If I were wise, I would have listened to my mom when she told me to spend as much time with London as I could, since kids grow up so fast, and you can never get those years back.
But like I said, I'm not a wise man, and because of that, my life pretty much went into a tailspin. Even now, I wonder if I'll ever recover.
Where does one begin when trying to make sense of a story that makes little sense at all? At the beginning? And where is the beginning?
Who knows?
So let's start with this. When I was child, I grew up believing that I'd feel like an adult by the time I was eighteen, and I was right. At eighteen, I was already making plans. My family had lived paycheck to paycheck, and I had no intention of doing the same. I had dreams of starting my own business, of being my own boss, even if I wasn't sure what I was actually going to do. Figuring that college would help steer me in the proper direction, I went to NC State but the longer I was there, the younger I seemed to feel. By the time I collected my degree I couldn't shake the notion that I was pretty much the same guy I'd been in high school.
Nor had college helped me decide on the kind of business I'd start. I had little in the way of real-world experience and even less capital, so deferring my dream, I took a job in advertising for a man named Jesse Peters. I wore suits to the office and worked a ton of hours and yet, more often than not, I still felt younger than my actual age might indicate. On weekends, I frequented the same bars I did in college, and I often imagined that I could start over as a freshman, fitting right in with whatever fraternity I happened to join. Over the next eight years there would be even more changes; I'd get married and purchase a house and start driving a hybrid but even then, I didn't necessarily always feel like the adult version of me. Peters, after all, had essentially taken the place of my parents--like my parents, he could tell me what to do or else--which made it seem as though I was still pretending. Sometimes, when sitting at my desk, I'd try to convince myself: Okay, it's official. I'm now a grown-up.
That realization came, of course, after London was born and Vivian quit her job. I wasn't quite thirty years old and the pressure I felt to provide for my family over the next few years required sacrifice on a scale that even I hadn't expected, and if that isn't being a grown-up, I don't know what is. After finishing at the agency--on days when I actually made it home at a reasonable hour--I'd walk through the door and hear London call out, "Daddy!" and always wish that I could spend more time with her. She'd come running and I'd scoop her up, and she'd wrap her arms around my neck, and I'd remind myself that all the sacrifices had been worth it, if only because of our wonderful little girl.
In the hectic rush of life, it was easy to convince myself that the important things--my wife and daughter, my job, my family--were going okay, even if I couldn't be my own boss. In rare moments, when I imagined a future, I would find myself picturing a life that wasn't all that different than the one I was currently leading, and that was okay, too. On the surface, things seemed to be running rather smoothly, but I should have taken that as a warning sign. Trust me when I say that I had absolutely no idea that within a couple of years, I'd wake in the mornings feeling like one of those immigrants on Ellis Island who'd arrived in America with nothing but the clothes on their back, not speaking the language, and wondering, What am I going to do now?
When, exactly, did it all begin to go wrong? If you ask Marge, the answer is obvious: "It started going downhill when you met Vivian," she's told me more than once. Of course, being Marge, she would automatically correct herself. "I take that back," she would add. "It started way before that, when you were still in grade school and hung that poster on your wall, the one with the girl in the skimpy bikini with the big bahoonas. I always liked that poster, by the way, but it warped your thinking." Then, after further consideration, she would shake her head, speculating, "Now that I think about it, you were always kind of screwed up, and coming from the person who's always been regarded as the family screwup, that's saying something. Maybe your real problem is that you've always been too damn nice for your own good."
And that's the thing. When you start trying to figure out what went wrong--or, more specifically, where you went wrong--it's a bit like peeling an onion. There's always another layer, another mistake in the past or a painful memory that stands out, which then leads one back even further in time, and then even further, in search of the ultimate truth. I've reached the point where I've stopped trying to figure it out: The only thing that really matters now is learning enough to avoid making the same mistakes again.
To understand why that is, it's important to understand me. Which isn't easy, by the way. I've been me for more than a third of a century, and half the time, I still don't understand myself. So let me start with this: As I've grown older, I've come to believe that there are two types of men in the world. The marrying type, and the bachelor type. The marrying type is the kind of guy who pretty much sizes up every girl he dates, assessing whether or not she could be The One. It's the reason that women in their thirties and forties often say things like All the good men are taken. By that, women mean guys who are ready, willing, and able to commit to being part of a couple.
I've always been the marrying type. To me, being part of a couple feels right. For whatever reason, I've always been more comfortable in the presence of women than men, even in friendship, and spending time with one woman who also happened to be madly in love with me struck me as the best of all possible worlds.
And it can be, I suppose. But that's where things get a bit trickier because not all marrying types are the same. There are subgroups within the marrying types, guys who may also consider themselves to be romantic, for instance. Sounds nice, right? The kind of guy that most women insist they want? It probably is, and I must admit that I'm a card-carrying member of this particular subgroup. In rare instances, however, this particular subtype is also wired to be a people pleaser and when taken together, these three things made me believe that with just a bit more effort--if only I tried a little harder--then my wife would always adore me in the same way I adored her.
But what was it that made me that way? Was it simply my nature? Was I influenced by family dynamics? Or did I simply watch too many romantic movies at an impressionable age? Or all of the above?
