Big Dumb Baby
I was raised by my maternal grandmother who—among teaching me the finer
points of smoking non-filter cigarettes and ironing a perfect crease into
polyester slacks—made sure I grew up understanding the one true pillar of
friendship: “Most friends,” she’d say, the word oozing from her mouth like some
fine poison, “wouldn’t piss in your ass if your guts were on fire.” So many
times was this phrase repeated that it should have been etched into our family
crest and set above the front door to keep out would-be friends.
I knew Grandma to have only two friends. The first, a woman named Linda
who was several years Grandma’s junior, seemed to come around only when the two
of them were going on cruises to Mexico. Linda owned a pizzeria and as a kid I
spent afternoons inside the small restaurant feeding quarters into the pinball
machines in the back while the two of them sat at one of the small tables and
smoked and laughed over pictures of their latest trip. The last time Grandma
saw Linda I was nearly an adult. We were both invited to her wedding—she was on
her fifth or sixth husband by then—and while we were welcome at the ceremony I
remember feeling as if we’d crashed the reception. Grandma didn’t know anyone
at our table and spent much of the afternoon trying to make her way to the one
with Linda’s adult children. By the time she got there, sitting down next to a
tanned young man who looked just like his mother, he seemed to not know who she
was. Taking her place in the receiving line, ready for a warm response from the
woman who’d accompanied her on so many vacations, all she got was a short hug,
a brief introduction to the groom, and a complicit smile.
The only other friend Grandma had was a German immigrant named Gretta who
called our house three or four times a day. Each time Grandma picked up the
phone, perhaps hoping to hear from Linda, she’d cheerfully say, “Hello,” and
then roll her eyes. “Hi Gretta.” For the next hour she’d be roped into
listening to the thick accent, the woman recounting her most recent complaint
about her daughter or her newest physical ailment. When she hung up she’d say,
“God I hate that damned woman.” But she still picked up the phone every day.
Eventually, one of Gretta’s many ailments proved fatal and the day after her funeral—where
Grandma was the only friend in attendance—the phone rang and Grandma joked,
“That’s probably Gretta calling me from beyond the grave.” She picked up the
receiver only to find dead air. This happened more than a dozen times over the
next month, and I came to believe that when friends died their spirits were
haunting.
Perhaps it goes without saying that for most of my childhood I was
friendless. Sure, I had schoolmates and neighbors, but I was only allowed to
socialize with one girl, Michelle, whose parents were both teachers. For some
reason, Grandma trusted them and so I was allowed on occasion to have a little
contact with Michelle outside of school. Still, I can count on one hand the
number of times I was allowed to accept invitations to her house. Miraculously,
the summer before I was fourteen, I was allowed to spend two weeks with her
family in Hawaii. They treated me like a second daughter, allowing Michelle and
I entire hours of time on our own that we spent on the beach, exploring sea side
walking paths, and swimming in the resort pool. When I returned home, I regaled
Grandma with tales of our adventures.
A year after the trip, Grandma moved me to another town. I see now that
she went out of her way to keep Michelle from being a part of my life after
that. She wouldn’t allow me to talk to her on the phone, I wasn’t permitted to
accept any more invitations to her house, even for her birthday. Nor was I
allowed to invite Michelle to our new home. Since both of us were too young to
drive, I saw my only childhood friend again one other time. She appeared on my
doorstep a few weeks after my fifteenth birthday with a card and a copy of
Stephen King’s newest book. I stepped out onto the front porch and sat with her
on the cold cement step while her mother waited in the car.
“You’re not mad at me, are you?” she said.
“No.”
“It’s just, I don’t get it. Why don’t you want to be my friend? It’s okay
that you live here now. We can still keep in touch.”
I didn’t know how to explain something even I didn’t understand. Or tell
her that Grandma was behind it all, or if she’d even believe me—Grandma had
always been so nice and cordial to Michelle and her family, buying extravagant
gifts for them at the holidays, offering to drive me and Michelle to school. Sitting
on the front step, not looking into the face of the girl who’d been my friend
since kindergarten, I suddenly felt like a baby whose favorite toy had been
taken away. I had no response but to cry.
