Broken People (13 page)

Waiting
has never suited me well. I am about as impatient as a person can be. Waiting for these two to text me made me even more impatient. I grabbed my purse, my phone, and folded the list, placing it in my purse. Going to Cups was probably my best bet, because if David could meet to talk, we would have to meet somewhere other than my home. My parents weren’t particularly fond of me talking to white boys, and especially not a white homosexual boy.

Driving to Cups, I remembered when I first started to drive. I had
begun driving to school, and my parents at the time were becoming less and less interested with my day to day activities. At the time, I was becoming more distant from them. Several things, I am sure, made me feel this way. A combination of me wanting desperately to be my own person, combined with wanting to feel as if there was someone out there that actually, unconditionally, cared for me. My feeling of necessity to separate myself from everyone else, and become my own person was growing daily at that age. My parents’ schedules, and their belief that their daughter
was
growing older, made them less attentive to my needs. In time, we were more distant than I ever believed we would be.

Filled with these feelings, I would drive to school daily. As my life progressed, and I became more active in school, my parents became less active in their desire to understand who I was and what I was doing. Feelings of abandonment filled me. I was no longer loved. Frequently, as I drove to school or drove home, I would consider taking the steering wheel, and just yanking it, thrusting myself into oncoming traffic. I had convinced myself that this would be a good way to end the pain that I was feeling at the time.

One day, I realized that the feelings were something that would, in time, pass. I prayed for the ability to live with the pain. The ability came. Making it through those days was never easy, but every day I prayed to make it another day. And the next day, I would pray for one more. I can
’t necessarily put my finger on a date that it got better, or went away, but one day it did. One day I drove to school, and did not have those feelings. And then, another. Before the end of that school year, I had gone for months without having those feelings. I was grateful that I never drove into oncoming traffic, but I wondered how many other kids had feelings similar to mine. I decided, of all of the kids that I knew, I was probably the most responsible, mature, and reasonable thinking. If
I
had those feelings, I suspected that other kids had those feelings as well. At the time I asked a few kids, it wasn’t received well. I dismissed the lack of participation to the conversation as being due to embarrassment, and finally stopped asking people.

I realized, sitting at a traffic light, as it turned from green to red, that I was probably sitting there, zoned out, thinking of the time in my life that I harbored suicidal thoughts. As I waited for the light to turn green
again
, I thought of how many other people on the road must be zoning out. Not paying attention, and thinking of things that they should or shouldn’t be thinking about. Eventually, the light turned green, and I was back to driving. As I pulled into Cups, I didn’t see David’s car, but it didn’t surprise me, as he hadn’t texted me yet. Filled with excitement to tell David that he was heterosexual, I entered Cups.

I loved the yogurt here, but the entire theme
puzzled me. Cups was like a Hooters that sold frozen yogurt instead of chicken wings. The girls that worked here wore hoodies, unzipped, and their breasts hung out. In the summer, they shed their hoodies, and wore tank tops, and their breasts hung out. Great marketing, I suppose, because they were always busy.

Kid and I had talked at length about wha
t he called codependent women, women that sacrifice themselves, at almost any cost, for a relationship. I had learned that these women would do almost anything for a little attention and praise from a man. Are girls that work in atmospheres like this codependent? Are they working, half naked, for wages alone? Is it just another job? Or are they working half naked for wages while they hope to be noticed, sacrificing themselves and showing their bodies, in hopes of luring a man? The answers interested me and saddened me both. The thought of so many women on this earth knowingly sacrificing every bit of moral fiber that they
should
have, just to have someone give them attention and praise, is sad. I wanted to tell the girl behind the counter to zip up her hoodie, and go get a job at Barnes and Nobles.

I got a cup, and prepared my yogurt. This was one place that I enjoyed treating myself to. Brianna and I come here quite frequently. I think I
enjoy it far more than she does. In fact, I think she could care less where we go. She enjoys spending time with me, regardless of where we are spending it. I enjoy it here because it is a treat, a guilty pleasure. Almost like ice cream, without the calories. Maintaining a body I was comfortable with was a constant fight, and although my exercising and diet worked well, I was never quite satisfied with the results. After school, daily, I was at the gym, working frantically on some ridiculous machine. I attempted to shed calories, and in turn, shed size and weight. I didn’t necessarily have a target weight or size, but wanted to be comfortable in my own skin. I wasn’t there yet, but that goal was not missed from lack of exercise or proper diet. I looked at this place as a reward for all of my hard work.

I took my yogurt cup to the register to get it weighed. Cloe was working at the register. Could anyone be skinnier with larger boobs? She looked good in a disproportionate kind of Barbie Doll way. Probably five foot seven, a hundred five or ten pounds, and
boobs the size of grapefruits.

“That will be $5.23, Michelle. Oh, and that David guy you have been talking to in here lately, is he your boyfrie
nd? He is just freaking cute,” she said as she bent down to scratch her calf. When she did, one of her boobs literally fell out of the hoodie. Out. Like out, out. Out in the open.
Are you kidding me?
Maybe she didn’t belong at Barnes and Nobles. Looking at her gave me some odd form of satisfaction that I looked the way I did.

“No, he’s just a close friend,” I said, as I reached into my purse. I wanted to point, and tell her that part of her was hanging there for the world to see. How could she not know?  As she straightened her posture back to standing, her boob hung there, def
ying, to some degree, the very laws of gravity.

“Well, he’s just adorable,” As she spoke, without looking, she reached down, cupped her boob in her hand, and stuffed it carefully back into her hoodie. She didn’t mention it,
nor did she change her facial expression. Maybe this was something that happened frequently, and I had just never had the opportunity to witness it. I graciously paid for my yogurt, and sat down, satisfied, at least for an evening, of
who
I was.

