Eleven Miles

from Home

The Hybrid Cut


Confession #2

Shell Out

Chapter #

“Chapter Title”

Reading Time: ( Word Count: )

Reading Progress:

To make sense of our relationship, let’s examine this concept for a moment. Pretend a girl is sitting by herself in the park listening to the radio. For the sake of hypothesis, let’s pretend this girl is Abby. Now Abby has an easy-listening station tuned in, which, if I remember correctly, was her favorite kind of music. Imagine if Dude X came walking by, whistling some Neil Diamond, or Frank Sinatra, or some other popular old rich guy song. The tune wouldn’t be that interesting because who really listens to easy-listening? But think about it. If Abby is uninteresting enough to listen to that kind of music, and if Dude X is really Dork X, then maybe some kind of connection will take place. Hence, a version of Jetskius Magnetismo occurs.

It can be a beautiful thing. Maybe not so much in Abby’s case, but for most people it can be a beautiful thing.

But that beauty doesn’t help Rachel or me anymore. The problem is this section of road is nowhere near a lake, and that means Rachel and I are separated from our only real point of connection. And trust me, when the link between a man and woman’s heart is severed, it sucks. Not only does it suck that we have to find another way to adjust to our situation, but it sucks because we can’t have fun doing it. The truth is, we stopped having fun when the ride ended, and this forsaken highway isn’t the object meant to restore our passion. The only fires lit in our hearts are the ones that left me craving a turkey sandwich and her giving me the silent treatment. As far as I know, those fires aren’t even strong enough to brown a marshmallow.

So that more or less brings us to the present, or at least to the recent past. I know it doesn’t explain how in the world we ended up here, but it does explain how we ended up here together. Of course, if knowing how we got here is at all important, then I suppose I should discuss that now. After all, neither Rachel nor I have anything to do but sit alongside this craggy road, trying to figure out why we felt the urge to take this jet-skiing trip, reflecting on whether it was worth our becoming stranded together.

That much is also true.

Okay, so let’s begin.

I have no idea how it happened. We weren’t eager to ride together. I didn’t like her and she didn’t like me. Yet, somehow we found ourselves traveling in my SUV, hitching a small trailer with our solo Jet Skis attached, heading back to town—because we were stupid.

Now, we weren’t stupid because we’d spent the day jet-skiing together. Realistically, we’d jet-ski with Hitler if he were alive and knew how to operate one. We were stupid for leaving the lake. Sure, the decision had to come eventually. But it forced us to enter a situation that required us to talk to each other. And if we weren’t required to talk, then we were required to sit in silence, or worst of all, spend several miles on the road alone with each other.

When two people share no common interests other than aquatic adventure and a few stupid things, trying to make do with a measly road trip would be like licking the fires of hell without a glass of lemonade on hand. For anyone who has sensory deprivation, I should probably clarify that that’s an awful thing.

Now, I’m no masochist; I didn’t place myself in this vehicle with this woman to punish myself. After all, it’s my vehicle. But I bit the bullet with her because I didn’t want to jet-ski alone. To this day I’ve never ridden solo and I have no intention to start. Therefore, I had to invite the only girl I knew who shares my passion because that was the only thing that made sense to me.

I should’ve known that opening the door for her would’ve caused major problems down the road. I did it anyway because I’m the moron and because I’d hate to leave my Jet Ski alone on the trailer without the company of another Jet Ski. Most guys in my situation would’ve called me a patriot. I love my Jet Ski—so much, in fact, that I park it inside the house every night to protect it. To let go of my selfishness, to let the woman into the vehicle, and to return to town with her was my visual labor of love for my watercraft. And what kind of man would neglect the one he loves?

Of course, all I’ve done here was to talk about my SUV and my Jet Ski. I realize that doesn’t paint things in the proper context, so, once again, let me clarify. Our real issues began inside the vehicle—inside with Rachel. It all started as soon as we pulled out of the lake’s parking lot.

We filled the drive with silence for a while. I had nothing to say to her, and she had nothing to say to me, so we said nothing, initially. But something happened, and Rachel asked me a question. Normally, I’d humor her and answer whatever she asked, but this time I just didn’t feel like it. So she asked again. I ignored her. This went on for a few cycles. Finally, I got sick of listening to her, so I drove to a nearby gas station to pick up a turkey sandwich.

In retrospect, I probably deserved what happened next.

