Julia and the fork in my road

This may be the most difficult thing I have ever written, primarily because I've spent several years denying the gravity of this to myself and, to a large degree and for many valid reasons, pretending it didn’t happen. Like the happy times of my childhood that stood right next to the abusive ones, in my mind this was a series of dreams; some good, some bad, but not real.

There came a point in my relationship with E where I began to feel hopeless. I felt like she didn’t like me, didn’t understand me, didn’t want to live a life beyond the walls of our home and our children, that she didn’t want to have sex with me, besides what society teaches us is acceptable for a married couple: occasional decent sex every now and then. I was craving new experiences. In some ways I only saw what I was missing and never what I had in front of me, but many of my desires were valid, even in hindsight. In what I have come to realize are very important and understandable senses, I wanted a friend and I wanted excitement - to feel like I was human beyond being a husband and a father. In a far more potentially impactful and negative sense, and where the missteps began, I had given up on my marriage. E may have been feeling these same desires and feelings of desperation. I'm not sure, but at any rate we didn't talk about it... Another culturally imposed misstep.

Then Julia fell into my lap - or at least the seat next to me on the LIRR.

I was sitting on the 5:06 train, headed home. I remember I was in the car at the bottom of the stairs just under the main schedule sign in Penn Station, where I normally sat to line myself up with the parking garage, where I parked at 6:10AM every morning for the 6:15 train to get to the office over an hour before anybody else. The train was packed, I had boarded last minute, so I sat down in the first available seat, next to a young woman. I thought nothing of it. I fell asleep, as was my habit, until the conductor came around at Jamaica to wake me up and collect my ticket, at which point I would normally break out my laptop and work. Apparently, she had fallen asleep as well and we both frantically scrambled to find our tickets with the conductor hovering over us, probably angry at these two idiots who ride the train together, fall asleep together, and lose their tickets together. I found mine but it took her a while, digging in her disastrous cavern of a purse. She was clearly a bit of a mess - shit falling all over as she pulled a crumpled ticket from under a pile of nonsense she probably hadn’t needed or thought about in months.

I think I was embarrassed when I finally looked at her. She was attractive, not traditionally gorgeous in a way people might imagine: not some hot young girl to go after, but she had a raw beauty that struck me. She had a round, soft face and bright green eyes. Her tan skin made her eyes strike out at me like gigantic emeralds. The thing I can say I recall about her face is that she looked kind, as if she had a deepness, and maybe a bit of sadness, like me. I remember she was wearing a long, stretchy grey dress that was nothing special, but showed that she had a nice body. I’ve since forgotten the other details.

I made some joke to help myself feel better. It was something about feeling like the MTA, for the price, should give all monthly ticket holders one free bonus ride per month for an innocent passenger with a lost ticket. She laughed and we started chatting. She was working for the summer at an engineering company, basically doing nothing, where her mom was an in-house lawyer. I gave her my card as she got off. I don’t really know why but in the moment I think it was mostly innocent... she seemed like a pretty cool person, so let’s keep in touch. I didn’t really have any friends and maybe we could ride the train together sometimes - but deep down I guess I hoped for more. She was cute and talked to me and things at home weren’t awesome. I felt like I needed someone to connect with, even if only in a flirtatious way.

I remember when she texted me. I was in the garage getting in the car with my family. I think it just said, “hey it's Julia.” I deleted the text immediately, terrified. It was in that moment that I chose to hide her rather than bring her up as someone I had met and was interested in talking to. I hadn’t responded to the text and had no way to write her back since I had deleted it. I assumed she would be gone, figuring I wasn’t responding on purpose, but she texted me again a few days later, saying what I don’t remember, but from there we took off.

I ran for that 5:06 train every day, just to ride with her. We drank beer. We would take turns: I would buy two tall beers one day, she would steal two the next. She was a kleptomaniac of sorts and I found it endearing in some insane way.

Slowly, our conversations strayed from every day stuff and nonsense and deeper personal conversations, and then to sex. She admitted she thought she was a bit of a sex addict. I was hooked. We agreed to go for it. I booked a room at the Marriott Brooklyn Bridge hotel, where I was doing some work and could expense the room.

