I still have an ex-something or other’s record collection sitting in a bin in my mom’s basement gathering dust. When his college girlfriend broke things off she was the one who walked away with the record player. I guess he didn’t see a point in buying one, so he held onto his records until someone came along to rid him of the burden shoved in a shadowy corner of his closet.
I thought about selling all of them to the used record store on campus; the only one I considered keeping was the My Morning Jacket record. I’ve had those records in my possession for three years now, due to the extreme levels my procrastination can reach most days. It feels like an inconvenience to go out of my way to get them off my hands for some reason, yet they’re inconveniencing my mom by sitting in her basement taking up space along with a few other boxes of my things. They may have gone damp with mold by now, and in this case I suppose my problem has been solved. If they’ve sprouted fuzzy pom-poms of mold they’re about to say hello trash collection next Tuesday. The t-shirts went in the trash years ago; those cursed things didn’t even belong in a thrift store. I like the idea of them rotting in a landfill.
On my 24th birthday we ended up at a gay bar, or at least I think it was my 24th birthday; if I’m being honest those years with him around were a blur of successive bad decisions on my part. There was an amateur drag show the same night, if you can call men stripping down to thongs from street clothes a drag show. Many whiskey sours were had. I think only one person was actually dressed in drag if I access those visuals buried deep in my memory, and she was the emcee for the night. My ex-something or other got hit on by a man in the bathroom of the bar. The stranger asked to see his bare feet or something along those lines as he relieved himself at one of the urinals. I supposed foot fetishes are pretty common. The entire exchange was entertaining to hear about, but he got offended the next morning when I suggested he gave off metrosexual vibes, biting back at me by calling it an outdated term to describe men who know how to dress themselves. I was majorly interested in this guy, and even I could admit if I were a gay man my signals may have been crossed if I ran into him out and about, especially at a gay bar.
The defensiveness should have been a red flag, but you’ve probably already deduced I had on one large pair of rose colored glasses.
He also once got irritated with me because I didn’t close the lid on the toilet at his apartment a few times, as if I’m the only person in the world who forgets to do this sometimes. I’m not going to argue with anyone about closing the lid before you flush, but in case you were wondering I do believe it’s proper bathroom etiquette.
I have learned from our time together to never trust a man in sales because he likely knows exactly what to tell you and how to keep you around until he’s tired. Or until he starts seeing someone else without telling you and dates them for at least a month before kicking you to the curb. The idea of a helicopter ride now both scares me and pisses me off (I’m not going to explain why). Full transparency, this guy was never my boyfriend, but I realized a while ago it didn’t matter because everyone deserves respect despite the nature of their relationship with someone. One of the last times I saw him he told me he could help me negotiate a salary after I was offered a full-time position at my old job. It sounded very cold and clinical. He also definitely flirted with the girl at the other side of the bar, who was there with her mom, in front of me. Yikes. 27-year-old me would have gotten her shit together and left if the same thing happened today. It’s called growth.
I’m sure he wouldn’t admit his villain status in my life. I still have moments where I wonder if he really was a bad guy or if I was too busy trying to make an impossible situation happen. We can’t fault ourselves for our feelings; a part of me believes he knew he should have let me go a long time ago, he had to know I wasn’t going to be the one to walk away. Part of me would be really embarrassed if he found this, and he’s probably be a little furious. Who fucking cares? I got the really fun apology text reading something along the lines of “I’m sorry if I led you on”. Men, you really need to do better. Read the room. Quit keeping women or men or whoever you fancy around if y’all want different things–it’s hard for the person who cares more to be the one who walks away. It’s basic common sense.
I found a pack of cigarettes in his center console one afternoon; when I asked what he was doing with cigarettes in his car he told me he kept them around to pull out at construction sites. Smoking made him look more legitimate (and masculine I’m assuming) because construction workers don’t take “clean” looking guys seriously apparently. He kept smokes around to earn some street cred. I fucking hate cigarettes.
The Rummy Writer 