Michelle looked at her shoes, green Converse sneakers I envied. “I gotta
go,” she finally said.
These years preceded email and social media, so we only exchanged a
handful of letters over the next few months, letters I received only because I
was the one to check the mail each day. One of the last Michelle sent was an
essay she’d written in her English class about her best friend, me. She’d made a cover for the essay, a collage
of photos of the two of us over the years, and in the essay she lamented the
fact that we drifted apart.
Grandma kept a close reign on me after
that so by the time I left for college I didn’t know how to make or keep
friends. By observing the relationships around me, I came to understand that
trust was at the core of every good friendship. But I constantly thought of
Grandma’s words, “They won’t piss in your ass if your guts were on fire,”
especially as I witnessed petty betrayals and meaningless arguments caused by
gossip and revealed secrets. And I certainly didn’t understand how not lending
another girl a pair of shoes or inviting one friend but not another to a party
was cause for jealousy and cruel acts of revenge. Or worse, for simply cutting
someone out of the loop. It seemed better to simply be friendly with everyone
so as not to commit a faux pas that would surely end badly.
But one boy, Lucas, was immediately nice to me as soon as we met. He made
it clear he was homosexual, and that the interest he showed in me wasn’t
physical, so when he stopped by for dinner or freshman calculus study sessions,
I knew he didn’t have an ulterior motive. For a year our friendship was a good
one, then suddenly he began calling on me only when all of his other friends
were busy. Our friendship fizzled when I was stranded on the side of the
freeway with my stalled car and he refused to come and pick me up, citing that
he was right in the middle of watching an episode of Iron Chef with his
roommates. Though I was hurt, I never confronted him. I knew for sure I put too
much stock in his friendship.
So I attempted to diversify, and told myself I’d hold fast to at least
three good friends, one more than Grandma’s allotment. But I lacked the ability
to make small talk. This probably stemmed from the fact that I’d never been put
into a social setting outside of a classroom. Most people my age could walk up
to a stranger in a coffee shop, at the laundry, in a restaurant and begin a
light and witty conversation about something they seemed to have in common—a
certain blended drink, fabric softener, or pasta dish. This sort of spontaneity
was at the core of making friends. But my childhood had strictly forbid
spontaneous interaction; Grandma would never have allowed me to surprise her with
a neighbor coming over to play or a last minute invitation. Plans had to be
made weeks in advance, outfits chosen, and behavior rehearsed. More than likely
these sorts of things were simply met with, “Like hell you’re doing that,” and
so in my adulthood I had to attempt to break free of this behavior. I told myself the way I’d been treated by
Lucas was an exception to the way people generally treated one another, not an
example of Grandma’s golden rule.
As I entered my thirties—the age experts agree signals the plateau oftrue friend-making—I took a short assessment of my progress at making friends: I knew six people who would pee on me if I
suddenly burst into flames. To those close friends, I’d become fiercely loyal. One in particular, Gibb, had earned my respect
over the ten-years I’d known him. And while I admired him, the longer I knew
him, the more I pitied him. He lived alone, never left his apartment except to
attend classes, our meetings, or drive to visit his ailing parents. His
bookcases were filled not with the requisite books of the authors who visited
our campus, but with DVDs and Playstation games. He spent the wee hours of his
mornings not partying with the local writers but in chat rooms.
In an attempt to show the world what a good guy Gibb was, I named him
Managing Editor of the University creative journal when I stepped down. The
following year, my husband Adam and I moved to another state to take teaching
jobs. But we got together with Gibb whenever we could. During one visit we sat
around in his living room—movie posters on the walls and scented candles lit on
every surface—drinking beer and catching up on each others’ lives. Before we
left, he told me, “That’s what I like best about you guys. I don’t have to talk
to you every day to be close friends. We just kinda pick up where we left off.”
At the time, I didn’t think much of it except I couldn’t shake the
feeling that for years he’d been meticulously measuring our friendship against
others he had, weighing me against some criteria for keeping and discarding
people.
