GTParadox
10-31-2010, 12:24 PM
*Names have been changed for various reasons.
Because I can, ‘cause no one can stop me.
If life had rookie cards, this letter would be one. He dug around for it, saying it should explain everything. Or, rather, the second to last sentence should explain everything. When he finally found it, and grandly presented it to me, I was slightly underwhelmed. It was from the spring of 1999, written by his mother to recommend him for some kind of gifted program. The second to last sentence read: “Michael knows what he wants!” I was confused; this letter, while extensive, was not so much about Mike, as it was about a version of Mike now a decade gone. And then he began to explain it.
“That sums up why I succeed so much. I don’t look for anyone’s approval. I’m just going to start walking, and people follow me because of that.”
Graeme, chuckling slightly, calls him a “Paragon of Charisma.” Looking right into Mike’s eyes, this wasn’t empty talk. I’ll give him this, his eyes are striking. Pieces of art, even. They say that you can fake a smile with your mouth, but you can’t fake one with your eyes. This is a lie. A social worker with a psych degee as a mother and years of stretching the truth had given him near supernatural control over his eyes. He could fake a smile without even moving his mouth. I could now feel those eyes settling on me. Not boring into me, just settling, like two giant arms upon my shoulders. They were a constant mix of lie and truth, the glossy exteriors of two finely tuned machines.
He had been born a bad liar, like many of us. Eventually, he had to choose between telling the truth, and being a better liar. So, “I picked the times I was in trouble for something I didn’t do, and learned how to mimic that behavior when I had done it.” Slowly, but surely, his lies and his truths became harder to tell apart. “I lie and exaggerate. I think it’s in my blood, on both sides.” His father had been a chronic liar, “lying about the toothpaste he used in the morning.” Mike’s maternal grandfather had been albe to convince his wife he held a non-existant PHD for most of their marriage, even lying about his role in WWII on his death bed. And “it takes something special to lie on your death bed. But that’s the best time to lie; it’s like having your childhood back, just for a moment. Whatever you say, everyone’s going to believe it.”
Rewind, July 2008.
I met him one quiet, unassuming Saturday Morning on the quad of Franklin & Marshall. Among the blurred greens and browns and asphalt tones of the quad, one thing stood out: a bright orange shirt, rainbow pin accenting his right lapel. He had little reason to be outside this time of the morning, but to be fair, neither did I. I walked over to the bench he was sitting on, an Anne Rice book in his hand. I can’t remember what I noticed first; the shaggy hair, the fingers full of rings, the odd choice in literature.
“You mind?” I asked, conspicuously ignoring the open bench a few yards away.
“No, not at all.”
After standard introductions, exchange of classes, dorm locations, standar minutia, the two of us began to talk. Roughly a half-hour later, I had to depart; with a handshake, we sealed a deal I didn’t realize I was in on. I had become one of his friends.
Fast foreward, present.
“Here’s the contradicition. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t narcisssitic, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care deeply about my friends.”
Rewind again, early August 2009.
“Get in here, right now,” he said, pulling me into his dorm room. We had known each other for about a year now. It was the last night of camp, and half of our hall had been taken to the main office due to a relatively innocent scheme that had fallen apart. A green towel was thrown over the only lamp, the room slightly tinted green. “If you get caught, you were just in my room because I was worried about you sleepwalking.” At this point, even leaving my room had been risky. Staying in someone else’s, even more so. With the staff on edge as they were that night, it was social suicide. Expulsion from camp would not have been out of the question. As little as Mike’s claims may have helped when we got caught, he made it clear that if the ship sank, he would go down with it.
Fast foreward, present.
Mike is not a cocky person.
“I’m a god. The universe loves me. As long as I don’t want anything I can’t have, I get whatever I want.”
Like I said, not cocky. For him to be cocky, it would have to be untrue.
“Megalomaniacal” was Graeme’s second description. He claps, his chuckle growing into a heartly laugh. “That’s exactly it. Megalomanical.”
Rewind, Summer 2010.
