Blog 53: Don't Think Twice, It's All Right

So, this entry was inspired by my favorite Bob Dylan song, for those of you who didn't recognize the title. I'll start by giving you the lyrics:

"It ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe
It don't matter, anyhow
And it ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe
If you don't know by now
When your rooster crows at the breaks of dawn
Look out your window and I'll be gone
You're the reason I'm traveling on
Don't think twice, it's all right.

It ain't no use in turning on your light, babe
That light I never knowed
And it ain't no use in turning on your light, babe
I'm on the dark side of the road
But I wish there was somethin' you would do or say
To try and make me change my mind and stay
We never did too much talking anyway
So don't think twice, it's all right.

It ain't no use in calling out my name, gal
Like you never done before
It ain't no use in calling out my name, gal
I can't hear you any more
I'm a-thinking and a-wond'rin' walking down the road
I once loved a woman, a child I'm told
I give her my heart but she wanted my soul
Don't think twice, it's all right.

So long honey, babe
Where I'm bound, I can't tell
Goodbye's too good a word, babe
So I'll just say fare thee well
I ain't saying you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don't mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
But don't think twice, it's all right."

Here's what I've really been thinking about: how is it that some people feel no remorse? They really don't think twice. It used to make me angry that people could be that way. I guess it still does. More than anything, though, I feel sorry for them. Something about our society gives us this false sense of entitlement. We expect everyone to pull all the stops, give their all for us. But what are we giving to merit it? I know some people who just think everyone should fall at their feet and do whatever they ask. In turn, the most they'll give is a half-hearted compliment or two. "Give me all your love and attention. Maybe I'll give you a cheap thrill for your trouble." The thing is, these people, however infuriating, are sort of tragic. They will only be endured for so long and they won't be able to keep true love or friendship, even if they're lucky enough to find it.

I know I can get preachy. Sometimes it's because I see shadows of these icky things in myself. I just--I don't know. There are a couple of people that I am inexplicably fond of, who demand everything and offer nothing, and I'm afraid to see where their lives will lead. Maybe they're afraid to give of themselves. I suppose it's a bit scary to let someone really see you. I've always thought that any good thing is worth the pain it might bring (as even good things often do, owing to the fact that people are the WORST). In the end, I would much rather have lived and loved and been a passionate friend than to have been the sort of person who has to hide behind innuendo and jokes at all times. I would rather really know the people in my acquaintance than just know the shallow things.

I'm rambling now. Holidays of any sort tend to make me pensive and sentimental. Anywho, just sending this off into the void to get it out of my own head.

Blog 52: An Excerpt

I'm about to do something very scary--provide an excerpt for a story I've been working on for a couple of years now. I'm worried it sounds sort of young, because of the immaturity of my writing (and person, overall) at the time I began. And yet I want some critical review. I want to know if it can catch the interest of the public. I've been working on a lot of other projects, but I feel like I should return to this one, like it has potential. It's the story I based my screenplay on when I took Screenwriting as a class--although it, like the story, remains unfinished. Just give me your thoughts, if you have the time. Here goes:

They were a clever tag team—and concealed it very well.

James was the one who reeled you in with the promise of excitement and adventure inherent in his every gesture—a renegade preacher’s kid. He didn’t have that movie star quality, but he knew how to look at a girl like she was first prize; though he didn’t reject second, third, or even on down to last when he could get it. But he mocked those girls incessantly and when you rallied up the temerity to sarcastically wonder aloud if you were thus discussed on one of those days when his attentions became less consistent, he treated the assumption as absurd. You were what he really wanted, feared losing. They were only his safety net because the so-called “good girls” like yourself always broke his poor heart. He’d share the stories to prove it and you’d believe him because you wanted to be the Beauty who could tame the Beast when others fell short.

He would talk to you in ways that no one else had dared, praising every subtlety of form first and your sense of self, sparingly, second. He’d throw you down and kiss you like the lovers always do in the movies.  It would be as if he couldn’t control himself around beauty like yours, as if it didn’t matter that you were new to it all, as if it was enough to have the privilege of your lips and limbs under his spell for a little while. After a few weeks of these new sensations, a girl would just about lose her mind until she’d walk right to the edge of the cliffs of innocence and stare longingly down the dark gap. Thankfully, sense would kick in at precisely the right moment to bring her a few steps back, however warily.

Then one day, hungrily anticipating his pleasing brand of game, you would find him subdued and quiet. Your heart would suddenly find itself extended as he chronicled his troubles and sorrows. He would even cry in front of you, something he never did if he could help it. He had a reputation, you know. This man was more than a lot of loud words. He was music, too. And you would believe despite the hot and cold times that he was fighting himself to stay away from loving you because he was scared. You would expose your aspirations and he would carefully explain that he couldn’t handle exclusivity at that point. He was too broken from the past and had to get his life together. And when you altruistically pledged your friendship, he would take you up on that and more. Sometimes he wanted to coax you into betraying your carefully guarded secrets. Sometimes he only wanted another taste of what he called “10,” after a series of easy “7s.” And sometimes the phenomena would have weeks in-between.

