I had the idea a week ago to start a segment called "He Said, She Said," in which Gideon and I both write an individual account of one of our milestones. I wanted to start the segment where we started: the day we met. Before I transcribe Gideon's narrative, I feel it necessary to add a photo taken that day. This photo, you will see, negates Gideon's assertion that I had short hair when we met and proves that I am always right about everything. (Just let me have this one, guys.)
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| This is me and my friend Ryan. He will be important to my story but is not mentioned in Gideon's. He is less blurry in real life. |
My memory is a badly rusted bear trap -- cruelly trapping historical factoids in its unyielding grip but allowing names and faces to wriggle through with ease. This leads to amusing paradoxes like being able to recite the chronology of American Presidents or various English succession crises mid-coitus, yet unable to remember the names of professors I saw daily last year. My extended warranty on my brain is defunct, so I'll just have to make do with this mish-mash of clarity and shadows.
Meeting Samantha has long since passed from fresh, in-the-moment memory to old, hyper-analyzed and re-remembered memory. In reliving memory, I think you actually erase the experience and replace it with a facsimile memory. The first or second generation of relived memories are essentially the same. But just like a re-copied page gets fainter and fainter, so too (Ed. Note: Gideon wrote "to" instead of "too," but I am smarter than he is so I edited it.) does the re-visited memory. Eventually, the events are just a palimpsest for your current self to copy over. That being said, that day is now a vague setpiece that I have forgotten, re-written and re-arranged to contextualize meeting Sam.
That was a shitty, shitty day. I was being honored at the state capital for doing satisfactory school work. I hated everything. April of my senior year was the high-point for my cynicism and bitterness. I had become disillusioned with my school (more self-congratulatory masturbation than academic preparation). I had become extremely dissatisfied with religion and was flirting with radical/angry atheism. My excuse for a father (peace be unto him) was trying to use this to cut out my mother...somehow. I cheated him out of this by forcing him to be in the same picture with her. Anyway, I was an angry, bitter person. I had a nice suit on, too. Suddenly, a woman accosted me.
"Hey!" she shouted. "I'm looking to add friends to my roster."
"That's nice." I looked away.
"Yes!" she rejoined, not knowing my subtle clues for disengaging.
"Would you like to be considered?"
She was tall, almost reaching my throat with her face. She was blonde -- short hair kind of bobbed. (WRONG.) She had prominent cheekbones, hinting at some non-European ancestry. I remember her smile best. It was three-quarters genuine charisma and one-quarter acting. I liked it.
What followed is a dreamlike haze of probables and possibles. I think I, being half-disarmed and half-charmed, engaged in a conversation about film and music. Her love of bad cinema and my love of mocking bad cinema intertwined. At some point, I escaped to get lemonade from the catering table. I handed her my iPod classic as a conversation bookmark (also as a guarantee that I wasn't simply running away). She didn't steal it, which was nice. I think I inadvertently met her paternal grandparents at the food station, but I wouldn't be formally introduced for a few more years.
That's about all I remember. We gave each other our real names so that we could find each other on Facebook. "I'm addicted to stalking people," she bragged. But that was it. We started communicating online not long afterwards. I went off to shake Mike Beebe's hand and tolerate my awful father and his awful family and my awful schoolmates and everything. She disappeared, becoming an aspect of my mind and memory -- reinforced by Facebook pictures and emails.
SHE SAID
My mother and I got into a huge fight the day before I was supposed to meet Governor Mike Beebe at the Governor's Mansion. I remember what it was about, but it's not really important to this story and I don't feel like re-hashing something that doesn't matter anymore. (I love you, Mom!) Still, we both agreed that it would be best if just me and my nana attended the event.
I was valedictorian of my small high school, which was actually an accomplishment considering how intelligent and talented the salutatorian, my friend Ryan, was. Ryan and I were the only two students in AP Calculus, giving us an interesting bond. When I arrived at Mike's house (yes, we're on a first-name basis) I immediately searched for Ryan. We both stood in line, shook the governor's hand, took a photo with him and his wife and dispersed to get lemonade and finger sandwiches.
Sitting at a table with our free food, I was telling Ryan how I am "so suave" and that I will talk to anybody with no problem. In fact, I said, I could pick up pretty much any guy in the room. "Fine," he said. "Hit on the next person to walk through that door." Not one to turn down a challenge, I immediately stood up and waited for someone to walk past. An elderly man in high-waisted pants walked past the door-frame; Ryan and I winked at each other but silently agreed that I should hit on someone with working parts. Two women passed, but I am not a lesbian so I continued to wait.
Then I saw a way-too-tall man dressed in all black walk through. He had dark features, which I immediately liked. He wore a nice suit and looked like he was having a bad day. Of course I approached him.
"Hey man, what's up!" I exclaimed far too loudly. He said something along the lines of how he was just meeting the governor. I could tell he was trying to brush me off, but I'm not one to be pushed away if I really want something.
I told him that I loved Howard the Duck and asked him what films he liked; I can't remember his response too well, but I'm sure he responded with some pretentious Kubrick film. His eyes still darted from me to the floor, trying to subtly tell me to go away. I did not go away.
"What kind of music do you like?" I asked, slowly moving closer to him to prevent him from backing away. He listed off several bands - some that I liked very much - and deemed his musical taste "eclectic." Then, he told me that he wanted to go get some lemonade but would give me his iPod to look through while he was gone.
After he had left, I started to think about what I was actually doing. This guy is crazy. He just gave me his iPod. I could grab my nana and scram and he would never have his iPod again. Should I do that? No, I have my own iPod. BUT IT'S NOT THIS BIG AND SHINY. Calm down, Sam, you don't need his iPod. Wow, he's actually attractive. Do I have to fart? Oh, I can't fart if he's going to come back here. Then he'll tell all his friends about the girl he met at the Governor's Mansion who farted.
I saw him ascend the staircase and, as he was walking toward me, noticed that he seemed to be in a slightly better mood than when I had begun speaking with him. We exchanged information and that was that.
Now we are crazy in love and we live together, all because my friend Ryan dared me to hit on the first person to walk through the door.
I'm the luckiest person I know.
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