I enjoyed being in pub
lic far more than being at home, and yearned to be in college, where I could be free. Free of my family. Free of relatives. Free of being bound to rules, regulations, and expectations. For the most part, I stayed in my room while I was at home, and I acted as though my family didn’t exist. I never saw them if I didn’t have to. I felt, for the first time in my life, that if I never saw them again, I would survive. Feeling like this, at least initially, was troubling. I had become comfortable lately with these feelings. I did have hope that after college, or during college, these feelings would change. I secretly hoped that I would develop a new fondness for my family while I was away. Either way, I had become comfortable living with these feelings, or having things change. I loved my family, and that would never change. I didn’t love being around them or spending time with them.

In public, I was ab
le to be myself, and didn’t worry about being judged, nor did I feel the need to meet the expectations of others. In public, no one had expectations of me. I was accepted by those around me for being who I was, and my actions were never questioned.
Michelle, why did….Michelle, are you wearing makeup, Michelle what are you wearing, Michelle, what did you decide about your college, regarding…Michelle, what happened at school the other day, Michelle, you are spending too much money on…Michelle, do you really think you need to do…
The knowing, the truly knowing, that I can be in the presence of others, and not be criticized, ridiculed, and/or questioned, regarding life and my way of living it, is priceless.

In my more recent years of living, I have developed a trait of being critical of others. Male and
female. I secretly used to pick people apart, their clothing, mannerisms, comments, and beliefs. Recently, I have begun to pick them apart in the presence of my friends that may be within eye or earshot. It has become a part of who I am to be critical of others. All of my friends have come to expect it, and I will be critical of all people that I encounter. I cannot help but wonder whether or not this is some reaction to me feeling as if I am being held under some form of microscope. These people, under
my
microscope, are under a great degree of scrutiny. Whatever portions of them that they allow me to see, I will be critical of. Some people appear, by my observations, to be valuable to me. I set those people aside, Group number one, and I keep them. Others have so few qualities that I prefer, that I set them aside, as Group number two. This group is on the side of failure. Failure of my personal testing for my expressed purposes of value, enjoyment or satisfaction. People, in general, have so many layers. Determining who they are is like peeling an onion. Each portion doesn’t make the person, but when combined, those layers make them who they are.

With Kid, each layer that I peeled back interested me. I found him to be a complex person. A person, at least in his own opinion, that had tremendous moral fiber. A complex person that lived a simple life. For me to be critical of him, and find something that he didn’t already know, would be nearly impossible. Kid was his own worst critic. He was conscious of his shortcomings and character defects. He did, at times, need a little direction, or another point of view on some matters. For the most part, however, he was aware of his faults, whether he admitted it or not. David, on the other hand, had proven to be nothing short of an accident waiting to happen. This new revelation of his heterosexuality had me excited. Not for reasons of developing a relationship, but for the satisfaction of revealing it to him, and the possibility of helping him to accept it. Accepting the fact that he was heterosexual. A new beginning, if you will. David was intelligent, and had an open view on life, and was quite a vivid person. His intelligence, good looks, and personality would afford him almost any girl that he wanted, and I was anxious to open this layer of his personality, and hold it under his nose. I derived a great degree of personal satisfaction from helping and healing people of whatever it was that caused them harm or discomfort. This was in part, or totally, what made me migrate to the medical field. The thought of exposing David to himself, and having him, at some point in time, agree that I was correct, would potentially provide me with satisfaction for a lifetime. I am a selfless person, and live a selfless life, but in this regard, I am selfish.

Finishing my yogurt, and standing to place my cup in the trash, I heard a scream. I had not even noticed anyone entering the store, but the scream itself startled me, and when I looked up, I realized that the store had filled with people while I was da
ydreaming about David and Kid.

“Michelle
!” screamed David at the top of his lungs. The entire store looked at him, and then turned and looked at me. He stood, in Khaki pants and a dress shirt, with his arms outstretched, and parallel with the floor. He was headed my direction, and doing so at a rapid pace.

“Dude, slow down,”
I said as he got within ten feet of me. I held my arms out to give him a hug, knowing his fondness for hugs.

We embraced, and he laid his head on my shoulder as we hugged. Leaning back away from my body, but with his hands on my shoulders
, he spoke, almost breathless.

“So,
I got your text, and I thought,
I bet Michelle is going to Cups.
So, hoping you’d be here, I drove here as a surprise. Well, not a surprise, but a surprise of sorts. I’m so happy to see you,” he said as he let go of my shoulders and pulled each side of his pants, making his
pants pulling face
as he tugged at them.

David probably, in an hour long period of time, subconsciously, pulled or tug
ged at his pants twenty times, about every two or three minutes. When he did, he made an awful face, as if he were playing tug-of-war, and was about to be pulled into the mud pit. I had never asked him about it, because I was sure he was self-conscious about it. At first, I thought it was cute, but as time passed, it became something odd that he did. Not necessarily annoying, but odd.

“I’m happy to see you as well, David. Sit down, we need to talk,” I said, motioning to a chair at the table. “I need to throw this away, and when I get back, we can talk,” I reached to the tabl
e to get the empty yogurt cup.

“No, let me get that. I
need to get a yogurt anyway,” he said, reaching for the cup.

He took my cup, and carefully placed it in the trash receptacle. When David put things in the trash, he didn’t push them into the receptacle. He opened the trap door with one hand, and reached inside carefully with the other, and placed the trash into the receptacle. It was as if he were throwing away a container of explosives. Watching him, I wondered how many of these idiosyncrasies were a result of his fear of failure. The thought of getting to the bottom of this made me sm
ile.