A few years later, when a position
opened at my workplace, I wrote Gibb a letter of recommendation. I put in a
good word for him with my boss, telling her how much the two of them had in
common, and that I thought he’d really fit in with the faculty. It didn’t take
too long for him to get the job. It took even less time for the two of them to
become lovers. At first, I was supportive of their relationship. I helped them
keep it a secret from the higher-ups so neither one of them would be fired, and
even deceived my fellow coworkers so they wouldn’t be found out. Gibb was my
friend. And friends put out fires for one another.
Then I found out about Big Dumb Baby, a sex game they played in the
bedroom where Gibb was made to act like an infant called Big Dumb Baby and she acted like Mommy, spanking him and telling him what she wanted him to do to her. I’m all for kinky sex, but never have I felt turned on by the idea of intercourse with a baby. But Gibb wanted
to be humiliated in such a way. He liked it enough to marry Mommy.
Every time I saw him in the halls, in the copy room, at parties all I
could think about was him trussed up in adult diapers wearing a baby bonnet and
sucking his wife’s toes. I imagined him bent over and allowing her to spank
him.
Grandma took to her grave the mystery of why she put an end to the friendship
I had with Michelle. Now that I’m an adult, I see that she—like so many other
single-parents—developed an emotional dependency on me. She’d been divorced
several times, had a hard time maintaining a healthy relationship with her own
children, and because she didn’t work she was isolated at home for most of the
day. I was her sole companion, and if I had a relationship with someone else
she would have felt threatened. Today,
this condition is known as parental co-dependency, but when I was young it was
simply the way my world worked.
Or maybe Grandma’s motive was one she didn’t realize; perhaps she was
incapable of maintaining more than one close relationship. Based on her track
record with Linda and Gretta, that seemed to fit the bill. She might have found
it difficult to maintain more than one close relationship. Or she could’ve been
like the millions of people on the planet who simply use a spouse—in her case a
pseudo-spouse, me—as their best friend. Some psychologists argue that it’s only
natural for a spouse to become the best friend, while another camp argues such
behavior results in an unhealthy marriage of co-dependency. We surely fell into
the latter category. Whatever the reason, I wish Grandma would’ve told me what she
was feeling so I could’ve tried to understand it, if not somehow grown from it,
maybe even learned to be a better judge of character.
“I unfriended you,” Gibb told me one day over the phone. We hadn’t spoken
in months, hadn’t seen each other socially in nearly a year. And though we
worked together, the only indicator that he was at work was Mommy’s car in the
parking lot.
“You what?”
“It’s not personal or anything. It’s just, sometimes you post comments on
Facebook about your boss.”
“And? So do a lot of people.”
“Your boss is my wife.”
“She’s not my only boss.” I’d been irate about some policy changes and
had posted a few comments about how unjustly I was being treated. And while Mommy had started to go out of her
way to make my work life miserable, none of my posts were directed at her. “I
haven’t posted anything about her,” I said.
“I don’t think that’s true.”
My face suddenly got very hot and before I could stop them, my eyes
filled with tears and I felt the same way I had years before as I sat with
Michelle on the front porch step. “So instead of talking to me about it you
just unfriend me?”
“I’m sorry, but your posts make for awkward conversations around my
house. Conversations I don’t want to have.”
Just after their marriage, Gibb told me he and Mommy had never fought, had
never had a full-blown, heated argument about anything. If they didn’t fight
about anything, did they even really care about each other? Were they ever
really honest with each other for that matter? I suddenly blamed myself for
Gibb’s passionless, dishonest marriage where his wife treated him like an infant.
“You know this is bullshit, right?” I said.
He was damned sure going to get some fight out of me. I deserved what I’d
never gotten before: a real reason for the end of a friendship.
“It’s not bullshit. I’m married. My wife and I are one.” He was
completely serious. As if after his wedding he’d gotten a lobotomy or been
plugged into the Borg. And with that, our friendship was officially over. Like
Grandma’s mysterious sudden dislike for Michelle, like her dysfunctional
relationship with Gretta that only ended in death, I’d been cast out into the
ether.
