On Karma, Calls and Mr. Scorpion Wallet

I certainly hope karma is real.

I found a wallet on the bus this morning. It’s a really unattractive thing with a scorpion on the front, nothing I would ever consider carrying. There is no cash in it. And it apparently belongs to someone born in 1982 who had left the bus some time before I waved his wallet around asking if anyone had lost it.

I got the wallet to work and started doing some digging. The guy’s driver’s license is for Washington, DC. I did a quick search on the internet and found a number associated with the address. I called it and got a voicemail with a woman’s voice on it. I left a vague message.

I found a receipt for a back waxing, but that was no help.

I then called the guy’s bank. I explained the situation and they called the guy for me. Once he calls them, they will pass on my number. The woman at the bank was rather impressed that I’d gone through the trouble to call them.

I’m such a good guy, right?

I know Mr. Scorpion Wallet’s pain. I lost my wallet not too long ago and it’s an awful feeling. It ends up not being the end of the world, but the moment you realize you’ve lost the key to your legal identity is a devastating one.

Then there are the hundreds of calls you have to make. You need to call the bank. You need to call the credit card companies. You need to go to the library to get a new card. You need to get to the DMV. You need contact your insurance providers. You need to arrange a new transit card.

It’s absolutely mind-numbing.

And then when all is said and done, you need to buy a new wallet. That’s almost the worst part of the whole ordeal.

Hopefully I will hear from Mr. Scorpion Wallet soon and I can get his wallet to him before he goes through all of the trouble of canceling and reissuing his life. And then hopefully something really great will happen to me this weekend.

Assuming, of course, that karma is real.

On Frank, Michael and A Few More Words of the First Chapter of Something

Back in the spring of 2007 I posted what I claimed to be the “first words of the first chapter of nothing.” It was three paragraphs of writing that I had done. In my own mind it was the start of something great. It was the start of a novel that’s been brewing in my head for years.

Today I offer you the next few paragraphs. Yes, I’ve been plugging away. I’d love to claim that this is the reason my blogging has been less than inspired as of late, but that would be a lie. The less than inspired blogging, however, is the reason this is being posted. When you’ve got nothing new to say, post something you’ve been sitting on for a while.

Frank’s mind slipped back to their first encounter. He had lain just as he was now, watching Michael dress with the precision of something inhuman. From his spot on the bed he had dared to ask his strange lover about the ring. “Why do you take it off?” His voice had sounded hollow in the small room. “It’s adultery whether or not you wear the ring.”

He had expected fiery anger to erupt from Michael. In fact, he had wanted to reignite some of the passion from the moments leading up to this awkward exchange. He had not gotten a heated response, however. The response he’d gotten had stung with icy hatred. “I didn’t come here to talk morality with a stupid faggot.” Michael had meticulously tied his tie with his back to Frank. “I came here to fuck.”

With that he had donned his expensive suit jacket and walked out the door leaving Frank naked and ashamed in a dingy hotel room. Had it not been for the curt email demanding he return to the same room at the same time, Frank would have never seen Michael again.

That had been over three months ago. Since then each of Frank’s Monday evenings had been spent in the same dingy hotel room. He always arrived before Michael to find the room had been paid for. All he needed to do was let himself in and wait.

Each encounter was the same. Michael entered the room and carefully undressed, making sure no article of clothing was left rumpled on the floor. His ring was always the last thing to be removed from his body, leaving him to stand completely naked at the side of the bed. Nothing in his demeanor suggested he was particularly excited to be in the room. Frank often marveled that he looked more like a patient standing in a doctor’s office than a husband who was about to engage in adultery with another man.

Once he was in bed, however, Michael changed. He attacked Frank’s body with a ferocity that both scared and excited his partner. He kissed as though he needed the very breath inside the other man in order to live. His hands were insistent but gentle. His voice escaped from his throat in uncontrolled moans and whimpers. It was only when he was in bed with Frank that he seemed human.

At this rate I’ll have posted the damn novel on this blog by 2039.

On Distance, Circumstance and The Potentially Devastating Truth that Timing Really is Everything

“Timing is everything.”

People say that, but do they fully grasp the potentially devastating truth that timing really is everything? I certainly understand that fact. I understand that my life could have been very different if it weren’t for bad timing.

I met him just days before he was leaving the United States to spend three years abroad. I fell in love with him just hours after meeting him. I was forced to say goodbye just days after falling in love with him. He returned home because he wanted to be with me just months after leaving. I realized that the new circumstances we suddenly found ourselves in were not right for me just days after his return. I spent one last night with him in my bed before moving to Chicago just weeks after coming to my painful realization.

And yet the fact that I had fallen in love with him just hours after meeting him has never changed. All this time later, I still love him.

You see, timing really is everything.

