From Max

An essay I wrote for the Drunken Odyssey Podcast. Listen here.

In the middle of a rant about the five worst break-ups he’s endured in his life, Rob Fleming, Nick Hornby’s reliably morose music junkie and narrator of High Fidelity asks a question: 

“What came first—the music or the misery? Did I listen to music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to music?”

It’s a question that I can’t help but think of when I think about High Fidelity, a book that, throughout college and into my twenties, has given me my own secret language with which to use to describe my own “heartbreak, rejection, misery and loss.”

Fleming (or Gordon for movie watchers) is my avatar. We listen to a lot of the same music, love the same movies and we both date lawyers. If he were real, we’d probably get along great, based on his own criteria for friendship: it’s not what you are like, but what you like, that matters most. 

I’ve internalized the book so much that quoting it, or looking at the world through Fleming’s gloomy-colored glasses is practically reflexive at this point. I’m afraid that someday I’ll be found out, some girl will Google something I say, and know that these lines are Hornby’s, not mine. 

But did High Fidelity just give me the words to explain this glass half-empty worldview? Was I like this all along? Or did I become like this after reading it? Am I a sad bastard because I love High Fidelity? Or do I love High Fidelity because I’m a sad bastard? 

Throughout the novel, Fleming performs an autopsy on his most recent break-up, and examines his past failed relationships with the hope that it’ll guide him, and his ex-girlfriend Laura, back together. He’s a great narrator, but he’s not a great role model. He’s moody, unable to live in the moment, and his coping mechanisms occasionally border on illegality. 

It all feels eerily similar to my life. I’ve thought those things, I’ve said (some) of those things. But I’ve never stood outside an ex’s window, calling her several dozen times from a payphone. But that’s really only because people don’t use payphones anymore.

He’s got a lot of reasons for why things don’t work, but few focus on Rob himself, which is something 28-year old me can see way more clearly now than 18-year old me did. The fact that his petulance and irritability works in winning Laura back overshadows the very real problem that he had to be dragged, kicking and screaming, toward adulthood and true empathy for those other women.

Rob does change, eventually. And the fact that he does, means there’s hope for the rest of us sad bastards out there. Me included. That’s why High Fidelity is such a hopeful book. Not because Rob wins, but because maybe sometime in the future, long after I figure out my own shit, I might win, too.

From the latest volume of Forge

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about singles.

Not Cameron Crowe’s “Singles.” Or base hits, tennis, seven-inch records, or shots of whiskey and espresso. I’ve been thinking about the $1 bill, those scraps of mostly green paper that take up space in your pocket or wallet until an acceptable vending machine, parking meter or g-string can be found.

I’ve been thinking about these singles because I’ve started saving them in a jar next to the sink in my kitchen. Someday, the money in that jar is going to buy an engagement ring for my girlfriend, and so I’m also thinking a lot about what it means to be single, too.

I’ve read that you should save singles because you’ll never miss them. Those two or three bucks at the end of the day will just burn a hole in your pockets, people say, and you might as well put them to good use by stowing them away for something bigger. But they’ve come in handy when I’ve needed coffee a bag of potato chips, or to play those great Internet jukeboxes.

It’s going to take a while to buy an engagement ring one dollar at a time, but that’s probably a good thing. That kind of unhurried pace gives you a lot of time to think about what you want, and what’s left to do, before you stop being a “single person” and become someone’s “fiancé” or “husband.”

It’s not that I’m afraid to lose my freedom, or want to continue to sow my wild oats. I’m set. I always want to know what my girlfriend thinks. About everything. She’s eternally patient with me; and I’ve figured out that hanging out with her every night is better than hanging out with anyone else anywhere else.

When I say there are there’s a lot to do, I’m talking about figuring out how to find the courage to tackle issues head on rather than avoid them, and take better care of myself, physically and emotionally.

As a single guy, I’ve always lived in fear, of everything, really—fear that I’d be cheated on, fear that I’d be hurt, fear that I’d be left, fear of being exposed as someone fearful. It’s like walking around all day waiting for a sucker punch that never comes.

But why? It could be posttraumatic stress from being emotionally water boarded in previous relationships. Whatever the reasons, the paranoia and mistrust are so strong that like clockwork, every time I start to feel comfortable, and dare I say, happy, there’s always a little voice that whispers in my head: “Don’t get used to this—it’s not going to last.”

You can waste a lot of time waiting for that punch; the waiting can take various forms. I’ve avoided certain restaurants or coffee shops, just to avoid an ex. I’ve avoided music that makes me feel a certain way. I’ve tried to will my phone to text back just so I can fill the pause in the conversation with something other than my own panic. I’ve read enough into simple Google chat conversations to convince myself to prepare for the worst.

When you’re single you can be selfish. You can spend days binge-watching Orange is the New Black, wandering Skyrim, listening to Darkness on the Edge of Town on repeat or, if you’re like me, worrying. It’s easy hide from problems, and delay the decisions that nag you forever when you’re single.

But in a relationship, that’s not an option. I’ve realized that worrying about the worst that can happen is a surefire way to trigger something that will bring it on sooner. And all that worrying is exhausting.

So when I drop those dollars into the jar, it’s a daily reminder of all that things that I need to give up so that, when that day comes, when I finally pony up all that cash for that ring, and see her (I hope!) smile when I show it to her.

I’ll be able to enjoy it.