Our Friendship

“I should’ve confronted him the first time he said something like that,” I said while plopping myself onto the leather chaise lounge chair. I was being billed by the hour for this, mostly one-way conversation so I felt the need to get right to the point. “Are you talking about John?” The woman behind the mahogany desk picked up her overpriced pen to scribble something down. It was her job to find out what was wrong with me. Over the past two months, she had been piecing together scenes from my past twenty-five years, trying to make some sense out of the giant, chaotic puzzle. There had been minor breakthroughs, but she had yet to discover why I was constantly running from relationships. John was a fairly new topic of our discussions. My eyes focused on the framed certificate on the office wall—Doctorate in Clinical Psychology from the University of Washington. A fellow Husky alumnus. “If I’d only spoke up earlier, things could’ve turned out so differently,” I mused aloud. As I readjusted my position on the chaise, my vocalized thoughts sidled slowly to the first time I met John; my first day at Lambley High. ************** I was so timid that first day of class. The heathens operated by a whole new set of rules and I was their newest classmate. I eyed an open seat near the back of the classroom and parked myself in the theater-style, plastic chair. The Lucky jeans I had on felt comfortably masculine. No more crossing my legs like a lady. No more rules of knee length skirts. I was free from that private school dictatorship; seven years under that regime was enough. It had almost broken me. It was more than just the ridiculous rules that outlawed rock music, and required the volleyball players to wear culottes that flowed down past the kneepads. I had seen the same twelve faces in my class since grade school. The same faces that had witnessed my excessively oily face turn into a perpetual constellation map. My face had cleared and this was my big break: senior year. A loud ringing perforated my train of thought. I hadn’t heard that Pavlovian sound since I was in fourth grade. The academy couldn’t afford bells. I continued to reminisce about how I wound up with the heathens while a paunchy, balding man made his way to the podium. That summer, my dad had advocated for my transition to public school. The academy wasn’t accredited, and the thought of me not having a state recognized high school diploma was more than my education-oriented dad could take. My mom and step father reluctantly agreed to let me go, but it had to be the high school in Lambley. The town of Lambley had a population of 3,652. It was a farming community and a majority of its citizens were members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. My family lived in the neighboring town of Lackland River. “Fifty percent of the girls that go to Lackland River get pregnant,” my step father had stated as if he were quoting the Bible. Where he got those statistics, I had no clue. I was just glad to be out of skirts and wearing a whole new wardrobe of jeans, Doc Martens and tight, designer t-shirts. A collaboration of clothes with a clear message of “screw your dress code” aimed at my former academy. “You got any money to pitch in for the keg?” A baritone voice interrupted my thoughts for the second time, and I felt a slight kick to the bottom of my boot. I looked up to the vision of The Thing from the Fantastic Four. A mammoth figure who appeared to have a disproportionate upper body workout regimen. A true muscle head. He wore an oversized Hawaiian shirt to hide his weightier mid-section. His hair was neatly cut, parted and gelled like a jock from the 60’s era, and his forehead showed three or four trenches. His physique would have been intimidating if it wasn’t for his child-like demeanor; like Lennie from Of Mice and Men. The squint of his eyes indicated his smile while his lips revealed no emotion. His name was John Driver. John Deer Driver. Growing up in a farm town could do that to a person. What puzzled me was whether parents named their children after farm equipment as a cruel joke, or because that’s all their brains could come up with. “No,” I replied in a sweet, yet matter-of-fact tone. The only thing a naïve, Christian girl who had never been offered a beer in her life could manage to say. I have no idea what initially drew us together. Perhaps I needed a mouthpiece next to me who had the courage to say the vulgar things that I was thinking. Or maybe John needed an attractive ingénue by his side to build his high school image. Whatever the reason, it felt so natural to us; regardless of how peculiar it looked to everyone else -- John, the loud, loveable brute with a protective nature, and me, the quiet, acquiescent scholar – walking arm in arm down the hallway. We laughed at the rumors that we were dating; our involvement with each other was based on a mutual intrigue of contrasting personalities. I loved the way his cavernous voice made it impossible for him to whisper in class; how an exciting thought could cause him to yell out, “JESS” like he had Tourette’s. John spoke every thought out loud. This was antithetical of my introspective communication skills. I analyzed nearly everything I said before I spoke to make sure I wouldn’t look foolish for saying it. His humorous outbursts offset my analytical side and put me at ease. John would give me soothing head massages in class while recommending Herbal Essence to make my hair softer and