||kenny chesney - me and you (do you WANT to get decked?)
so, this is what's going to happen.
five years from now, we'll be 22.
i'll still be living in the same pisspoor apartment i've been in since graduation, with my old art projects and inside jokes still up on the walls.
i'll have a roommate that does nothing but drink and fuck random men, but that suits me just fine.
at least we have similar interests.
i'll spend my time taking long, pointless walks along mill, and watching all the teenagers, silently begging for another four years of highschool pseudo-invincibility.
and working some clerical position, with my master's degree in psychology cobwebbed and hanging in the back of some archaic closet.
and sleeping when i can.
better with someone, but alone a realistic amount of time.
one day, in spring, i imagine, andy will call me, hesistantly, because we haven't spoken in years and he doesn't know if i still live there.
"it's, uh...it's andy. jeffers. i don't know if you remember me or anythi-"
"-i remember, of course i remember"
i can hear his voice swell a little, more with warmth than anything else.
"well, matt's getting married."
"well...uh, if you remember me, i thought you'd remember matt, i'm sorry."
"no...no, i remember...he's, uh...matt...married?"
"yes, in a few weeks. and, well, i know you guys didn't exactly part on good terms, but i know it would mean a lot to him if you were there."
"i'll be there."
"alright...it'll be good to see everyone together again, right? catch up on old times?"
it's an awkward question, for an awkward conversation, and i say yes, even though that's the exact opposite of what i think.
after i hang up the phone, memories of you flood through me, as if hearing your name forced some rusty faucet in my heart to burst. and i know, in that moment, that every cliche about friends from highschool is true. all of them. from "these are the best days of your lives, so cherish them", to "first loves last forever".
it should be trivial. i mean, you're just some boy i used to know, for christ'ssake.
and things are different now. we're adults. our common path of raging hormones and craving for someone to understand the tumultuous torrent of emotions rumbling inside us have long since diverged, and i can only make myself remember the good parts about who you used to be.
i'll go, though, even if it's just to watch the ceremony and then run as fast as i can. it should be nothing, even though it isn't.
the next couple weeks pass easily, in a haze of routine and alcohol, and i'm in fact hungover the morning of.
i hit the alarm clock, gazing ruefully at the 'sleep' button, and contemplate not even going at all. who'll know? who'll care?
and then, i remember that...i will.
so, i drag myself out of bed, and into a plain black dress that shows a lot of cleavege.
old habits die hard.
streak on my eyeliner, and i'm out the door.
as soon as i'm down the first flight of stairs, i remember your eyes, and the feel of your hands on my body, and go back and painstakingly apply everything.
it's like being in eleventh grade all over again, but with less blemishes, more wrinkles, and a lot less at stake. i'm going into this with no expectations, unlike the various battles of the bands and fleeting after-school encounters we embarked on.
black pumps. no panty hose. and the same black thong.
if you knew, you'd remember, i'm sure. you were always so good at remembering the little things.
i get lost twice driving to the church.
hunting for a parking space is a challenge. i tried to tell you once that i hoped you'd eventually realize how much you were worth to other people...maybe today, in that sea of cars and people, you'll finally be convinced.
i consider for a moment that half the guests are probably your wive's connections, but dismiss the thought immediately. i like my original idea better.
walking into the church, i feel almost like an invading bacteria. everyone around me is hugging, shaking hands, and exchanging pleasantries.
all i can do is clutch my little black purse tighter, and keep my eyes forward. a woman, strolling through the crowd, is smiling, and greeting everyone by name. she walks up to me, her smile genuine, her crowsfeet hardly inconspicuous despite her valiant 'oil of olay' efforts, and reaches out to me.
she realizes she doesn't know me, and recoils, drawing her hand back, her smile fading for a second but reemerging as she surges past me, a hearty, "why, wanda, you old so-and-so" cresting on her lips.
i keep thinking i see your face reflected in the people around me, but on closer inspection, it's never you.
it occurs to me that i only know what the teenage you looks like. you could've walked past me ten times back and forth, and although i'd like to think i'd know that smile anywhere, i probably wouldn't.
entering the sanctuary, i slide into the back pew, in hopes of being able to observe without being scrutinized myself.
as i watch the people file in, row by row, i look in vain for a familiar face. andy's, in particular, but i never do see him, and as the service begins, i forget about him entirely.
it's funny, but i almost expect "together on the sand" to start playing, instead of the traditional organ wedding march that's echoing throughout the packed vestibule.
