Asses, fools, dolts! chaff and bran, chaff and bran!
porridge after meat! I could live and die in the eyes of Troilus.
Ne'er look, ne'er look; the eagles are gone. Crows and daws,
crows and daws! I had rather be such a man as Troilus than
Agamemnon and all Greece.
--Pandarus, Troilus and Cressida, I.i.
David Taylor, romantic disasters -- after Keith's catty story, I can't help telling the tale of how Dave set in motion a series of events that had me formulating opinions on flatware, eating half boxes of macaroni and cheese, selling my comics, and listening to his tiny cheap-ass coffee grinder at 6 a.m. every morning.
Dave and I went through the English masters program at the University of North Texas in Denton, Texas, and even then, his love for 1) the lyric and 2) the gross consumed him. Someday he will write the definitive poem on dingle berries.
We shared lots of adventures, late-night boozy talk, and staggering-home confessionals. And though his constant encouragements of “just one more” caused me to risk alcoholism and did subject me to a horribly embarrassing stint as a mumble-mouthed reciter at a “spelling-bee,” he was a good friend. For his part, he thought I was one of the few who understood his poetry, a belief he held with fierce faith because once or twice I said put the comma here and not there.
Well, in 1989, Dave got his masters and went to the University of Tennessee in Knoxville to pursue a doctorate. By dint of running out of courses to take, I got my masters too, a year later. I didn't know what to do next, but knew I was unsuitable for a regular job, so when Dave during a phone call asked, "Why not apply at Tennessee?" I went ahead and did. It was the only place I applied because most doctoral programs required a $25 application fee, and I was, you know, cheap. I applied to Tennessee way past the deadline and, in my ignorance, suggested I start in the spring term. To my shock, I was accepted and told to report for the fall term, barely three months away.
After he heard that I was, indeed, coming to Tennessee, Dave bopped around the English department telling his friends that I was on my way, that I was Apollo come to walk the earth, that the sun never set without my say-so, and that whole discourses were founded on my chance utterances. You see, the thing about Dave is, his enthusiasms overwhelm everything, and force into service all his rhetorical abilities. He had talked up Keith to me, and when I was finally introduced to him, I half expected to be in the presence of Homer, Longinus, and Keats all rolled into one.
Unbeknownst to me, he was especially assiduous in singing my praises to one particular woman.
In due course, I arrived in Knoxville, found an apartment in the student slums, and went to the doctoral student orientation session. There, while sitting next to Dave and attempting to ignore his scatalogical descriptions of various professors, a vivacious dark-haired, black-and-purple clad woman entered and sat down. I was enthralled, and when I heard her voice and the things she said, my life turned.
During a break in the orientation, I screwed up my courage and invited her to Sam & Andy's with Dave and me and other grad students. I remember a day or two later her driving me home, but politely declining my invitation inside. At a party that night or a night later, I remember saying, in front of her out-of-town boyfriend, "We'll talk later; we have lots of time." Yes, I said that.
Unfortunately, this was not the woman to whom Dave had praised my virtues. The woman who, it turned out, had created out of Dave's hyperbole, before she even met me, numerous scenarios each inevitably ending in matrimony. The woman who, it must be said, had a single-mindedness of purpose to put Agamemnon to shame.
The woman who swept into my life and bed with a fury I was incapable of resisting. Now, I was no beautiful Troilus, no Casanova, no heart-prize. In fact, I was still recovering from a failed relationship from six or seven years before, and had serious self-doubts about my desirability. Like Tess, at certain critical moments I'm passive and let the winds push me where they may. Besides, she was cute and smart and liked me, or liked what she thought was me. It's possible, also, that I was despondent over the dark-haired woman with the boyfriend and who was I kidding, anyway?
Within two or three weeks of moving to Knoxville, I was living with this woman, a 19th Century literature scholar. Within two months, we were engaged. To buy the ring, we scraped together our resources, and I sold nearly all of my quite extensive collection of comic books. To improve her catch, she put me on a diet (no more full boxes of macaroni and cheese), oversaw my grooming, and introduced me to the necessity of acquiring elegant flatware and Royal Doulton china.
It ... was not a match made in heaven. We were as different as two random people could be. I was a desultory student, at best, merely following my passions, and she was a highly intelligent career-minded woman looking forward to climbing the social ladder, hosting elegant parties, and impressing the power elite with witty bon mots. I just wanted to hang with my grungy but brilliant friends and talk literature. To make matters worse, she somehow sensed my attraction for the dark-haired woman, and gave me no end of grief.
