Co-ed comingling was strictly prohibited inside
university residence halls. Within the dorms, though, the inmates ran the
asylum. What rats there were had been sufficiently threatened/intimidated with
plausible reprisals to be silenced. All one (or more realistically two) had to
do was simply get inside the place. Fashion was camouflage. A slim figure and a
hoodie can make most outlines unisex enough to stay off the guards’ radar.
Having a distrustful bend, I went a step further. My dorm room was accessible
via a disintegrating fire escape, the tetanus hazard of which was not lost on
Allison. (Tetanus is a clear and present danger for those who regularly operate
threshers, tillers, and balers. Fun fact: tetanus is caused by bacteria in
dirt, not rust. As it so happens, rusty things are often dirty too and a great
way of introducing bacteria into your bloodstream.) The escape was used as
equal parts entrance and exit in daily, non-fire related events. That’s how she
usually came to see me or how we departed. We felt like burglars and liked it.
All this is to establish the backdrop against which
showering occurred. I had been growing my hair out in order to scowl/hide/be mysterious behind it. [1] To
nourish my locks, I had a bottle of salon-quality conditioner (the brand name
of which was not effeminate but is here omitted) resting in the corner of my
shower. The conditioner was one of the lone indulgences in my otherwise ascetic
life. (It was a gift/favor from my mother. She bought it for me at my request.
It is a Long Story. In sum, I would not step foot in one of those beauty supply
places with the poster-sized images of a woman looking confidently askance at
you.) It left my shoulder-length mane frizzless, which is no small feat in a swampy
Midwest summer.
Once it was established she would be using my shower
on a semi-regular basis, I knew my reserves would be depleted. I would not let
that happen; I wanted the product for myself. Because I understood even then how petty it was, I could not risk being direct and asking her to abstain from the product. That would have segued into a discussion I could not escape untarnished. So, I turned to subtlety. To keep her from
stealing my mojo, I bought her a bottle of something cheap and flowery. I put
it next to my bottle, hoping she would do my bidding without being bade.
Following the next shower, she was rubbing her hair
with my towel and I could smell my brand in the air. (It was nutty from the
oatmeal extract, a substance I never could fathom.) I was figgety with suppressed
indignation. Finally, I spoke up.
The following is a roughly accurate transcript:
“Hey, um, did you use the Suave?”
“No. I like the other.”
[Hair-rubbing sounds]
“But that's mine.”
“Oh?”
[Hair-rubbing sounds]
“Didn't you see the Suave?”
“I didn't know it was for me.”
“You think I'd switch to Pear Blossom?”
“I didn't give it much thought at all.”
[Hair-rubbing sounds]
“Will you use the Suave next time?”
“Why?”
“I got it for you. I thought you’d like it.”
“Can't we share?”
“Not really. We’ll run out. Why can’t we each have
our own?”
“This is the first I've heard of
your...possessiveness.”
“It’s got nothing to do with being possessive. Look,
I put the Suave in there right next to it.”
“You didn't say anything.”
“I thought it was implied. It's girly.”
“Okay.”
[Silence]
“So you don’t want me using the good stuff?”
“No, that’s not it. I don’t want you using mine.”
“Wait. What? How is that any better?”
“Better has nothing to do with it. They’re just
different. One for you and one for me. His and hers.”
“Yours isn’t exactly a ‘his’.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Selsun Blue is a ‘his’.”
“How would you like it if I used your ChapStick or
something?”
“Go ahead. I don’t care because I don’t have a
problem with sharing. I’m 22.”
“So I’m an effete child, is that what you’re saying?
Because I’m just asking to be respected here.”
“Respected? How?”
“I think I should be able to ask you to do something
and you just do it. It’s not a big deal.”
“You’re right it’s not a big deal, which is why I
should be able to use your shampoo. We can get more. It’s not the last shampoo
bottle in the world!”
“Conditioner.”
“Don’t be a dick!”
“How am I being a dick here? There’s nothing wrong
with boundaries, Allison. I’m not a bad person for drawing a line.”
“Fine.”
[Silence]
“Well. Thanks for the hospitality.”
It escalated from there, climaxing in an exchange of
hyphenated name-calling and a solo trip down the fire escape. I spent the next
half an hour fuming and reiterating my commitment to not be the one to blink
first and say sorry. To my later shallow triumph, she was. I accepted her
apology and agreed name-calling was not constructive. In return, I explained my behavior as poor communication (which is bound to
happen between even the best of people occasionally) grounded in my innocence
and excusable naiveté. We moved on. Still, the episode caused an unforeseen rift that we
would subsequently fall into in the most random ways. She saw a ‘mine and
thine’ at every turn and I exhaustively defended my selfishness. We had another ugly spat
over left-overs.
It wasn’t until a late morning coffee and study session months later at the local
eatery that I discovered what was wrong with me. At a corner table overlaid
with the required red and white vinyl gingham table cloth and tantalizingly near a
rotating pie carousel I sat. Four or five mugs in, a mother and daughter were served
their respective omelet and French toast. Spying as I do, I saw the blonde
pony-tailed girl’s eyes enlarge after the first buttery, syrupy bite. She
said, “Oh my gosh, mom. You’ve gotta try this!” and handed her a loaded fork.
“Wow. That is really good,” the mom
said between chews. The scene hit me hard. I may have teared up. This kid's first impulse upon eating something delicious was to give it up. If that were me
and I had a tasty meal, I’d downplay it when asked so that I could keep it all for
myself. I was a hoarder. The only time I’d spread anything good around was if it shone kindly on
me, like if I had made something beautiful and by letting you see it you’d
think more highly of me. I wrote a lengthy mea culpa to Allison then and there.
[1] I
was vain but not the sort of vain that comes from self-infatuation. It’s
not as though I thought I was handsome. I only wished to be so more than I
ought. I paused before reflective surfaces, not because I was rapt with pleasure,
but because I had an insatiable desire to know what I looked like. I wanted to
make the best of it--tame a stray hair, pick at my face, or adjust my shirt. It's still a temptation. I suspect this revelation is one many people could share
and chose not to. I do so only to contextualize the story.
No comments:
Post a Comment