The name “Harvard” carries a lot of weight. Even if it’s just a summer program, the idea of “being at Harvard” carries some sort of inherent prestige. Set free by the college tour group for a day in Boston, I roamed the Harvard campus, searching for the science center. Just as I walked through the archway opposite it, I lurched foreward with a thud, looking like I’d been shoved hard from behind. It was him. He dragged me by the arm to a nearby circle of people, introducing me as “Kenny.” Trying, and failing, to fit in, I told them I was in one of the psychology courses. Mike was barely able to contain his laughter; apparently, lying for others wasn’t his line of work. After a few minutes of pleasant, dinner-party caliber conversation, the group dissolved, leaving Mike and I.
“She’s my type.”
He spoke of a mystical concept of a “type,” the platonic form of hotness so to speak. The girl he talked about now was tall and slim, an emo band on her shirt and purple streaks in her long, brown hair.
“Are you going to do anything about it?”
“No, just good eye candy.”
(He now tells me that, if he met his current self a year ago, he would hate himself. “Too sexual.”)
Two weeks later, we’re on the phone. Apparently, this Harvard program leaves room for raves, as he had attended one with some other students the night before. He said he was three for four, laying that statement out with little explanation. Confused, I asked what he meant. I assumed it meant that he had asked four girls to dance, and had succeeded with three. No.
“Four danced with, three hooked up with.”
He then went further in depth; his only complaint with the one that got away was that “she wasn’t my type.” Not to say she wasn’t gorgeous, just that she wasn’t what he was looking for. He then proceeded to find what he was looking for, three times over. He rarely chases skirts, though. Whenever a fishing trip was going poorly, my dad would aways say “There’s a reason they don’t call it catching.” Saying Mike chases skirts is the opposite of this; he doesn’t chase, that overestimates how often it falls through. A paragon of charisma, indeed.
Fast foreward, one last time.
“Mike, you’re giving me bad ideas,” I joked while he told one of his more unbelieveable stories.
“I’m sitting here covered in bad ideas,” he responds, a Cheshire Cat grin spreading as he says it.
Because I can, ‘cause no one can stop me, because it makes up for things I lost. Because I’m addicted to bad ideas, and all the beauty in this world.- “Addicted to Bad Ideas” by The World/Inferno Friendship Society.
Because I can, ‘cause no one can stop me.
If life had rookie cards, this letter would be one. He dug around for it, saying it should explain everything. Or, rather, the second to last sentence should explain everything. When he finally found it, and grandly presented it to me, I was slightly underwhelmed. It was from the spring of 1999, written by his mother to recommend him for some kind of gifted program. The second to last sentence read: “Michael knows what he wants!” I was confused; this letter, while extensive, was not so much about Mike, as it was about a version of Mike now a decade gone. And then he began to explain it.
“That sums up why I succeed so much. I don’t look for anyone’s approval. I’m just going to start walking, and people follow me because of that.”
Graeme, chuckling slightly, calls him a “Paragon of Charisma.” Looking right into Mike’s eyes, this wasn’t empty talk. I’ll give him this, his eyes are striking. Pieces of art, even. They say that you can fake a smile with your mouth, but you can’t fake one with your eyes. This is a lie. A social worker with a psych degee as a mother and years of stretching the truth had given him near supernatural control over his eyes. He could fake a smile without even moving his mouth. I could now feel those eyes settling on me. Not boring into me, just settling, like two giant arms upon my shoulders. They were a constant mix of lie and truth, the glossy exteriors of two finely tuned machines.
He had been born a bad liar, like many of us. Eventually, he had to choose between telling the truth, and being a better liar. So, “I picked the times I was in trouble for something I didn’t do, and learned how to mimic that behavior when I had done it.” Slowly, but surely, his lies and his truths became harder to tell apart. “I lie and exaggerate. I think it’s in my blood, on both sides.” His father had been a chronic liar, “lying about the toothpaste he used in the morning.” Mike’s maternal grandfather had been albe to convince his wife he held a non-existant PHD for most of their marriage, even lying about his role in WWII on his death bed. And “it takes something special to lie on your death bed. But that’s the best time to lie; it’s like having your childhood back, just for a moment. Whatever you say, everyone’s going to believe it.”
Rewind, July 2008.