We had dinner. We sat outside at the Standard Hotel. I can't remember why I chose to go there - it made no sense logistically. I enjoyed it. It was nice to sit and talk with someone who had new stories I hadn’t heard, new perspectives I hadn’t considered, a lisp I found cute. I never really saw her as a challenge to E. She was additive in a way that I didn't understand at the time, but makes sense to me now, with all I have learned about relationships. After dinner we walked over to the Highline and polished off a bottle of wine. Drunk as all fuck, we made our way back to the Marriott where we tried and failed miserably at having sex. I remember her just stripping off all her clothes with no fanfare or foreplay and her body not being what I had imagined (not that she had a bad body - it was beautiful, but imaginations are strange and damning things), then me not being able to get hard, the single condom and no lube I had being ridiculous, and her saying she had to get home. So did I.

Then we got stuck on the subway for over an hour. That caused us to miss the 11:42 and have to wait for the 1:20AM train. I remember us falling asleep in the subway car, her head on my lap. It wasn’t even an affectionate thing, it was functional at that moment, but I remember looking down at her and feeling happy because I realized that I cared about her. I wanted good things for her. I enjoyed being with her. I sat there on the train, her head on my lap, my fingers in her frizzy hair, anxious to move but not caring if we didn't. Although there was a non-plutonic element to it, she was the first friend I had made in years, and was my unfortunate and ill-executed introduction to polyamory. But I also knew she couldn't last. Eventually, I knew, this would explode.

But still, after that night, despite the sex fail, Julia's place as a hidden friend was further solidified. We had had a great time. I felt like I couldn’t tell E about her. How could I explain this beautiful 21 year old girl I liked hanging out with because she was dark and interactive in new ways I hadn’t experienced? How could I ever explain having hidden over a month of knowing someone like this? So I kept it a secret. Having Julia both lifted me up and drove me into the ground with guilt.

We would drink at Penn station before getting on the train. She came to Philadelphia once for a night and we got raging drunk. We ate steak at Barclay Prime. I remember the way the hostess looked at us when we walked in: me basically in business attire, Julia in a sheer knit sweater barely covering her black bra, black tights, and the black low-top lace-less Converse All Stars she had worn almost every time I had seen her. We clearly looked a bit crazy, and we reveled in it. We both sneered at the hostess and were proud that we stuck out like sore thumbs. We made fun of every person in the place, and when we got stares, we stared back, daring them to sneer at us from their miserable seats. Fuck the world was our attitude. We wandered the streets around Rittenhouse in the bitter cold, deciding to see every block one by one no matter how numb our fingers got, drinking in half the bars along the way. Then we went back to the room and passed out, barely touching in bed because she didn’t like that, and we were seeing double.

She would text me good morning saying, “good morning rasskunt” (a word she had made up) or “good morning fucker!!! ☠️💀🔫💣🍻”. I spoke to her the same way, “hey fucker” or “goodnight asshole.” At the same time, we were endearing towards each other. She cared about me, and I cared about her. She was my secret, and I was hers. In that, we had this unique freedom: we could talk about anything. Our deepest secrets and fears could be shared openly, because in the end, neither of us mattered. Even our often derogatory and offensive way of speaking to each other was affectionate in a fucked up way. 

Julia intertwined in my life and I in hers and only we knew. We were each other’s escape and were unable to talk about it except to our therapists. We both went on Saturday mornings and then we would call each other and talk about what silly things they said or what hit home. She was depressed and didn’t believe in herself. I was depressed and has too much faith in my ability to overcome it with stamina. In so many ways we complimented each other in that regard: she was hard on me in pointing out the obvious in ways that nobody ever had, and I provided encouragement to her, ensuring her that she was enough, just as she was.

Fast forward to April of 2015, which I will write about some other time, E found out about Julia. That night, Julia and I ended, abruptly, with a single text from me, written while E watched: "Emily knows about us. It's over. Goodbye." I have so much more to write about that experience, and I will, tonight, but for now, let me just say that I cannot imagine that experience from Julia's point of view: that sudden, 2AM goodbye; wondering if "she" had ruined my life, my kid's life, E's life (I put "she" in quotes because Julia would blame herself, not me, for that); not knowing if she were ever going to see or talk to her friend again.

But that was pretty much it. Cold turkey - we were gone from each other. About a year ago, while I was sleeping in some hotel (I can't remember where) I got a text in the middle of the night from some 516 number I didn't recognize. It was just two emojis: a camel and a beer. I had no idea what it was and I didn't respond. A few days later, I did write back, "who is this?"

