[Stylist] miscommunication

[Jackie]

Kris,

I found your story very interesting. Brigit's critique was very
comprehensive, and I do not feel competent to truly appreciate her fine
points. I was reading for enjoyment, unique ideas, even education.

I found an idea I will put into practice at my writing group this Friday. I
am going to wear big safety pins in my ears!

Really. They will not start class unless I have my earrings on, so I will
tell you of their reaction.

I do feel that miscommunication is an appropriate title for this episode.
Neither one of you was reading the other's intent correctly, and that
qualifies.

Again, thank you for using precious time to always give feedback to the list
members. 

 

Jacqueline Williams

 

Clarity is just questioning having eaten its fill.

     Jenny Xie

 

From: Stylist [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On Behalf Of Chris Kuell
via Stylist
Sent: Friday, October 04, 2019 10:43 AM
To: 'Writers' Division Mailing List' <stylist at nfbnet.org>
Cc: Chris Kuell <ckuell at comcast.net>
Subject: [Stylist] miscommunication

 

 

Here is my prompt response. All feedback is welcomed.

 

Chris

 

 

Miscommunication

 

It was the late 80s and I was in grad school, synthesizing novel antitumore
drugs in hopes of making the world a better place and obtaining my Ph.D.
Typically, chemistry grad students work 12 hour days, but since I was
approaching the end of my fourth year, mine were closer to 14 hour days,
followed by a wind-down libation at my favorite pub, 'The Other Place',
which was a mere 58 steps away from our apartment building.

 

On this particular night, I was mentally writing my thesis, analyzing
experiments, deciding what still needed to be done. I needed a break, some
down time or else I knew I'd lay in bed thinking, thinking, thinking. I'd
tried meditation without success, but discovered fortuitously that a few
cold ones usually did the trick. I stepped out of the brisk Vermont night's
air into the warmth of the pub, laughter and conversation washing over me
like a warm blanket fresh out of the dryer.

 

I made my way around a few tables and up to the bar. I ordered a beer from
Noel the bartender and said hey to Brad, a long-haired, long-bearded
frequenter of this particular pub. He had husky-blue eyes that were both
captivating and a little creepy. I'd seen him playing his beat-up acoustic
guitar and singing on a street corner late on a Friday night and thought if
he wore a toga and sandals people might mistake him for Jesus.

 

I bobbed and weaved with my pint and settled in at a small table to sit,
sip, and eavesdrop. The atmosphere was energetic and comradely, such a
welcome change from the solitude of working late by yourself in a research
lab.

 

A guy in his early 20's, carrying a pitcher of beer and an empty glass asked
if I minded if he sat with me. The pub was fairly crowded and I'm generally
a fairly amiable guy so I said sure. He filled is glass before he sat, then
topped off my beer from his pitcher.

 

"Thanks," I said, taking a sip and assessing my new drinking buddy.

 

His hair was bleached an unnatural blonde, and consisted of maybe a hundred
little tufts twisted loosely into points, as if he'd made a hundred little
pony tails, but got tired so he did a half-assed job. He was Caucasian, had
four or five little hoops in one ear and a safety pin in the other. He wore
a beat up leather jacket and a white tee shirt decorated with lots of small
knife slits. In short, he made me think of a guy who was about 8 years late
to the Ramone's concert. Caught somewhere between true punk and the alt goth
of the late 80s.

 

He said his name was Ken or Bill or something, he was in his second year at
UVM, a psychology major. He came from New Jersey and his father had made a
bundle of dough doing hair transplants. We laughed about this and finished
his pitcher. I went to the bar to get another.

 

We talked a bit about music, naturally. I remember he was into the C bands
of the time-The Cure, The Clash, the Carnivores. I told him that a song or
two of that head-banging music was okay with me, but I certainly didn't want
a steady diet of it. We agreed that U2, a relatively new rock band from
Ireland,  had a great sound and probably would be around for many years to
come.   

 

When we finished that pitcher, Ken or Bill went up to the bar and got
another.

 

We talked about how cold Northern Vermont winters were, and I regaled him
with a story about the time my brother came up and we went ice fishing on
Lake Champlain. It was 27 below zero, we weren't catching anything, and I
bet him if I spit it would freeze before it hit the ground. I won and we
left.

 

He told me that he and some of his dorm buddies had taken a pair of jeans
last winter, soaked them in a bathroom sink, wrung them out and brought them
outside. Within 60 seconds they were frozen solid enough to stand up on
their own, as if a ghost or invisible man was standing there in them.

 

He bought us a couple of shots of Jameson and I got us another pitcher. Our
talk turned more philosophical as it tends to do at this time of night with
this kind of blood alcohol level. 

 

We talked about God, and he said that he didn't believe in the old man in a
white beard pulling strings like a puppet-master kind of God. God is energy,
he said. There's a positive kind of energy, and a dark kind of energy, and
humans are wired to tap into either one or the other. You can change your
frequency, but it's not easy to do, so most people don't.

 

I told him my happiness theory, that happiness is a simple equation:
Happiness equals reality minus expectations (and here I mean personal
expectations, not societal expectations). If you don't set your expectations
too high, you'll be happier more of the time. He argued, correctly, that you
shouldn't set your expectations low, that was jackassery. We agreed you
needed to set them high sometimes, and not so high other times, and
disappointment was a necessary state when living on the spectrum of human
emotions.

 

I finished my beer and announced that it was time for me to go. Ken or Bill
leaned over and quite unexpectedly put a hand on my thigh.

 

"Do you want to come home with me tonight?"

 

I have to be honest-I did not see that coming, and since I've never been too
good at hiding my emotions through intentional manipulation of facial
expressions, I assume I telegraphed my shock.

 

"Nope." I said. "It's late and my girlfriend is at home waiting for me.
Thanks for the beers, though."

 

We probably said something like catch you later, but I can't remember that.
I just wanted to get out of there, breathe in some fresh air and sober up as
best I could during my 58 step walk home.

 

As I walked, I tried turning things over in my mind. Had I done or said
something to indicate that I might be interested in Ken/Bill? I didn't think
so. I just talked to him like anybody interesting I might chat with in a
pub. Should I have picked up that he was gay? Not sure what to say about
that one. Some folks claim they have some sort of gay-dar, but obviously I
don't. The truth is, I just don't think about which team people might play
on or not. That's their business, not mine, so I don't waste any time
thinking about it. 

 

As I fumbled to fit my apartment key into the lock on the door, I just
wrapped it up to a matter of miscommunication. However well intentioned, it
happens, and in this instance no harm was done. Ken or Bill didn't get lucky
that night, and I'm sure he was a little disappointed. Perhaps he should set
his expectations lower.

 

  

 

 

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