrix movie that was opening the next night. Since I thought that the spark between me and the other girl was one-sided, I said what the hell and went back to NC the next day. Me and my ex went to the movies (only as friends) and I went home.
Later that night, just as I was about to fall asleep, my phone rang. On the other end of the phone was a girl who asked me for my number about a month after I broke up with my ex. She never called me in that time and I forgot all about her. She told me that she was going through her stuff and found my number. She assumed that I had gone home for the summer, but she was bored and figured it was worth a try.
We ended up talking on the phone for the next five hours about...everything. It seemed like every five minutes one of us would say, "I can't believe I'm telling you this. I don't even know you." Childhoods, families, sad Oprah-worthy stories, favorite foods, what kind of perm she used...everything! It was one of those conversations that you don't want to end. So we didn't. Tomorrow's our ninth wedding anniversary and the conversation is still going strong.
Every time I go to The Lincoln Memorial I can't help wondering what would've happened if I had just told that girl how I felt or vice versa. I know it wouldn't have lasted a month, but it would've lasted long enough to keep me from going back to NC the next day. Either my wife wouldn't have called back, or, when she did call, I would've politely told her that I was in a relationship and that would've been the end of that.
It adds a whole new meaning to the phrase, "Some things are best left unsaid."
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