Jason: The Philistine Heart (Book 1)

by Jean Evergreen

  “I had him followed for a week. He’s always worked late on week nights and gone out with the guys afterward. I never thought to question it before. But I started to become super paranoid. You know what I mean? I was like: is he really staying late at work? And when he claims he needs bro time, what does he mean? Let me tell you, when the private investigator came back with an envelope filled with photos, I sure found out. I pictured some god awful things, but when I saw what was in that envelope, it was so not what I expected.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “No, it was just about a thousand times worse. Remember that guy Caleb, the one I tried to set you up with at the art auction? He was an old college friend of Greg’s from New York.”

  “Hmm, yes, vaguely,” I say, dredging up the memory of a tall skinny man who looked like he was barely out of his mother’s basement.

  “I’m so glad nothing happened between you two. Apparently he and Greg have a kinship that goes beyond the frat house, if you know what I mean. And not just Caleb. Do you remember all of those single, wealthy guys, all Greg’s friends might I add, that I used to pack the art auction? It turns out that most of them weren’t even single — but their wives and girlfriends were absent for a reason. And when they bid thousands of dollars on art, it wasn’t to impress the ladies. I thought I was luring them in with women and an open bar, when in fact the women were just a distraction for what was going on right under our noses. I’m just shocked I didn’t see it before. I thought my gaydar was on point. I really should have caught on when the phallic art pieces received the highest bids. It’s like they were speaking in code or doing some sort of sizing contest: who can buy the most expensive cock, or something. Take a wild guess what took the highest bid that night.”

  “I have no idea. I was kind of out of it all night if you recall,” I say, hoping I don’t sound overly accusatory. I’m trying to be supportive after all.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” Susan says with an apologetic smile. “I was wrong to spike your drink. I was wrong about a lot of things, and I’m truly sorry for what I did.”

  “That’s okay, it’s all in the past,” I reply dismissively. “You’re completely forgiven. So which art piece got the highest bid?”

  “It was something called The Phallicy. It was a photograph of a lesbian couple. It had this whole S&M theme. Apparently, there was another meaning behind it, which Greg’s crowd caught onto immediately. A woman sitting on the ground had her face pushed into a standing woman’s crotch. The standing woman represented a masculine female and the kneeling one symbolized the extension of her masculinity as a phallic shaped object. But phallicy is a play on the word fallacy. So the fallacy was the idea of a masculine woman. It’s like a whole gender fluidity thing. It’s pretty obvious when you think about it. I mean, I get how it’s creative and all, but dropping $60,000 on a photograph from a barely known artist seemed a little excessive.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t complaining at the time. My main concern was running a successful benefit and raising money for charity. But when I realized that the buyer was none other than Greg’s friend Caleb, I became completely suspicious towards his intentions. After doing a little investigating of my own, I found out it was all a game for them, and Caleb won. The winning bid sets the rules for their big boy fraternity. It’s basically a club where a bunch of high profile guys, who are too afraid to tell their mommies they like boys, meet and hook up with other guys. Seriously, how did I not know that my charity benefit was basically a high-end Craigslist ad for closet gays? Isn’t that insane?”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty crazy,” I reply, doing my best to restrain myself from laughing. I can’t help but let out a silent giggle in my head. I remember the photograph Susan described. It was the one that Jason showed me — submitted by his lesbian artist friend. I told him it looked like S&M porn. Jason never tried to correct me. He let me think whatever I wanted. Jason was always that way — never attempting to sway or change me from a belief that I appeared to hold with any level of conviction. I never gave him enough credit for that.

  Now I’m mystified to find out the photograph did indeed have a far more profound meaning than I realized. While this revelation doesn’t change my view on it’s crude nature, there’s no denying, its entire concept went over my head. It would seem that my perception of art, beyond its most surface appeal, can be characterized as largely philistine. Perhaps that’s always been my problem, I coward from looking too far beyond the surface, for fear that my initial perception might be nothing more than a fallacy, or in this case, a phallicy. If Jason were here, I can picture him laughing heartily as I explain my epiphany. And that vision warms my heart immensely.

  “But that’s not the worst of it,” Susan continues.

  “It’s not?” I reply, hoping to keep the amusement at bay in my tone.

  “No, not even close. When I confronted Greg with the pictures I asked him point-blank if he was gay.”

  “Did he admit it?”

  “Nope, his response was to deny, deny, deny. He seriously tried to convince me that I didn’t understand what I was seeing. He said that I was acting like a child throwing a temper tantrum and that it’s not as though he was cheating on me with a woman.”

  “What difference does that make?” I ask, incredulously.

  “None, if you’re a rational, sane human being. He didn't think he was cheating at all. He swears up and down that he’s not gay. According to him, to be gay you have to be sexually or romantically attracted to a man. He claims he’s neither. I guess he just likes the rush of a guy sticking a cock up his hairy ass. Sorry for the language.”

  “I think you’ve earned the right to declare a few expletives,” I giggle.