The response: "you know who this is asshole. I promised E I would never talk to you again but I was really fucked up when I texted you."

Then, I knew immediately who it was. I rode the train home that day chatting with her as I had a year prior. Only this time, we were old friends catching up. She was applying to medical schools, I was ok and E and I were doing fine - better than ever. Our son was born and he is crazy and cool and she would like him. At the end of the conversation we said goodbye, and I felt a tiny bit of closure.

But I still think about Julia every day. I wish I still had her friendship. I wish I had done that right and been able to have her present in my life, but I also think that it had to happen the way that it did for it to help open a new door to E and me. And in reality, had I brought her up, there is no way she would have been accepted as a friend. Meeting Julia, in some fucked up way, forced E and I into an uncomfortable place we would not have willingly entered on our own, and brought us to a much more fulfilling way of life - one in which we are both free to pursue relationships outside of our marriage. Ironically, if Julia were to come along now, we could have a relationship, out in the open.

But she came then, and so she is gone now.

The unwelcome guest

Fanaticism always had a place in my life. When I was young, my mom would watch Reverend Price parade his pin stripe -suited self and his lively hand-waving flock all over TV. We weren’t allowed to watch the Simpsons because Bart saying “don’t have a cow” was disrespectful to Marge in ways only the devil's hands could guide. We had bibles and devotional books, Jesus coloring books, and crosses made of palms, the rolling paper of the Lord.

Primarily, we attended a Calvary Chapel, a collection of poorly organized and un-funded churches known for their acceptance of bikers, derelicts, and all manner of regular sinners. Pastor Pete (there is no better name for a Pastor than “Pastor Pete”) was a medium built mustached man, full of himself and the Holy Spirit. He lived with his wife and half-dozen children in a broken house on a broken street next to the broken church building.

In the entertainment arena, Pastor Pete's kids had it worse than us: we weren’t allowed to watch the Simpsons, but Pastor Pete’s kids weren’t even allowed to watch live TV. Although I'm sure he controlled what shows they could watch, it wasn't the shows themselves that were the reason for the live TV ban: it was the commercials. Pastor Pete didn’t like the negative effect they had on his children, so he pre-recorded everything they wanted to watch, dutifully making sure he didn't save the commercials. For Pastor Pete, it may have been that a desire for tinker toys could lead to a hankering for ungodly things. Or maybe it was less divine than that: maybe Pastor Pete was sick of being asked for things he couldn't afford, and wanted to kill the desire at its informational source.

At some point in time, Pastor Pete had disappeared suddenly, on the overnight. Apparently he had fled in shame after approaching a woman in the congregation and making a failed attempt to convince her to run away with him. On her decline, he ran, leaving his wife and children in the broken house. Some time later, he was welcomed back as a forgiven sinner, no different than the drug addics in his congregation.

Religions have used many weapons over the millennia, but none have worked so effectively as fear. Fear is the slow-burn chemical weapon that destroys top-down from within, wreaking havoc on the mind, the heart, the spirit. Fear was pumped from the pulpit of Calvary Chapel in clouds of poison gas disguised as hope, forgiveness, and grace. The insistence that we were harboring sins which might prove unforgivable was a fear instilled in us quietly. Vague notions like, “blasphemy against the Holy Spirit is an unforgivable sin” tossed children in the congregation (audience?) into a cloud of mystery and the fear of eternal damnation.

I am 35 years old, and there is still a nagging voice in me, daily, that I am going to spend eternity burning, then burning again, and again, and again without end, all while looking up at people in heaven swimming in pools of perfect water and riding on the backs of lions.

But then, I am also filled with a happiness and hope that I am, despite the threatening notions pressed into me when I was a child, finally in control of my own destiny; that I am free. For some reason which is odd to me, many people seem to fear nothingness after death. For me, there has never been anything that has lifted more weight from my shoulders than the thought that one day I will just power down and cease to be: no promised land to miss out on, no hell to burn in, no regrets - just The End. Just, nothing. That I am the captain of my own ship and the idea that my actions may not lead to a positive or negative reaction from some Holy Ghost hovering above me is incredibly liberating.

Make me free.

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