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Monday, Sept. 29, 2003 - 8:00 p.m. THE HARDEST BUTTON TO BUTTON I listened to the White Stripes driving in from New Orleans after visiting my parents for my birthday. I always thought the lyrics to this song did not make too much sense, until I tried to apply it to my life. My life thus far has been a series of buttons. Some easy to button, some more difficult. Doing well in school, staying out of a troubled youth, getting a good job, etc., all in the midst of manic depression, are but a few buttons that I have buttoned in my life. However, if you have been a devotee of this diary, you probably know my hardest button that I still have yet to button. I am currently overwhelmed with guilt right now. This afternoon at lunch I brought up the old “Golden Birthday” story of my brother-in-law. My mother then took that as though I was upset that I did not have a similar Golden Birthday. Crying, she told me that she thought I might be upset that if she had any type of party for me as I have always avoided attention from people. I attempted to assure her that I was not in the least bit upset, that my weekend with my parents was all I needed. However, she did not seem to believe me. During the week, I contacted yet another figure from my past. He is the brother of a very close friend I had in grade school, and he lives in Baton Rouge. I had been attempting to find a way to contact the brother just for the hell of it, because he is the only childhood contact I have that I knew was in Baton Rouge. I knew he had joined a fraternity in college, so I put out a search for him on Greekchat.com. Sure enough, someone assuming that I was one of his frat brothers responded to my request giving me his cell phone number. He was delighted to hear from me. Growing up, I, my friend, and his two brothers were all members of the same boy scout troop. Their father was our scoutmaster. My friend’s brother went to LSU hoping he would eventually get accepted into vet school. He graduated but was never accepted. He currently works at a veterinary clinic and goes to school part-time so that he will not have to start repaying his student loans. Coincidentally, he said that my old classmate was coming into New Orleans from London for the weekend. I will anonymously name my old grade school friend “Edward.” Edward was always a straight-A student in school. I would have to say that he inspired me to do well in school because I was friends with him. He was the type of kid that never got a B in his life, and to do so would absolutely be worst than death itself. In grade school, I never did better than him, but I prided myself on the fact that I could keep up with him. After grade school, we parted ways and he went to one high school and I went to another. I went on to fight through an excruciating adolescence full of manic depression, and he went on to become the valedictorian of his senior class. However, we stayed in contact through scouting. He attended Tulane full-paid on a Dean’s Honor Scholarship (Tulane’s tuition is more costly than Harvard's) and majored in some type of mathematical economics. His goal was to become a Rhodes Scholar. He almost did become one, except for the fact that his best friend was selected instead. He was devastated. After Tulane, he got a Masters at NYU, and with an investment firm paying for it, went to Oxford, in England, for his PhD. He now works for some type of investment firm in London. Though he was a very nice guy, as I grew older, I started to get sick of his cocky, competitive attitude and we did not really keep in touch after high school. I did, however, stay in touch with his family, mainly through his dad, as I helped the old scout troop as an adult leader during my brief recovery after Houston. Apparently, his firm is moving him back to New York in November, which pleases him greatly, because he will be able to return to New Orleans more often. His brother invited me over to their house for Saturday night as Edward would be there watching the LSU-Mississippi State game. I arrived there and sure enough , his congenial dad, both of Edward's brothers, and he were all there, drinking beer, and now his favorite drink, Scotch. Unfortunately, he had just arrived in New Orleans that afternoon, and was suffering from severe jet lag. I kind of got up-to-date with everything going on with their family while watching the game and left at midnight. The Friday night before I had met my old Houston roommate for pool at the Fox and Hound in Metairie. We drank some beer, we discussed work and local politics, and played pool for a few hours. It was good to spend time with somebody rather than doing something alone for a change, especially right before my birthday. My past grew even more alive when, Speed got tired of e-mailing me and sent me her phone-number. So last night I gave her a ring. She was in the Superdome at the Saints game. Her voice was hardly intelligible amongst the crowd noise. She said she would call me later on. I am still waiting for the call. What prompted her to give me her phone number was my response to an e-mail she sent that told me how one of our old student-worker buddies ended up after college. He was a quiet, scheming guy who spent a lot of time with Speed as long as I knew them in college. I figured he was just a guy who had a brotherly relationship with Speed and hung around with her like a goofy college student who had nothing better to do. Speed goes on to tell me that he eventually wanted to be “more than friends” with her and she declined. He then went on this mad stalking spree where he would threaten to kill himself, wiretap her house, and many other things she would not elaborate upon. I seized this e-mail exchange opportunity to explain to her that I had no desire to be “more than friends” with her and that I merely wanted to have a close connection with her so that I can meet more people. By giving me her number, she seems to have agreed to this type of relationship. However, she did state in one of her e-mails that she had an “asshole” boyfriend. My connection with her may be delicate as a result. Edward will be in New Orleans for a couple of weeks, and plans to visit Baton Rouge a couple times during that period. His brother is a frat boy with a few connections to the LSU college student social life, and Edward is looking for a reprieve from what he said were very unattractive women in England. With a wry look on his face, he said he wanted to hit some of those college bars. I gave him my number and told him to look me up when he gets to Baton Rouge. This should be interesting. Before I called Speed last night, I watched the Saints game at the Chimes and had a couple of beers. I sat next to an older gentleman who drank wine next to me during a couple of wine-tasting sessions. We had a conversation about work and football and we both left after half-time, him earlier than me. As I walked out of the Chimes, I opened the door and saw another figure from my past, eight years ago, in fact. He was the pledge president who hazed the living daylights out of me when I attempted to join a fraternity in college. Having a couple of beers in my belly, I looked at him, said hello while mentioning his name, and walked away smiling. He looked at me totally baffled as I doubt he recognized me. Of course, my pledging story is one that I will save for later if I somehow bump into one of those evil monsters again. The problem is that Edward’s brother is a member of that same fraternity. I do not know if through all these contacts whether I have inched any closer to buttoning that button. For now I will leave my shirt open and not worry about anything. If everything goes according to plan, and I somehow can meet people through these people, perhaps I can just take my shirt off and forget about the buttons altogether. |