You've got a friend
As loyal readers know, lately I’ve only been posting to the “Damned Human Race” category on this site — which is to say discussing politics. As you also know, political blog postings are the last refuge of scoundrels, but as you also also know, I am one of those. On another hand, what are we to make of those with a “Drinking & Women” category?
I wanted to report here on some twentieth-century memories of my “best friend” (by default) Meg, because lately she’s been bugging me a lot and I thought this might put her in her place. I will let you know if it works.
Last night, I got home before sunrise and played the answering machine, that ritual of bachelor homelife. My alleged friend Meg, lost in the wilds of America, had left this message in three-foot words of fire that sprang from the tinny speaker:
“Jack, pick up the phone, it’s Meg. I know you’re there. Answer me, dammit. Jack, are you ignoring me? Are you there listening and ignoring me?” A short pause. “Are you fucking somebody? Goddamn it, you’re there fucking some slut. I can’t believe you’re there ignoring my call and fucking some tramp. Go to hell. I hope you get AIDS. Call me.” You have no more messages.
Meg and I had met in another lifetime. According to legend, I attended, hesitantly but with a great sense of purpose, an off-campus party during freshman orientation week where it was a fair bet there would be beer available for free.
I was a small-town hustler of cheerleaders and honor students, who increasingly had the suspicion that there were bigger games to play. She was a frowning, sloppy drunk girl in an untucked flannel shirt, planted on the sofa right by the door.
“Hey, asshole,” she slurred at me, beginning our relationship. “Hey, dickhead.”
I chose not to respond to this address. I preferred to consider us all gentlemen and ladies. I headed to the next room, to beer.
“Bring me back a drink,” she called after me, “I’m out.”
I worked the crowd a while. I introduced myself to all the best-looking girls and the boys who probably knew them. I was attempting to smooth my entry into college society, such as it was. I was going to have to live with, eat with, drink with, and sleep with these people for four years, and maybe forever. It was a grim notion, and I wanted to get things right.
A charming little brunette, her easily-sidelined boyfriend, and I had just sat down on the living room furnishings with our beers when a slurry voice from behind me on the couch said, “Thanks,” and a confident hand reached around and took my bottle from me. I turned around to see the same girl. “I wanted a drink drink,” she said, “but beer is okay for now.”
“That’s mine,” I told her.
She tilted her head back and took a long swig. “I can drink a forty in two swallows,” she winked. I looked around to the brunette-and-boyfriend for assistance. They were already looking for another group to escape to. “That’s why boys like me,” the drunk girl explained, half-heartedly. I turned to b-and-b to apologize and continue our getting-to-know-you, but they had got up and left. Meanwhile, my shoulder was being tapped. “Stop being so rude,” the girl said.
I turned around again. “Why don’t you leave me alone?” I wondered.
She made a face of mock shame. “Oh, sorry, I guess you’d rather talk to someone else. Someone who takes hours to drink a forty, she’s so wonderful. I didn’t mean to ruin the party for you.”
I stared at her for a minute. Then I took a deep breath. “Look. It’s all right. You’re pretty drunk. Do you have a friend to take you home?”
She looked enraged. “I am not drunk. And I am home. And my friends are none of your business.” She poured the rest of the beer into my lap.
I bit my lip, looked at my pants, and looked around the room again. I turned back to her. “You’re being a real jerk,” I informed her.
“I’m Meg,” she chirped. “Let’s go to my room.”
“I don’t want to go to your room,” I said.
“Isn’t this orientation week?”
I said it was.
“So let me orient you,” she said. She rolled to her feet and start pulling on my hand. “C’mon, I’m bored. Let’s go make out.”
I was young and foolish enough to still be of the opinion that the sexy girls were the ones who said “no” all the time. I didn’t know what to do with our Meg. She looked at me disapprovingly. I was a kid; I went up to her room.
She turned on the stereo and began white-girl dancing in place. “I’m dancing,” she announced, her shirttails bobbling. I stood by the door, among the strewn-about laundry. I saw something fuzzy on the floor, and picked it up. It was an Angora sweater, the cheapest sentiment. I smelled it; it could be reused.
“Are you wearing a bra?” I asked her.
She kept dancing, her face cast down and her fists pumping the air haltingly. “Yes,” she said after a moment, to the floor.
“Good, so change into this.” I handed her the sweater.
“I’m dancing,” she said.
“You can’t dance in button-down.”
“Turn around.” I covered my face with my hands. She repeated, “Turn around.” I turned around. I sensed the rending of garments. “Can I look now?” I asked after a while. “Not yet,” she said, right into my ear, from right behind me. Her hands went around my waist as I turned around to see her in her fuzzy. The door opened and an aghast college boy said, “Meg, what the fuck are you doing?”
“Aw, c’mon, Darren, we’re just dancing,” Meg said, clutching me.
“Get the fuck out of here,” the boy said to me. “Let go of him,” he said to her. He didn’t come in the room.
“Maybe if you had some time for me at the party in my own house—” Meg was beginning. I got away from her and went back downstairs. I scanned the room one more time. Everyone was fine without me. I went home.
Four months later I answered the phone to hear a nose being blown and tissues scratching the mouthpiece. “Hello?” I said a few times, and then began to hang up.
“Is this Jack?” a teary voice asked.
“Yeah, who is this?”
“It’s Meg.”
I was about to say, “Who is Meg?” when a wave of revulsion showed me I already knew. “Fuck you,” I said instead.
She was crying. “I wanted to apologize,” she said through sobs.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you crying about this?”
She choked back another jag. “I’m very sad tonight,” she said.
“Are you crying about me?” I asked again. “That just surprises me.”
“I’m crying about me,” she said simply. Of course. A pause. “I’m sorry. I was kind of a jerk to you.”
“No, you were a big jerk. I have no idea what you were trying to do, but I hated it. It was fucked up.”
“I know, I know,” she said. “I was really out of control. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved. I’m sorry.”
I listened to her wiping her nose for a while. “All right,” I said, “thanks for the call.”
“Hold on a minute. Is that it?”
“What do you mean? You called me, you said what you wanted—”
“So, what, you’re hanging up?”
I thought for a moment. “Well, yes,” I said.
She said, “Do you want to come over?”
I said, “No. I can’t.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I don’t want to.”
She paused. The tissues swished the mouthpiece. “You’re being a jerk now.”
“No, I am not. I don’t care. I can’t do this.” I hung up the phone. I lay on my bed uncomfortably. This is what I learned in college. From that day to this, I never saw Meg again. But she calls me about once a week. I tell her everything. She is my best friend!
by Jack, September 9, 2004 1:13 PM | More from Drinking & Women
Within the Chronology
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Okay, asshole. You know you called me first, and that apology didn't happen for a long time. You are leaving out months of abuse and teasing that you willingly endured. Don't lead your readers to think you say "no" so easily.
And another thing: I might have started calling you every week, but you always answer the phone and start talking, you dumb glutton.
Above, I said I would tell you if it worked. It did not.