If you’ve been following this story from the beginning, that headline may be a bit confusing. Following the 2008 collapse of the economy I began a steady financial decline that resulted in my being tens of thousands of dollars in debt by 2014, not to mention having lost every asset I had, save one.
The only thing good about losing my cell phone access, because I couldn’t pay the bills, was no longer having to hang up on collectors calling day after day.
Of course, when my ex and I finally sold the house we co-owned, I made enough to eventually repay all of my debts. It just wasn’t done in a very timely manner.
“Where is he going with this?” Brain asked Griselda as they settled in with a bowl of popcorn to enjoy this week’s installment of the tale of my aborted retirement.
“Really,” she replied fairly indignantly, “sometimes I think you are developing dementia. Can’t you remember anything?”
“Memory’s over there,” he replied smugly pointing, with a hand full of popcorn, to a bank of files against the wall, then with a grin added. “I just do logic.”
I can’t blame my logical mind for not wanting to recall the events of that fall. It wasn’t a really good time for him.
Labor Day Weekend had been a welcome respite from the emotional turmoil I’d been going through ever since returning from my trip to Toronto, it just wasn’t going to last.
Even though none of my friends brought up the subject of my failed attempt at a relationship with Jon, there were still plenty of people who didn’t know me personally but had seen Jon and I together in June who couldn’t resist asking where my “hot,” “handsome,” “hunky” friend was.
Then there was the matter of that photo of Jon basking in the sunlight at Joshua Tree returning to life on Facebook. And, to top it all off despite my best efforts to not cross paths with my Canadian heartthrob, we had made enough mutual friends online that our paths kept crossing in the shared events of other peoples’ lives.
The bastard even had the nerve to “like” one of my selfies from the Labor Day pool party.
“The nerve of some people,” Brain snorted.
The remainder of the month of September turned into a total erosion of my every effort to not think, comment, or obsess about Jonny.
Don’t ask me how, but by end of the month we were even once again sharing occasional texts with one another. Stiff and formal as they were, we both assiduously avoided mentioning anything about our earlier emotional turmoil.
This proved to be more than Brain’s logic circuits could handle.
“The man basically tells us to fuck off then continues to chit chat like two old friends at a class reunion. HOW? And why the hell can’t he just let go?”
One thing became clear from our semiregular conversations, Jonny wasn’t dating or even seeing anyone. In fact, if he was involved in text fests with anyone else with an eye toward a relationship, he didn’t give the slightest indication of it.
Jon’s life did seem to revolve around one small area of a not very large town.
“He’s back in that backwater of a town his school is in,” Brain insisted. “He told you himself he’s not out to anyone there and as far he knows he’s the only homosexual within 110 miles of the place.
“I just wish he’d stop being so goddamn Canadian and polite every time you chat.”
“He’s not being ‘Canadian,’” Griselda interrupted. “He’s being himself. He’s a sweet caring man by nature and you know it.”
“Shall I replay the kiss off for you?” Brain retorted snidely. “Sweet, my ass.”
“Pay him no mind,” Griselda said. “He knows as well as we do that Jon is committed to his studies and pursuing these certifications. From everything he’s said so far once he leaves the school gym after a day in classes he has little to no life outside of the small room he rents.”
It was true, Jon’s life did seem to revolve around one small area of a not very large town. The situation being made worse by the fact that the condo complex his room rental was located in had barred all nonhomeowner vehicles from street parking more than three days a month. He had to leave his car in Hamilton with his mother and stepfather and walk to and from anywhere he needed or wanted to go.
By early October, we had resumed occasional FaceTime chats. The calls usually took place around seven in the evening Pacific time, which was right before he would turn in for the night in Ontario.
“The results of my first exam should be in by the end of the week,” Jon said during one of our video chats in early October.
“Wait a minute,” I said, “I thought you told me you passed that exam last spring.”
“That was my final course work exam,” he explained. “This was the first of my 4th Class certification exams.”
“I’ll fly out to Toronto Pearson, rent a car, drive up to Owensburg…”
At that moment Griselda took firm control of my every thought, word, and action.
“Well then,” I said brightly, “where do you want to go for dinner?”
“What?” he said.
She had glommed on to the memory of an obscure conversation we’d had with Jonny back in May, even before we’d begun the discussion about his coming to Palm Springs to visit.
Jon was describing the process of becoming a certified Power Systems Engineer and how each level had an increasing number of exams. Given the fact that he hadn’t been a full time student for nearly twenty years he was concerned about how well he’d face the challenge of returning to academic life at the age, then, of 37.
“From everything you’ve told me,” I said back then, “you’ll do fine. You seem to be truly disciplined and committed to passing these tests.
“I’ll tell you what, I’m so certain you’re going to do well,” I said with extreme bravado, “I’ll take you out for dinner at the restaurant of your choice when you pass that first exam.”
I remember Jon laughing then, however, now some four months and one major drama later he appeared perplexed.
“I promised you a dinner,” I said forging on, “after passing this exam and I intend to live up to that promise.”
Griselda was astonishingly prepared for what came next. Without waiting for a response of any kind she launched us into a detailed explanation of just how I would be going about fulfilling my obligation.
“I’ll fly out to Toronto Pearson, rent a car, drive up to Owensburg…”
“Sound,” Jon interjected.
“Get a hotel room,” I continued. “And take you to dinner.”
Now thoroughly engaged in what my heart was trying to accomplish I fell back on a skill I’d mastered during one of my early less stellar careers, that of being a used car salesman.
This was a negotiation, I’d laid out the terms of a proposed deal, the next thing I had to do was shut up. In any negotiation once a proposal is made the first rule of deliberation is, “The first person to talk, regardless of how awkward or long the silence, concedes.”
I don’t know how long I sat there just waiting for Jon to say something, anything .
“Well if that’s what you want to do,” he eventually said, “it’s up to you, I’ll let you know when I get my test results.”
Edited by
Kenneth Larsen
Join us again on November 14 for: I’m A Lumberjack And I’m OK.
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