Finally, you’d get that flirtatious call you pretended not to want and he’d all but beg you to come by the ‘little get-together’ he was throwing that night. You’d arrive and he’d ignore you with such sharp precision that the only thing strong enough to dull your pain would be the cheap whiskey in the cupboard above the stove. Sooner or later, some vulture would catch on and continue to pour your drinks until he could usher you, unceremoniously, into the back room. Everyone would fill in the blanks, in the usual way. But you’d only lie in the unmade bed and cry while the stranger tried to convince you that someone with such beautiful blue eyes should be happy—and he could do that for you.

Strangely enough, the next day you’d be the one feeling responsible. James broke your faith and you broke his pride. And while the sight of him drove you to drinking, you didn’t want to be cast away for good—and probably wouldn’t, since he didn’t burn bridges he considered worth crossing, however momentarily. Eventually, the in-between state would reach indefinite status and you’d move on with your life.  You’d better yourself, perhaps, and do all the things you dreamed before you walked that thin line between sin and self-justification.

Then the day would come when he’d pull you back somehow with all the glimmering hope of the appearance of his conscience. As James was a man of perpetual phases, the sick cycle would only begin again. This time, however, you would realize that his affections hadn’t faded, but never were in existence; and subsequently shrug him off like a dirty blanket in the summer time. Sure, he was still around—but he didn’t have you in any sense of the word. You would become coolly indifferent, even sarcastic when provoked. Still, you’d always be on the gathering guest list because you could slickly entertain like some sort of modern geisha.

Then came the slap of hands. You didn’t know it, but the new trouble was being tagged in. He was James’s roommate and his name was Mercedes, a title usually reserved for females or vehicles. His nominal misfortune can be chalked up to wealthy parents who believed more in brand names than familial affection. Thankfully he was their only child, so there were no poor souls walking around answering to “Audi” or “Lexus.”

He was the cool, detached counterpoint to James’ s antics. He would appreciate your revival of caustic sarcasm, offer ever-so-sagely advice to the predicament you had been trying to extricate yourself from, and call you “Gorgeous” like some 1920s heartthrob.

 “You’re definitely my favorite out of the girls James has been with,” he’d say, “but you might as well be a guy. Since we’re such good friends, I wouldn’t ruin it.”

He was five years older than James and seemingly remorseful about his similarly checkered past. He would look at you with sad eyes and tell you how he worried about his best friend’s shenanigans but knew he would grow out of it one day. After all, they were so much alike and Mercedes himself claimed to have moved out of that juvenile Casanova stage.

He would encourage you to move on and live your life, offering the hand of friendship in his own restrained manner. He’d put his arm around you, casually joking around at parties. You’d spend half of the night outside with him while he chain-smoked cigarettes and drank aged Scotch from the bottle—because even when money was tight from exceeding his generous allowance, his drink of choice wasn’t something with which to be frugal.

Despite the absence of physical affection so sorely felt, you would feel guiltless and appreciated for your mind. Of course, one night, Mercedes would invite you to the apartment. You’d come, having had a bad day and needing escape.  You’d expect the gang to all be there, but he’d be the only one. As the two of you sat down to watch a movie, he’d put his arm around you. You’d lean into the warmth and he’d tenderly touch your back, plant a kiss on your forehead—until he had awakened within you that former drive that had lain dormant for some time now.

His intensity would be at a different level than you had known before. His passion was not that unbridled and reckless kind, but carefully controlled, alternating between feverish and mild with such speed that you could scarcely keep up. With James, you always knew where it was going and the simple extent of his wishes—but this was different; it was creative, confusing, and spontaneous.

You’d maintain your most virtuous assets but give yourself away in those small pieces, as before, until it was 5 in the morning and time to retreat home for a solid two hours’ sleep before work the next day. Mercedes would beg you to stay, to let him hold you while he slept; but you’d know better than to slide so easily into such a compromising posture while still bruised.

A few hours later, you would be taking your tips from the table of a quiet man clearly having a Bloody Mary morning and laughing to yourself while remembering the phone conversation on your way home.

“I’m sorry for taking things so far,” he will have said, gallantly.

“Well, it takes two to tango, I hear.”

“Now I’m picturing you with a rose in your teeth—I’ve got to say that makes me wish you’d just come back and spend the rest of the night. I’ve got the day off tomorrow.”

“I don’t! What are you going to do with your day off, anyway? Fingerpaint?” you will have asked, jocular and innocent.

“The only thing I want to fingerpaint is your body.”

You had laughed, and he had continued: “What? You have a nice body. I enjoyed having my hands on it.”

Suddenly, in the midst of the amusing reverie, you would realize that he had planned for things to happen the way they did. Was it any coincidence that he had that confident air or knew exactly how to draw you in? The situation was rife with storybook parallels. You had been seduced and deceived, like an avant-garde Little Red Riding Hood or some other waif. The hardest things in life to admit to yourself at that point would be firstly that yes, you were in fact, that naïve and secondly, that one of your closest friends just so happened to be the Big Bad Wolf. You would feel a lot more helpless than you ever had, having played into his hands quite literally.

If they could spin it well enough, the cycle would begin again with James’s indignant monologues against the action until he could make you believe that he gave a damn about what happened to you. You’d fall for it if you were a fool, but it was best to fold at this point and avoid losing any more of your precious poker chips.

This was their game. And their favorite pawns were those whose trust had never been tested. But this story isn’t about you or me, or even the countless young women who had gambled more. It’s about those two men who knew exactly how to mold the world to fit their desires—at least, they thought they did.