As time passed, we began arguing about everything: capital punishment (I was against it), the poor (she thought they needed to get off their asses and get a job), and even our Scrabble games. I'd never played Scrabble, she loved it, and for a time she beat me pretty good. Then I got the hang of the strategy, learned that thwarting her long words like "sangfroid" with "cat" made perfect sense, and started winning consistently. Big mistake, and to my shame, I learned to throw a game or two to keep the peace.
It couldn't last. One night she took off her engagement ring, announced it was over, and, a day or two later, informed me that she was cutting deals to get me into student housing, that she was going to her parents for a bit, and, that, in the meantime, I should move out and move in with Dave, with whom she had already made arrangements. To her mind, it was the least Dave could do after selling her a bill of goods. The same single-minded dedication she exhibited in claiming me she now employed in getting me out of her life.
I was crushed, for a time, but even before the breakup, I knew that plunging into marriage with her would be nightmarish. Ashen-faced, I wandered the halls of the English department like a ghost, and at night slept on the couch in the tiny living room of Dave and his wife. Now, Dave was famously exuberant, gross, excited, passionate. His wife was the most prim and proper woman I've ever known. Those two weeks at his house were torture. Dave would tell one of his shit stories and I'd wince while his wife looked on disapprovingly.
Every morning, the two would get up obscenely early, grind coffee in their little kitchen that was really just on the other side of the tiny living room where I slept, and get ready for the day. Those two weeks had a surreal quality, but the fact was, I needed someone to structure my life, then, and I will always be grateful to Dave and his wife for taking me in.
In short order, my ex-fiance had pulled the necessary strings to get me into student housing, bought a shower curtain, some towels, and other household items, and washed her hands of the mess. Except for one little detail -- the wedding ring. She found a buyer, got the cash, and came over one night with a friend to give me half of the loot. Now, her friend had more or less been displaced by me, though she never to his great regret showed romantic interest in him. Now he was re-instated, and had been dragged along to give me the cash. Well and good, I suppose. But after handing me some bills, she announced that she and her friend were using her share to go overseas for a short trip.
It's embarassing now, and probably was then, but I took the news badly, and after she'd left, ripped down the shower curtain, dug the towels out of the laundry, grabbed the cheap dishes and threw everything into a box, which I then left on her doorstep. (As should be obvious, I have some sympathy for an ex of Keith's who recently dumped a pile of stuff on his doorstep.)
Anyway, the worst of the emotional storm passed fairly quickly, and within a month my equilibrium had been restored. I was actually grateful that she had called a halt to the wedding because we obviously were not suited for each other, and, to my shame, I didn't have the strength to call if off myself. She was a good woman, but not the one for me. A year or two later, we became casual friends again and laughed about our romantic misadventure.
That was later, though; earlier in the breakup days I was still somewhat bitter, if mostly restored.
Now, I don't remember how it happened, but for some reason the dark-haired woman was in my new apartment one night, shortly after I'd moved in. It's possible we had met for a study session, or she came by to drop off some class notes, or whatnot, but one night she was sitting on my couch when the phone rang.
It was my ex-fiance. She had found some stuff of mine she wanted to return and could she come over. Sure, I said. I told the dark-haired woman that the ex was on her way, and asked if she wanted to hide out in the bedroom. No, she said, it's cool.
Sometimes the gods smile and grant tiny pleasures, petty though they may be. When the ex came over, she and the dark-haired woman chatted pleasantly as can only two women who dislike each other. At the first pause, the ex made her exit.
I looked at my friend, she looked at me, I said, "You don't know what--," she said, "Yes, I do," and we laughed and laughed.
Petty? Yes. Triumphant? Oh yes.
And Dave? Dave approved of the breakup because, you know, now we could drink more beer. He felt no guilt over his involvement: "Hey," he said. "I set 'em up; it's up to you to knock 'em down." Keith? I had met him earlier at a Writing Center party, we shook hands, he cocked an eyebrow at the woman on my arm, and said nothing. Shortly after the breakup, I found myself dragged by Dave to Keith's ratty little apartment. Keith opened the door, saw me, evaluated the situation, and said, "Welcome back."
The dark-haired woman? My instincts at the beginning were right; she was a turn in my life. We had our own adventures, both glorious and catastrophic, but today we're good and dear friends.
The moral? I don't know. But it has something to do with macaroni and cheese.
Today, at noon central, Fry Street Fair opens on Fry Street in Denton, Texas. This is news because for the last few years the fair was held in Dallas; the City of Denton was nervous about the ever-increasing popularity of the annual event. But after organizers promised not to advertise the fair outside of Denton, the city fathers permitted a scaled-down version of the fair to return home.