"where's the PRP, matt?", i think to myself. it makes me smile, until your bride walks through the swinging cherrywood doors.
she's not beautiful, no, no one could ever call her that, and she's not even remotely sexy. but she's pretty in the way that makes you think of the wallflower at a fifties dance, and i can't help but hate every inch of her slightly frumpy body.
she's got this dishwater blonde hair that i'm sure looks like mucky straw any other day, but i guess she figured, "hey, you only get married once", and ran a comb through it. she puts me in the frame of mind of kirstie alley's pier one commercials.
i bet she's older than you by a good three years.
and she can try and try, but no amount of walgreen's $2.50 concealer will ever cover up those freckles.
she needs to pluck her eyebrows. the dress makes her ass look enormous.
and already in my mind, i'm creating a million reasons as to why she'll never be good enough for you.
i can see the tears glistening in her cloudy blue eyes from here, and i notice her protruding overbite.
i am sufficiently grossed out.
averting my eyes from the travesty that is the woman you love, i look around, and am struck by how muted everthing appears to be. how ordinary. how completely devoid of you.
i really hope she picked the flowers. you never seemed the pansy type to me.
and then you're there. i didn't even see you walk in, i just look to my right, and you're walking past me, all smiles, with your hands not in your pockets for once.
it's not an epiphany. our eyes don't meet. i don't stand up and object at the appropriate time.
i watch you give your heart and your freedom away, and it's a surprising anti-climax.
you've grown into your eyes, and your smile, i notice. and that look of bitter youth and promise of the fufillment of big dreams no longer hovers around you as you casually slip that ring on her finger.
her nose wrinkles up when she smiles, and squeals. she's a real class-act, matt. a real barnyard exhibit.
the kiss is unremarkable. you close your eyes, lean over and gently place your lips to hers, as she proceeds to wrap her arms around your neck and press herself against you,. hungrily, like a leech out of 'the african queen'. i can tell by the way you look down at her that you think it's cute.
i wonder if it'll still be cute a lifetime from now, when she's put on another forty pounds and won't fuck you.
still, though, you look happy enough, i guess, for a boy who thought he'd be drafted and dead by twenty.
you look happy in the way that a tenth grade drama kid would look, realizing that they got the part they tried out for, but also realizing that they weren't good enough for the lead role.
i always knew that you'd set yourself up for less than you deserved. what i didn't know is that it would look like this.
the service is over, and i debate leaving, or sticking around for the reception. there's no real point in me staying. i don't want to talk to you, and even if i did, i would have nothing to say.
i stay. i tell myself it's only for the open bar, but i know better.
i want to see you. i want to see if you laugh like you used to, if you still have your distinctive walk.
if you still know how to look at me and make me wet.
it's outside, on a garden-surrounded veranda. i feel like i'm at a cotillion at some deep south, rich bitch country club. the pretentiousness in the air is so thick i can taste it, stuck on my tongue like cotton candy.
i don't see you, and i'm not willing to search for you. i find an empty, vine-encrusted gazebo, and sit, enjoying my chaser and the weather.
thank god it's not midsummer, or else your skag's makeup would be melting off like you in my hand at emily's house.
that is...very personal. and i don't expect you to understand, unless you're one of two people.
which you are not.
and that's not the end, i just don't know what i'm doing.
or what i'm thinking, for that matter.
failed my permit test yesterday.
so, i'm going again today.
one more strike, and i am OUT.
'dreamcatcher' was such a disappointment. the first hour was amazing, completely reminiscent of the book.
after that, it went to shit. total shit.
that ending, oh god.
and donnie wahlberg? PLEASE tell me that cast was a joke.
i mean, come on. did william goldman even READ the book?