more aromatic. He could play with my long, blonde locks for hours in class. *************** “So when did you begin to see signs of the real John?” The psychologist asked as she rifled through a stack of papers. She had heard the highlights of my relationship with John, but now she was searching for details. I felt a knot forming in my stomach. I didn’t want to talk about this. John’s a great guy, hadn’t she been listening? Why did I have to be so judgmental of him? I sat up on the lounge chair and tucked my feet underneath me. “When he told me that my head was shaped like a nigger’s.” The words came out sluggishly, each one adding to the pain in my stomach. When giving me one of his head massages in government class, John’s fingers had studied the back of my skull near the nape of my neck. He laughed as he told me that “I probably had a nigger as one of my ancestors.” I had felt a slight pin prick to my psyche when John said it. Although I’d briefly heard about phrenology somewhere, I didn’t exactly know what he meant. But I did understand that ugly ‘N’ word. I inwardly justified the nasty comment away to keep our friendship alive and remained silent. John had just found another way to tease me. I focused my attention on the material being presented at the front of the classroom. “I should have confronted him when he said it.” My thoughts continued aloud as I reminisced about our unique relationship. *************** As soon as we met, John made it his mission to reform my prudish, reserved ways. He was always challenging my confidence level by making me perform impossible tasks in public. “Jess, let’s run down the middle of the mall like airplanes. Ready, go!” “No, I don’t wanna….” Before I got to finish my refusal, he was flying ahead of me. Some invisible hand seemed to push me to follow his lead. “How embarrassing,” I exclaimed after our flight finished. But I had never felt so free. No lady-like reputation to worry about, no fear of mall security chasing me down; I was getting used to my new wings. We hit up the local 24 hour grocery store one evening for some pralines and cream, chocolate syrup and maraschino cherries. We grabbed an empty shopping cart and headed down the first aisle. John spontaneously jumped into the cart. “Push me, Jess!” “What! No Way! “Do it!” His commanding excitement persuaded me to grab the handle bar. I gave a quick glance around to see if anyone was watching and then took off like I was running the 100 meter dash. There was that freedom. Something inside of me had wanted to do all of these crazy antics John was having me do all along. I just needed that authoritative baritone to give me no other choice. “Watch the corner! The cherries are in aisle 5.” John’s massive body was shoved into the cart. It reminded me of my childhood days of squeezing into cardboard boxes and then wiggling my way out. We were quickly approaching a customer who appeared to be looking for a certain brand of olive oil. “Get out of the way! What are you, Mormon?!” John’s voice echoed through the store. The surprised customer jumped out of the way just in time. *************** “So how did it make you feel when John made that derogatory remark toward the LDS faith?” The psychologist’s question surprised me. I wasn’t sure she had been following along with the story due to her previous distraction of paperwork. “Embarrassed at first. But the more he said it, the more desensitized I got to its meaning, I guess.” I hung my head down and shook it slowly. I remembered the times that I had laughed when he shouted this belittling epithet in place of the word, “idiot” or “moron.” I’d just shrugged it off as something a small town guy would say, but I was just as guilty as him. I wanted to think good things about John. I wanted to remember the good times and how he positively impacted my life. I glanced over at the psychologist’s desk. There stood a picture of a girl around the age of six or seven with blonde ringlets; she was wearing a tiny tiara. It brought me back to senior prom. *************** Prom was a new experience for me. I had never been to a formal dance before. Dancing was considered sinful at the academy. The sensual beats of rock and roll, hip hop and R & B were the devil’s tool to an adolescent’s moral demise. First came gyrating hips, next sexual moves between couples on the dance floor, and then a large percentage of the girls would wind up pregnant—at least that’s how the staff portrayed the effects of such a sinful act. Never mind that King David danced naked before the Lord, the school skipped over that scripture verse like a memory lost through PTSD. “Jess, I’m gonna nominate you for prom queen,” John vowed in his deep voice. “Shut up, that’s ridiculous.” I was used to John’s jocular comments but this was just absurd. Although I had gained respect throughout the year by being involved in basketball and track, the girls at Lambley had grown up together since kindergarten. Each one dreamed of what that tiara would feel like on their head. They wanted to have the single spotlight shining on them when the king and queen’s first dance was announced. I was scared of the spotlight. “No, serious. I’m gonna nominate you, Jess.” The next thing I knew, I was standing in the spotlight with a tiara on my head dancing with the prom king to Bruce Springsteen’s, “Secret Garden.” As the surreal night continued I remember thinking, Is this a joke or did John really have that much influence over the student body? I was just an insecure nobody that stared at the floor when I talked last year at the academy, now I was royalty at Lambley. Thanks to John. *************** Why couldn’t I just remember those types of ‘John memories?’ I asked myself. There were so many of those. But I wasn’t in this 32nd floor office with amazing views of the Puget Sound to just talk about the good times. I had to, what did the psychologist say, ‘confront my past so that I could face my future.’ “Tell me about your last encounter with John.” She interrupted my thoughts. My mind went blank for a second and I felt at peace. But then all of the memories of that one winter night came flooding back and I felt a sadness surround me. I laid back down on the chaise and divulged the details of my last meeting with John. *************** After high school, John and I moved to the capital city of Treetop, about two hours away from Lambley. We each got jobs and continued on with our friendship as if high school had never ended. We stayed the night at each other’s houses and tried on avocado and chocolate face masks, sampled all 31 flavors at Baskin Robbins, and even sneaked into as many movies as we could before we got caught. He had changed me and he knew it. “I was the reason you got to be prom queen.” John would announce proudly as if I was his creation. Although I would never admit it to him, I was partially his creation. Long gone were the days of not being able to say what I thought, or not being able to walk into a place without makeup. John had rid me of any superficial or reserved inclinations. I was proud to be vocal and forthright. We often talked about marriage. Marrying someone you went to high school with was considered an ignorant act, but weren’t you supposed to marry your best friend? John was more than just fun to hang out with. He was a protector. And he would tell me when I was completely wrong in the most humorous way. Did it really matter that he was a little politically incorrect at times? That answer came three years after high school. Guy’s night was in full effect. A gambling table, under par strippers from the local club, an abundance of Coronas and Jagermeister, and raucous alternative music blasting in the basement of the host’s house. “Jess, come pick me up.” John sloppily commanded. “Is the party done?” “No, you are way hotter than the strippers and I want to show you off to the guys.” I abhorred the thought of men paying women to dance for them. It reminded me of my reluctant trip to a strip club in Vegas a couple years earlier, when I witnessed a guy wadding up a $20 bill and throwing it at the ass of a girl who was grinding on the dance floor on all fours. Look how far women’s lib has brought us! But somehow the idea that John had created me, made me pick up the car keys and follow his order. As I arrived, the strippers were leaving and the gambling commenced. Grabbing the Corona that was offered to me, I plopped down on one of the metal chairs around the gambling board. John was in the state of limbo between drunkenness and exhaustion. His words were garbled together and his eyes fluttered a few times when he blinked. The boys were teaching me to play some dice game. Toward the end of the fifth round, John began to yell out to no particular player, “You fucking cock-sucking Jew bastard!” A conversation with eyes began at the silent table. I was the recipient of most of those piercing, inaudible comments. They seemed to ask me the question that I had avoided answering for the last few years: How can you put up with that type of behavior? My forced smile couldn’t mask the awkwardness of the scenario. “I think it’s time to go,” I concluded. *************** “How did that make you feel?” An unoriginal question posed by the psychologist; one that hardly seemed to be worth the 32nd floor fees. I searched the ceiling for the right words. “I guess a little resolute and disloyal at the same time,” I replied after two whole minutes of silence. I had known for a couple years that John would continue to blurt out that hate speech; he was what academics called “institutionalized.” Maybe if I would have confronted him back in high school, things would’ve turned out differently. Maybe he would have stopped the comments for me. “Has he ever tried to reconnect with you?” She seemed a bit more attentive now. “He texts or Facebooks me every three months or so. Normally I either ignore him or stick to general topics like ‘how’s work’ or ‘what’s new in Treetop.’” Since I’d moved to Seattle shortly after our last encounter, I’d grown up. I had wanted to get away from the small town life and go to college among a more diverse population. But I couldn’t forget about John. He had changed my life. Didn’t I owe him more than some superficial conversation about the new traffic signals that were going to be installed at the corner of 17th and Freemont Avenue? “Well, that’s all the time we have for today. I’ll email you some visualization techniques that will help you see yourself in a healthy relationship, okay?” The clock on the wall read seven minutes past one. I gathered myself up off the lounge chair, straightened my slacks and walked toward the door. “Thanks,” I replied. As I passed the psychologist’s desk, I took one last look at the beauty queen and the shiny tiara neatly placed amid her curled, blonde locks. A smile washed over my face as I imagined her standing in a spotlight. I opened the door and my fingers began to dial a number on my cell phone that hadn’t been entered in years.