A few weeks later, I stumbled upon the fact that Gibb had systematically cut
all of his pre-marriage friends out of his life. It’s a common enoughphenomenon, some couples end decade-long friendships prior to getting hitched.
But usually, the ties are cut with single friends, not married ones. Especially
married friends like me who rallied for them for years.
I’m not naïve enough to believe that people don’t change during marriage.
Compromise is part of a working relationship. But never have I thought during
the course of my marriage that I needed to end a friendship because Adam
doesn’t approve. We maintain common friends—most of them other married
couples—and our own friendships that came with us before we took our vows. I wanted
to believe Gibb had maintained some ties and I just hadn’t made the cut.
“I feel so used,” I told another
one of his toss-aways.
“It’s funny that she still has all of her friends, but he’s had to get
rid of his. The people he’s friends with now are people she brought with her to
the marriage,” she said.
“I don’t get it. How could he just use me and instead of talking to me?
Just side with her and jump ship?”
“It’s the type of person he is,” she said, shrugging. And something in
her tone reminded me so much of Grandma’s wisdom that I shuddered. “But if you
really want to know the truth,” she said, “I think he had a crush on you at
some point and was stupid enough to actually tell her about it.”
I didn’t want to believe she was right, but I immediately recalled an
evening at Mommy’s house when I made a joke about how I’d landed my husband.
“If Adam hadn’t wanted me,” I laughed, “I was going to move in on to Gibb next.”
Big Dumb Baby blushed, and Mommy’s smile became a tight-lipped mask.
After Adam and I got home I asked him, “Do you think Gibb thought I was
serious about wanting to date him?”
“Obviously,” he said. “You saw her
face, too.”
“So she hates me now,” I said.
“She’ll probably try to get me fired.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Adam said.
Because Mommy was my boss, I couldn’t confront her about the tension
between Gibb and I, which made the situation even more infuriating. It was as
if she’d simply taken him into her house and locked the door, forever keeping
him only to herself. I never dropped by to see him, suspecting from his comment
years before that a surprise visit to Mommy’s house wouldn’t be welcomed. We’d
end up on the front stoop, pussy footing around why he no longer valued me,
never getting at the fact that he’d spent the majority of our ten year
friendship somehow keeping stock of what little time he actually had to spend
on me for him to benefit.
I’d spent much of my adult life trying to disbelieve, disprove even, that
Grandma was wrong about friendships. But
I couldn’t shake the stirring belief that since Michelle’s departure so many
years before, I’d been stunted. And that deep down I was still the child Grandma
had raised to distrust and misjudge. Perhaps I’d surrounded myself not with
people who’d put out a fire, but those who would simply piss on me when given
the opportunity.
More hurtful than anything Gibb had done was the fact that the end of our
relationship made me question the validity of every close friendship I still
had. Three of the five remaining close friends lived hundreds of miles away and
most of our weekly interactions took place through social media. I send cards
at holidays, but my ability to remember birthdays and anniversaries is sadly lacking.
I love these friends very much, more so even than family members. But I’m
unsure if they really know how valuable they are in my life, how crushed I’d be
if they suddenly cut me out.
The more I think about Gibb’s end to our friendship and those that—despite
my shortcomings—are still thriving, the more I relive the moment with Michelle
on the front step of Grandma’s house, her green sneakers and my desperate need
to tell her that she was my best friend and I didn’t want to have to let her
go. If I’d just had the courage to stand up to Grandma, to tell her how our
relationship isolated me, perhaps my life would’ve been a little less lonely.
Perhaps I could’ve grown into a woman comfortable making small talk with
strangers, seeing in them potential friends rather than those who, at the sight
of me aflame, would turn tail and run.
Joy I loved this, I remember your grandmother and how she scared me. I felt like she never liked me. Being best friends with Dede I love learning now more about you and your grandmother.
ReplyDeleteShe was a scary woman sometimes, but I'm pretty sure she didn't hate you. I think Grandma just had a harder life than most people and it came out in negative ways, especially when she was jealous. Glad you read and liked the piece:)
DeleteI can only comment that I think you are a great friend and I am happy to call you one of mine. :)
ReplyDelete