I have no idea, but I state without hesitation that the watching too many romantic movies thing was entirely Marge's fault. She loved the classics like An Affair to Remember and Casablanca, but Ghost and Dirty Dancing were up there too, and we must have watched Pretty Woman at least twenty times. That movie was her all-time favorite. What I didn't know, of course, was that Marge and I enjoyed watching it because we both had massive crushes on Julia Roberts at the time, but that's beside the point. The film will probably live on forever because it works. The characters played by Richard Gere and Julia Roberts had...chemistry. They talked. They learned to trust each other, despite the odds. They fell in love. And how can one possibly forget the scene when Richard Gere is waiting for Julia--he's planning to take her to the opera--and she emerges wearing a gown that utterly transforms her? The audience sees Richard's awestruck expression, and he eventually opens a velvet box, which holds the diamond necklace Julia will also be wearing that evening. As Julia reaches for it, Richard snaps the lid closed, and Julia's sudden joyful surprise...
It was all there, really, in just those few scenes. The romance, I mean--trust, anticipation, and joy combined with opera, dressing up, and jewelry all led to love. In my preteenage brain, it just clicked: a how-to manual of sorts to impress a girl. All I really had to do was remember that girls had to like the guy first and that romantic gestures would then lead to love. In the end, another romantic in the real world was created.
When I was in sixth grade, a new girl joined the class. Melissa Anderson had moved from Minnesota, and with blond hair and blue eyes, she shared the look of her Swedish ancestors. When I saw her on the first day of school, I'm pretty sure I went slack-jawed and I wasn't the only one.
Every guy was whispering about her and there was little doubt in my mind that she was far and away the prettiest girl who'd ever set foot in Mrs. Hartman's class at Arthur E. Edmonds elementary school.
But the difference between me and the other guys at school was that I knew exactly what to do while they did not. I would woo her and though I wasn't Richard Gere with private jets and diamond necklaces, I did have a bicycle and I'd learned how to macrame bracelets, complete with wooden beads. Those, however, would come later. First--just like Richard and Julia--we had to get to like each other. I began to find reasons to sit at the same table with her at lunch. While she talked, I listened and asked questions, and weeks later, when she finally told me that she thought I was nice, I knew it was time to take the next step. I wrote her a poem--about her life in Minnesota and how pretty she was--and I slipped it to her on the school bus one afternoon, along with a flower. I took my seat, knowing exactly what would happen: She'd understand I was different, and with that would come an even greater epiphany, one that would lead her to reach for my hand and ask me to walk her home as soon as we got off the bus.
Except it didn't work out that way. Instead of reading the poem, she gabbed with her friend April the whole way home, and the following day, she sat next to Tommy Harmon at lunch and didn't talk to me at all. Nor did she speak to me the following day, or the day after that. When Marge found me sulking in my bedroom later, she told me that I was trying too hard and that I should just be myself.
"I am being myself."
"Then you might want to change," Marge retorted, "because you're coming across as desperate."
Problem was, I didn't think twice. Did Richard Gere think twice? He clearly knew more than my sister, and again, here's where wisdom and I were obviously traveling in opposite directions along the highway. Because Pretty Woman was a movie and I was living in the real world, but the pattern I established with Melissa Anderson continued, with variations, until it eventually became a habit I couldn't break. I became the king of romantic gestures--flowers, notes, cards, and the like--and in college, I was even the "secret admirer" to a girl I happened to fancy. I opened doors and paid for dates, and I listened whenever a girl wanted to talk, even if it was about how much she still loved her ex-boyfriend. Most girls sincerely liked me. I mean that. To them, I was a friend, the kind of guy who'd get invited to hang out with a group of girlfriends whenever they went out, but I seldom succeeded in landing the girl I'd set my sights on. I can't tell you how many times I've heard, "You're the nicest guy I know, and I'm sure you'll meet someone special. I have two or three friends I could probably set you up with..."
It wasn't easy being the guy who was perfect for someone else. It often left me brokenhearted, and I couldn't understand why women told me that they wanted certain traits--romance and kindness, interest and the ability to listen--and then didn't appreciate it when it was actually offered to them.
I wasn't altogether unlucky in love, of course. In high school, I had a girlfriend named Angela during my sophomore year; in college, Victoria and I were together most of my junior year. And during the summer after graduation from college, when I was twenty-two, I met a woman named Emily.
Emily still lives in the area, and over the years, I've seen her out and about. She was the first woman I ever loved, and since romance and nostalgia are often intertwined, I still think about her. Emily was a bit of a Bohemian; she favored long flowered skirts and sandals, wore little makeup, and had majored in fine arts with an emphasis on painting. She was also beautiful, with chestnut hair and hazel eyes that were flecked with gold, but beyond her physical appearance, there was more. She was quick to laugh, kind to everyone she met, and intelligent, a woman who most thought was perfect for me. My parents adored her, Marge loved her, and when we were together, we were comfortable even when silent. Our relationship was easy and relaxed; more than lovers, we were friends. Not only could we talk about anything, she delighted in the notes I'd place under her pillow or the flowers I'd have delivered to her workplace for no reason whatsoever. Emily loved me as much as she loved romantic gestures, and after dating her for a couple of years, I made plans to propose, even putting a deposit down on an engagement ring.