I met him one quiet, unassuming Saturday Morning on the quad of Franklin & Marshall. Among the blurred greens and browns and asphalt tones of the quad, one thing stood out: a bright orange shirt, rainbow pin accenting his right lapel. He had little reason to be outside this time of the morning, but to be fair, neither did I. I walked over to the bench he was sitting on, an Anne Rice book in his hand. I can’t remember what I noticed first; the shaggy hair, the fingers full of rings, the odd choice in literature.
“You mind?” I asked, conspicuously ignoring the open bench a few yards away.
“No, not at all.”
After standard introductions, exchange of classes, dorm locations, standar minutia, the two of us began to talk. Roughly a half-hour later, I had to depart; with a handshake, we sealed a deal I didn’t realize I was in on. I had become one of his friends.
Fast foreward, present.
“Here’s the contradicition. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t narcisssitic, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t care deeply about my friends.”
Rewind again, early August 2009.
“Get in here, right now,” he said, pulling me into his dorm room. We had known each other for about a year now. It was the last night of camp, and half of our hall had been taken to the main office due to a relatively innocent scheme that had fallen apart. A green towel was thrown over the only lamp, the room slightly tinted green. “If you get caught, you were just in my room because I was worried about you sleepwalking.” At this point, even leaving my room had been risky. Staying in someone else’s, even more so. With the staff on edge as they were that night, it was social suicide. Expulsion from camp would not have been out of the question. As little as Mike’s claims may have helped when we got caught, he made it clear that if the ship sank, he would go down with it.
Fast foreward, present.
Mike is not a cocky person.
“I’m a god. The universe loves me. As long as I don’t want anything I can’t have, I get whatever I want.”
Like I said, not cocky. For him to be cocky, it would have to be untrue.
“Megalomaniacal” was Graeme’s second description. He claps, his chuckle growing into a heartly laugh. “That’s exactly it. Megalomanical.”
Rewind, Summer 2010.
The name “Harvard” carries a lot of weight. Even if it’s just a summer program, the idea of “being at Harvard” carries some sort of inherent prestige. Set free by the college tour group for a day in Boston, I roamed the Harvard campus, searching for the science center. Just as I walked through the archway opposite it, I lurched foreward with a thud, looking like I’d been shoved hard from behind. It was him. He dragged me by the arm to a nearby circle of people, introducing me as “Kenny.” Trying, and failing, to fit in, I told them I was in one of the psychology courses. Mike was barely able to contain his laughter; apparently, lying for others wasn’t his line of work. After a few minutes of pleasant, dinner-party caliber conversation, the group dissolved, leaving Mike and I.
“She’s my type.”
He spoke of a mystical concept of a “type,” the platonic form of hotness so to speak. The girl he talked about now was tall and slim, an emo band on her shirt and purple streaks in her long, brown hair.
“Are you going to do anything about it?”
“No, just good eye candy.”
(He now tells me that, if he met his current self a year ago, he would hate himself. “Too sexual.”)
Two weeks later, we’re on the phone. Apparently, this Harvard program leaves room for raves, as he had attended one with some other students the night before. He said he was three for four, laying that statement out with little explanation. Confused, I asked what he meant. I assumed it meant that he had asked four girls to dance, and had succeeded with three. No.
“Four danced with, three hooked up with.”
He then went further in depth; his only complaint with the one that got away was that “she wasn’t my type.” Not to say she wasn’t gorgeous, just that she wasn’t what he was looking for. He then proceeded to find what he was looking for, three times over. He rarely chases skirts, though. Whenever a fishing trip was going poorly, my dad would aways say “There’s a reason they don’t call it catching.” Saying Mike chases skirts is the opposite of this; he doesn’t chase, that overestimates how often it falls through. A paragon of charisma, indeed.
Fast foreward, one last time.
“Mike, you’re giving me bad ideas,” I joked while he told one of his more unbelieveable stories.
“I’m sitting here covered in bad ideas,” he responds, a Cheshire Cat grin spreading as he says it.
Because I can, ‘cause no one can stop me, because it makes up for things I lost. Because I’m addicted to bad ideas, and all the beauty in this world.- “Addicted to Bad Ideas” by The World/Inferno Friendship Society.