Photo by Ron Lach

My Real Memoir

It wasn’t the first time my heart had been pierced. But it was the deepest cut it had ever received. Why? Because, when my first two “I love yous,” Marty and Dar, had left, they’d left for good. Those were painful-but-clean exit wounds. Not this one. This one was messy and inflamed. Kat had said, “Maybe someday.” Maybe someday is the cruelest form of hope there is. And not only that, but this exit wound had exposed a raw longing inside me: the sense that I’d never really found my purpose in life. Once again, I felt like I had no destination. I was simply driving until I ran out of gas.

And so, secretly and guiltily, owing to my sheer lack of originality, I went searching for The Meaning of Life. Alone again, naturally, I drove until I almost (literally) ran out of gas. And then, somewhere in the local Santa Ana Mountains, I spotted a Hindu monastery. “Maybe I’ll find it here,” I mused, half-heckling and half-hoping. The only person I saw was a novice monk, so I asked him if he knew the meaning of life. Depressed and chanted-out, he replied, “No. I don’t think there really is one.”

So, I found the nearest gas station, and drove home to my empty apartment.

The next night, I called Kat, and asked her what she was up to. She was headed for a pool party, she said. And then she gave me the address, and added, “Anyone can come.” Was that an invitation to go and hang out with her? I willed it to be and drove there, bought an all-you-can-drink beer ticket, and found Kat: “Hey!”

“Oh, hey, this is my friend Mitch,” she said, handing me off to a girl whose level of uninterest was truly impressive. So, now I was her “friend.” I tried every ten minutes to leave, but the thread of hope kept pulling me back inside. I spent the next several hours conversing with Budweiser.

Around midnight, I saw Kat tilting against a door frame, and offered her a ride home. “Shur,” she mumbled. And then, in the car, I said, “Or we could go to my place.” She hesitated. “’kay, but this doesn’ mean anything.” “Oh, I know, I know,” I replied. But it did mean something—that long, beery wait had been worth it!

My apartment was where we’d said “I love you” countless times, and talked about our future. Our love was still here, soaked into the walls; I could feel it. Surely, she could as well. We sat on my bed. “So, now that a month has passed…” I began.

“No, babe, don’t. Maybe you should just drive me—”

I kissed her before she could finish, and she kissed me back. She kissed me back! Wet, boozy kisses, yes, but still… My hands began to room, and she didn’t stop them! But neither did she lean into them, or respond in kind. Sure, she was drunk, but… No! Not like this, not with her inebriated and half-asleep. And besides, even in my yearning, I too was struggling to stay awake.

So I drove her home, assuming we’d get together again.

But we never did.

My Real Memoir is a series. To read the next one, click here.