And then, I screwed it up. Don't ask me why. I could blame the booze that night--I'd been drinking with friends at a bar--but for whatever reason, I struck up a conversation with a woman named Carly. She was beautiful and she knew how to flirt and she'd recently broken up with a long-term boyfriend. One drink led to another, which led to more flirting, and we eventually ended up in bed together. In the morning, Carly made it clear that what had happened was simply a fling, with no strings attached, and though she kissed me goodbye, she didn't bother giving me her phone number.
There are a couple of very simple Guy Rules in this sort of situation, and Rule Number One goes like this: Never ever tell. And if your sweetheart ever suspects anything and asks directly, go immediately to Rule Number Two: Deny, deny, deny.
All guys know these rules, but the thing was, I also felt guilty. Horribly guilty. Even after a month, I couldn't put the experience behind me, nor could I seem to forgive myself. Keeping it secret seemed inconceivable; I couldn't imagine building a future with Emily knowing it was constructed at least in part on a lie. I talked to Marge about it, and Marge was, as always, helpful in that sisterly way of hers.
"Keep your stupid trap shut, you dimwit. You did a crappy thing and you should feel guilty. But if you're never going to do it again, then don't hurt Emily's feelings, too. Something like this will crush her."
I knew Marge was right, and yet...
I wanted Emily's forgiveness, because I wasn't sure I could forgive myself without it, and so in the end, I went to Emily and said the words that even now, I wish I could take back.
"There's something I have to tell you," I began, and proceeded to spill everything.
If forgiveness was the goal, it didn't work. If trying to build a long-term relationship on a foundation of truth was another goal, that didn't work either. Through angry tears, she stormed off, saying that she needed some time to think.
I left her alone for a week, waiting for her to call while moping around my apartment, but the phone never rang. The following week, I left two messages--and apologized again both times--but she still wouldn't call. It wasn't until the following week that we finally had lunch, but it was strained, and when she left the restaurant, she told me not to walk her to her car. The writing was on the wall and a week after that, she left a message saying it was over for good. It crushed me for weeks.
The passage of time has lessened my guilt--time always does--and I try to console myself with the idea that at least for Emily, my indiscretion was a blessing in disguise. I heard from a friend of a friend a few years after our breakup that she'd married an Australian guy and whenever I caught a glimpse of her, it appeared as though life was treating her well. I'd tell myself that I was happy for her. Emily, more than anyone, deserved a wonderful life, and Marge felt exactly the same way. Even after I'd married Vivian, my sister would sometimes turn to me and say, "That Emily sure was something. You really messed that up, didn't you?"
I was born in Charlotte, North Carolina, and aside from a single year in another city, I've lived there all my life. Even now, it strikes me as almost impossible that Vivian and I met in the place where we did, or even that we ever met at all. After all, she, like me, was from the South; like mine, her job required long hours, and she seldom went out. What are the odds, then, that I'd meet Vivian at a cocktail party in Manhattan?
At the time, I was working at the agency's satellite office in Midtown, which probably sounds like a bigger deal than it really was. Jesse Peters was of the opinion that pretty much anyone who showed promise in the Charlotte office had to serve at least a little time up north, if only because a number of our clients are banks, and every bank has a major presence in New York City. You've probably seen some of the commercials I've worked on; I like to think of them as thoughtful
and serious, projecting the soul of integrity. The first of those commercials, by the way, was conceived while I was living in a small studio on West Seventy-Seventh between Columbus and Amsterdam and trying to figure out whether my ATM accurately reflected my checking account, which showed a balance with just enough funds to purchase a meal deal at a nearby fast-food place.
In May 2006, a CEO of the one of the banks who loved my vision was hosting a charity event to benefit MoMA. The CEO was seriously into art--something I knew nothing about--and even though it was an exclusive, black-tie event, I hadn't wanted to attend. But his bank was a client and Peters was my do-what-I-tell-you-or-else boss, so what could I do?
I remember almost nothing about the first half hour, other than that I clearly didn't belong. Well over half the people in attendance were old enough to be my grandparents, and practically everyone was in a different stratosphere when it came to our respective levels of wealth. At one point, I found myself listening as two gray-haired gentlemen debated the merits of the G IV when compared to the Falcon 2000. It took me a while to figure out that they were comparing their private jets.
When I turned away from the conversation, I saw her boss on the other side of the room. I recognized him from late-night television, and Vivian would later tell me that he considered himself an art collector. She'd wrinkled her nose when she said it, implying that he had money but no taste, which didn't surprise me. Despite famous guests, his show's trademark humor was best described as lowbrow.
She was standing behind him, hidden from my line of sight, but when he stepped forward to greet someone, I saw her. With dark hair, flawless skin, and cheekbones that supermodels dream about, I was sure she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.
At first I thought she was his date, but the longer I watched, the more confident I was that they weren't together, that she instead worked for him in some capacity. Nor was she wearing a ring, another good sign... but really, what chance did I have?
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