  “Thanks … So anyway, Greg thought we should go to therapy to try to work through this whole dysfunctional mess. I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed. Our therapist was an absolute nut. I swear, every session felt like an hour in the twilight zone, which is not surprising since Greg chose her. It was some hippy chick who seemed to specialize in shifting all the blame for our relationship problems onto me: I’m too demanding or too critical or not flexible enough. I was like, excuse me? No one has been more laid back, understanding or flexible than me. I bent over backwards to make that man happy, sometimes literally. And she had the nerve to insist that it might help build mutual trust if I were more open minded in the bedroom. That’s when Greg chimed in, suggesting that he would feel like he could trust me more if I would have a threesome with him and another man. He said it would make him feel like I accepted who he was and bring us closer together.”

  “Ewww.”

  “I know, right. That’s when I said enough. I basically brought the gavel down on him. I told him that if we didn’t put an immediate end to seeing the therapist, the wedding was off. And if I so much as suspected that one of his late nights at work was actually a man on man orgy, I would tell his mother. That’s what really did the trick. The mere mention of his mother had him terrified. He was practically quivering in his Givenchy boots. Then I told him, if he ever wanted sex again, he’d better get tested. That was ten months ago. But, even after he got tested I couldn’t bring myself to be with him. And I haven’t since.”

  “So basically, the majority of time I’ve known you, you and Greg haven’t…”

  “Nope,” Susan says, shaking her head. “Not since October. At that point, we were already well into our engagement. I wanted to believe everything would work out, so I threw myself into planning the wedding. It took up so much of my time that I barely paid attention to our freak show of a relationship.”

  “I don’t understand. If things were that bad, why didn’t you call off the wedding?”

  “I wanted to,” Susan says with a loud sigh. “Believe me, I did. It’s just that there was so much pressure from both of our parents — especially mine. Then, the price tag of everything ballooned and his parents offered to buy us a house when we are married. I felt trapped. I
t didn’t help that I’d been talking about the wedding to anyone who would listen. I didn’t want to disappoint anyone, especially my family who wanted the marriage so much.”

  “I understand,” I nod, sympathetically.

  “There was another reason,” Susan says slowly, studying my face for a reaction. “I felt guilty.”

  “Why?”

  “You know how I kept lecturing you on commitment and how wonderful it is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I couldn’t even follow my own advice. You know Bryan from help desk?”

  “Oh my gosh, really?” I ask, slack jawed.

  “Yes,” Susan nods, guiltily.

  “How long?”

  “Since October. I know, I was such a self-righteous bitch to you when you told me about your problems with Blake. I’m so sorry. Do you hate me?”

  “No, not at all,” I laugh. “I’m just a little taken aback. I honestly felt sorry for Bryan. He followed you around like a little puppy dog. I thought he didn’t have a chance. Now I realize his efforts were well rewarded.”

  “Yes, I guess they were,” Susan laughs.

  “Will you keep seeing Bryan now that you’re not with Greg?”

  “I doubt it. He’s not my type, and he’s a little young for me. It was really just a fling.”

  “A nine-month fling?”

  “What? It’s a thing,” Susan giggles.

  “Well, I haven’t faired much better,” I laugh. “One year later and I’ve gone through two boyfriends with nothing to show for it other than a cupboard full of popcorn, which I’m sure I’ll never eat. Feel free to take as much of that home with you as you’d like, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” Susan laughs. “Oh look at us. Last year around this time we were toasting to the men in our lives. We thought that all our dating hardships were behind us. Now, we’re both single and, once again, left to brave the dating wilderness. And when we find another guy, who knows what crazy baggage he’ll bring into our lives.”

  “I think you’ll thrive in the wilderness. I, on the other hand, have had enough baggage to weigh me down for years. I think I’ll remain safely in the city limits for a long while.”

  Susan looks at me with concern in her eyes. “Are you ever going to tell me what happened between you and Jason? I know looks can be deceiving. Believe me, I know that better than anyone, but you guys seemed so happy together. Were you just too different?”

  I look at Susan thoughtfully before answering. “Perhaps I’ll tell you someday. I’m not ready to talk about it now. I will, however, say that in some ways I think our problem was that we were too much alike.”

  “Oh Bridge,” Susan says reaching out to hug me. With the skirt of her wedding dress bunched around her like a mini fortress, I’m forced to stretch my arms wide to reach her back.

  “You know, another thing I would have never imagined I’d do this time last year?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “I never thought I’d pay $650 for a dress I’d only wear once.”

  “I definitely could’ve chosen something that doesn’t look so bridesmaidey. How about at my next wedding I’ll let you choose the dress.”

  “Ha, if I’m a bridesmaid at your next wedding, then you’re paying for the dress.”

  “I suppose that’s the least I can do,” Susan laughs. “I love you Bridge, thanks for being here for me.”

  “Love you too,” I say, as we hug. I smile as I realize I mean it. I haven’t had anyone I’d call a best friend since I was in grade school. It feels good to have a female companion, and confidante, after spending so many years of my adult life alone. Of course, with Blake and Jason, I had companionship, but it always relied on sexual attraction. There’s something liberating about taking sex out of the equation and simply having a person to call a friend.