We met at a time when he had to leave. He came back at a time when I could not be the person he needed me to be. I left before ever fully exploring our relationship and my feelings. And now he is there. And I am here. And though I may love him, timing has never allowed me to genuinely be with him.

A friend of mine has advised me to tell him how I feel. She feels that distance does not have to be a factor. According to her, now really could be the time for us.

I disagree. I wholly believe that he knows exactly how I feel about him. What we shared is too strong to be forgotten or ignored. I do not, however, believe that confirming my feelings would do either of us any real good. He moved across the world for me once, and I turned around and broke his heart. I broke my own heart. I did what was right for me instead of doing what was right for us. I now have no right to go back to him and expect anything in return.

I also wonder if perhaps my having feelings for him is simply a consequence of my not being able to be with him. Something else people always say is that we want what we can’t have. If I could have him, would I still want him? Or perhaps I want him simply because the alternative is all too depressing. I have not met a single decent man in ages. Perhaps it is natural I would look back on someone worthwhile with a renewed sense of love.

And yet, timing is everything. When I am getting to work, he is just waking up. When I am going to bed, he is just wrapping up dinner. We don’t live in the same time zone. We don’t share a life anymore. Timing kept us apart in the past and I fear it will do so in the future.

One thing timing can not take from me, however, are the memories I have of our time together. It can also not erase the love I feel. It can not stop me from keeping a small flicker of hope alive.

Timing may be everything, but it can’t do that.

On Ranting, Wondering and Always Being Busy

I’m tired of hearing that people are busy. I’m even tired of hearing it from myself. I understand that people do get busy, but is anyone really so busy that they can’t manage to do anything? I highly doubt it.

As you may have guessed, this rant is about a boy.

See, there is this boy. And things between us were going well for a while. And now all of a sudden he is busy. He’s busy all the time. He’s too busy to call. He’s too busy to email. And he’s certainly been too busy to see me even once over the last month or so. He’s really busy.

I also happen to think he’s just really not into me.

He’ll argue against that last point, however. Whenever I happen to peg him down for a second, he claims that he misses me. He claims that he wants to see me. He claims that he wishes we could talk more. He’s just so busy.

But is anyone really that busy? Is that even possible? How can someone be so busy that he can’t even manage to call and say hello at least once in the span of three weeks. That takes seconds. I also find it impossible to believe that he hasn’t had time for at least one dinner in all that time. We all have to eat.

It just makes no sense.

I’m not exactly hurt by this. If he’s not into me, he’s not into me. Life goes on. Someone else will come along. I’ll be fine. No need to worry about that.

I just wish he’d stop with the whole routine. It’s getting old. Have some balls and cut me loose already. Or at least just let it drop. If we don’t talk for a while, I’ll get an apology via text message. It could just be dead, but he keeps breathing new life into it. And I, for one, do not understand.

Unless, of course, he really is busy.

On Ice, Falls and Biting the Big One

I totally bit the big one this weekend. And I have the bruise to prove it.

It was Friday night and I was doing a number on my apartment – laundry, dishes, dusting, scrubbing, sweeping, mopping, dancing. I was a whirling dervish of cleaning supplies and sponges. I’ve been living in a mild state of squalor since the holidays, thing having just gotten a little out of control. I decided I needed to tackle it all and so I blocked off Friday night for just that.

In the course of making my place presentable once again, I must have taken the trip from my apartment to the laundry room at least six or eight times. And each time I found myself in the back alley, I was sure to watch my footing. It was icy out there. And it was slick out there. And I was wearing nothing but an old pair of flip flops.

It was on a trip from the dumpster to the laundry room that things took a turn for the worse. I’d thrown out a bag of trash and was headed to throw my last loads of laundry into the dryers when I hit a particularly slippery patch of ice.

I felt my feet slip out from beneath me.

I instinctively reached out for the brick wall to break my fall.

Images of broken bones and bloody snow filled my mind.

And then I was lying flat on my back.

It took me only a moment to assess the situation long enough to realize there were no broken bones. I could not be sure of bloody snow, but could feel no place on my body that was stinking with the tell-tale pain of a cut. And, it turned out, I could still move.

It took me a while to get back on my feet, however. The ground was slippery and I couldn’t get enough traction to get myself upright. I scooted myself on my frozen butt until I found a dry patch of cement. I righted myself, noticed I was shaking a bit and carefully waked up to my apartment.

I made it to my bathroom to assess the damage in the mirror. I had a fairly gruesome scrape on my left arm courtesy of the stupid brick wall that had not broken my fall. There was a tiny cut on my left foot. Other than that, I was in tact.

I took a hot shower, popped some aspirin and settled on the couch to watch a movie. My cleaning was abandoned for the night.

The next morning I was stiff, but I was not paralyzed. A quick inspection of my body showed a large bruise on my butt. All in all, I was fine. A few scrapes and bruises never stopped me before.

Now I just have to find the time to finish cleaning my damn apartment.