No Parking

(written September 17th, 2008)

“This is my life story,” I tell Ben. “Listening to Roxette and looking for parking on the hill.” The speakers blare: “…it must have been love, but it’s over now…” “That’s so gay,” he concludes. I continue to traverse the streets of Capitol Hill searching for legal parking spots, frequently deceived by driveways, white loading zones, and yellow ‘thirty-minute’ curbsides. “I should stop at a mini-mart to get cigarettes before I catch my bus,” Ben says. I had been planning on Ben spending the night with me. Thus far, the majority of our sleepovers, if you can call them that, have been at his house. I even prepared by cleaning my often-cluttered apartment and slipping on a skin-tight pair of Diesel boxer-briefs.

“You can stay with me,” I offer. “I think I’m going to go home,” Ben says. I pause for a beat before assertively asking “So, what’s the story?” “I kinda want to sleep in my own bed,” he says. “No, I mean what changed.” I suppose I was not explicit enough. “I dunno,” Ben begins. I have a pretty good idea of what he is going to say. I’ve heard this shit before. So I cut him off: “hey, a parking spot!” I begin to parallel park while Ben explains his “story.” “I feel like we have a lot in common,” he begins. I have definitely heard this shit before. “But we also are in different places and have a lot of different interests.”

There were definite differences. A week prior I had driven to his house after a double-shift at the hospital. Ben sat on his bed, engaged in a Play Station game. He greeted me with a kiss and a pat on the thigh. “I love this game,” he explained. “That guy, the one with the blonde spikes,” he said pointing to a collection of pixels on the screen, “he was my first video game crush.” I nodded, and then lay on the bed. Ben occasionally turned to pat me. “I’ll be at a stopping point soon,” he promised. My eyes were drooping. Video games are not like movies, and they never will be. There is no character development, poor plotting, and (in general) the special effects suck. I have no doubt Ben sensed my boredom; perhaps he even noticed a complete disregard for his favorite pastime. Now, as we walk to find cigarettes, I am being dumped because I do not like Final Fantasy.

“And I don’t want to jump the gun,” he continues. His ramble is plagued with bad-breakup clichés. “We just had a really intense week, and then I worked a whole bunch.” What Ben means by “intense week,” is nightly sleepovers, always at his house. The sleepovers always started with a movie (in a normal courtship, that is code for “let’s make out,” in Ben’s World it means “let’s watch a movie”). Then we’d retire to his room. Ben always left the door ajar, to accommodate his cat Gus-Gus, this despite a sleeping roommate across the hall. The first few nights were innocent enough, with spooning sessions and lots of making-out. It quickly became more “R-rated.” He was into me, and he let it be known. And while I reciprocated, I needed it to be “all about me.” I was rebounding from a crush on a slightly egocentric and overly aloof boy. Ben liked to touch me, and I relished the physical attention.

Then Ben became aloof. He was working more, all shifts he picked up “to get ahead on bills.” I was perplexed by the change in our dynamic, but decided to respond by giving him the space he seemed to need. “I hate the game,” I lamented to my girlfriends. “You have to play the game sometimes, you have to keep backing off” they reminded me. And I did. I refused to call him. I delayed all replies to the text messages he sent. He slowly seemed to reengage. Perhaps my ignoring was paying off. Or maybe it was The Beach Boys. Two weeks prior, I had received two free tickets and promptly invited Ben to be my date.

We reconnected on the morning of The Beach Boy’s concert. Ben initiated the contact. “What’s the plan?” he asked. I had planned to pick him up. I was going to wear my Diesel Boxers. Ben was to spend the night at my house. Things never go as you plan…

As we walk to find cigarettes, Ben continues to explain himself. “Maybe I just need time, I don’t want to say this, but maybe I’ll feel differently in a few days.” I wonder: would it be improper to bum a cigarette off of Ben? I had a spare one in my car’s glove box---it was a present from my friend Brent. I was saving it for an emergency such as running out of gas in Death Valley or a fender bender en route to work. Getting dumped by the boy that was supposed to be a fun distraction---this may qualify. “I think I should move my car,” I say, “I think I saw a construction sign where we parked.” “If you’re worried about it, you probably should,” Ben advised.

I kept mum while Ben purchased a pack of Camel Lights. “Are you going to Broadway?,” I ask. He nods. “You seem really annoyed. Are you okay with this?” he asks. He probably wanted me to validate his feelings, thanking him for his honesty. “Well, what’s there to say?” I ask rhetorically. “I mean, it is what it is. But I’m not going to sit around waiting for anyone to decide whether or not they’re into me. It’s not my style and I shouldn’t have to.” Ben nods and says, “yeah.” I continue, “I guess I just don’t get what changed. You seemed really into it.” I suppose I was looking for validation. There was nothing Ben could have said. I was well aware of our failings, our many moments of disconnect. “I just need time to work though my issues,” Ben surmises.

“That’s where I catch my bus,” Ben says, gesturing with a cigarette in his hand. “I’m going to go move my car,” I say. I need the cigarette, the drive, and a fix of eighties pop. “I want to keep hanging out,” Ben says. I nod, not in agreement, but in acknowledgement of his supposed remorse. We share a brief hug before parting. I again traverse the streets of the hill, looking for parking.