  26

  In a Sentimental Mood

  At times, I can’t help but think I’ve lived a life far too sober. From a young age, I learned how quickly the idyllic scenery could turn into a wasteland. Such a manic depressive polarity in existence takes its toll over time. To reach the mountain’s zenith, only to plunge back into the ocean depths, taxes even the most determined of souls. And when the fall leaves one wearied and injured, it might be a long while before an attempt is made to reach the mountain top again.

  I closed my eyes to the mountain and the ocean long ago. So that if the mountain was bliss, and the ocean, devastation, I wouldn’t have to know either. That way I wouldn’t feel the temptation to climb the mountain, and I’d never have to fear another fall. Jason changed all of that.

  In some ironic way, Jason was my addiction. He sustained me at the top of the mountain, where the air was sweet, the sun shined bright and the colors shown with an inordinate vibrancy, and I forgot there was an ocean to fall into. I lost myself in him. He became my happiness. He was the drug that carried me from the bleakness of reality to something greater than myself. And with him, I felt invincible.

  But eventually, the high wore off—as it was apt to do. And like a recovering addict, going through withdrawal, I was left to face a desolate reality, one where the air was stagnant and stifling, the sun was less radiant, and the sky was a much paler shade of blue. And all of my pain, failures, and regrets were just as present as they ever were. Only this time, I viewed them with my eyes wide open.

  And with the knowledge that sight could bring, I realized there was something dormant, buried deep within me. Something repressed like a seed that never sprouts for lack of water or a sprout that never blooms for lack of sunshine. But I knew it was there, I saw it, though it was out of my reach. So I searched for a way to remedy this illusory thing that I couldn’t seem to grasp. I searched with my eyes closed and my heart open — for something so ethereally sweet that I wouldn’t dare give it passive audience. And when it finally came to me what this thing was, I knew exactly how to set it free; all I had to do was follow the music.

  And that is how I came to spend the evening on my sofa, staring out my window; watching, as the sun falls below the horizon, and the dark blanket of night is lit up by the Seattle skyline. On my coffee table sits a turntable, with a record spinning round and round. I lean into my cushion as the saxophonic melody of John Coltrane fills the room. In my hand, I hold a freshly poured glass of bourbon. Not my usual drinking preference, but I’ve been told that this is the way to listen to jazz. Pushing the glass to my lips, I take a small sip. It tastes … awful. I guess some things never change. Carefully abandoning the glass on my coffee table, I lay back on the couch with a smile.

  I remember telling Blake that jazz music seems to go all over the place. This particular song is taking me somewhere. Closing my eyes, I allow the bittersweet melody of In a Sentimental Mood to seep into my conscience and tell me the story that, until now, I hadn’t been prepared to hear.

  The pictures that flash in my mind are from a time when I was much younger. My mom would take my sisters and me to the beach when she got home from work. My swimsuit had a Care Bear on it; I think it was Tenderheart Bear. I didn’t know how to swim at that time. I couldn’t have been older than three or four. So I stayed close to the shoreline. I tried to make a sand castle, but I didn’t realize I needed water to shape the sand. The sand kept falling out of my bucket in a disappointingly loose pile. Then I saw my mom add water to her bucket. I copied her, and the sand fell out of my bucket in a firmly packed formation. I didn’t make much more progress on my castle than a few dense hills in the sand. But figuring that out made me so happy.

  Then there was that time at the fair. I wanted so badly to go on the ride where the large ship swings back and forth like a pendulum. My sister, my mom, and I all went on together. By the end of the ride, both my sister and I were clinging to my mom’s arms, for dear life. I was crying, terrified. My mom hugged me and told me it was just a silly ride, and now it’s over. I don’t have to be afraid anymore.

  And the times she made it home from work early to attend my flute r
ecitals. Her schedule was usually dominated with depositions and trials so that she couldn’t make it to most of my recitals. On the rare occasion she did, and I looked into the audience and saw her smiling face, I felt she was proud of me. And I beamed with such a profuse sense of accomplishment.

  My eyes finally open as the music softly fades away. From the side table, I grab a tissue to wipe my tears. As I stare into the quiet, I realize that I found the thing I was looking for. She loved me. For so long I’ve convinced myself that wasn’t true. I remember when I loved her more than anything in this world. She was everything to me. I wanted to protect her from him, so much that one time I wouldn’t leave when he told me to because I knew what would happen. She says she doesn’t remember that, but I do. As I got older, I decided that my love would never be enough for her. She would always choose his violence and selfishness over the love of her children. She refused to protect us and leave him. I couldn’t forgive her for that. I don’t know if I ever will. But she loved us, I no longer doubt that. And for that alone, I am thankful.

  27

  Something That I Needed to Do

  “Hello?”

  I hesitate before answering. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that voice. I almost feel embarrassed calling after all this time. What do I say? Then I realize there’s only one thing to say. “Hi, mom.”

  “Bridget, is that you?”

  “Yes,” I reply, surprised, though I shouldn’t be, that she recognizes my voice after so long.

  “How are you?” I ask, attempting to sound casual; as though there’s nothing strange about calling her out of the blue after six years of silence.

  “I’m doing well. I’m just in from the garden. I already have a beautiful selection of flowers in bloom this year.”