I’ll admit I could’ve respected her questions and opinions a little more. In fact, if I were to dive into deeper retrospect, I probably could’ve treated her better as a person. The effort would’ve demanded sacrifice, because I really got sick of all her constant crying. But . . . the problem was . . .

Look, there was no way I could’ve put up with her crying for the rest of my life. Every time she cried, I felt like I was responsible. I can’t speak for every man, but I hate feeling accountable to a woman’s tears. Rachel’s or anyone’s. The fact that she cried a lot pissed me off because much of it was on my behalf. She expected more from me than I wanted to give. All I expected from her was some breathing room. Neither of us delivered our mutual desires, so we crumbled at the foundation.

And our Jet Skis couldn’t save us. We were doomed as a couple.

And I was content with that.

I was seriously content with that. Because . . .

Well, it’s like . . .

I know what I want to say; it’s just . . .

Bloody hell . . . .

Never mind. I’ll think of what kept me content later. To make the long story short, when Rachel and I went to buy our late-afternoon snacks, some dude ripped off my SUV. With both Jet Skis attached. I felt responsible for that.

In my defense, I didn’t think leaving my keys in the ignition while parked in the middle of nowhere would’ve been that bad of an idea. I mean, if no one’s around . . .

I don’t even know why I’m talking about this. I know I was right. Right?

Look, I realize my decisions look bad. I sensed it in Rachel’s mannerisms, the way she glared at me when I insisted on leaving the keys in the ignition. But I wanted to shave a few extra seconds off the clock, reduce the time we had to spend together by any means necessary. I wasn’t wrong. I’m sure of that.

Even if someone did come along and steal the whole shebang.

I know my decision looks foolish.

Okay, the more I think about it, the more I realize all of this did fall entirely on my shoulders. Blame placed. Fair enough. I don’t like her anymore, and I paraded that feeling. But tracing my reasons back to their origin brought everything full circle into my lap. I don’t like her because she cries too much. She cries too much because I don’t want an attachment to her. I don’t want an attachment because . . . well because . . . um . . .

Okay, truthfully I don’t know the answer to that last one. She stuck with me—even when Jet Skis weren’t part of the agenda. She used to console me when my days were bad—even when she didn’t believe her own words. She took bottles of alcohol out of my hand to keep me straight—even when her eyes lusted after the drink herself. Rachel did all that . . . and I didn’t want her to.


Truth: I didn’t trust her. She was too interested in me—cared too much. She’d actually massage the tension out of my shoulders when I was stiff. She’d actually kiss me on the cheek when I had a bad hair day. She’d actually say positive things about me when I’d fall flat on my face. And she’d actually say that seriously twisted word called love to me whenever I felt like a reject. I didn’t trust her at all. Who the hell treats anyone with respect anymore?

And now my SUV is gone. And now my Jet Ski is gone. And, for crying out loud, now Rachel’s Jet Ski is gone. All because I didn’t trust her.

It’s almost laughable.

Sometimes I wish I weren’t such a prick. Yeah, I know; I’m not blind—I know exactly what I am. Once upon a time, I gawked at people like me, back when I hung out with the band geeks. Somewhere along the line I found out about culture shock, and popularity, and biker bars, and it changed the way I interpreted life. Sitting here with Rachel along the side of the road eleven miles from home, watching her cry, really makes me wish I could return to the band geek days, look for that poor little kid who assumed he was cool when he really wasn’t, lock him up in a closet for the next ten years, and let him out only when he figures out how to treat a woman right. Maybe that kid would’ve put a smile on this girl’s face.

No introspection in the world will give me the power to time travel, though. This is my reality now. I’d forgotten how to be that kid.

It’s funny, really; funny how things work. I grew up without any major conflicts weighing me down, yet I still took this road. Some relational scholars would call me an idiot, a moron, a retard, a dimwit, or a crackhead. I know the empty spot on the road where our Jet Skis should be would prove all of that. It’s no secret that I’m brain-damaged. I mean, for gosh sakes, how did I lose our Jet Skis? Most guys don’t sit around expecting good things to come to an unlocked SUV with its keys in the ignition. Some guys don’t veer off into a gas station just to avoid answering his ex-girlfriend’s questions. Yet, I managed to do both. And yet, this girl can still find an excuse to sit by me. Is she an idiot, too?

Sure, the redness in her face reveals those discernible shades of anger, but I suppose the tears helped in her discoloration, so I’m still the moron. All she wanted was to give me a chance. After all the hassles she had with other guys, including some dude who was already married, she really wasn’t in the mood to talk that day all those months ago. But I had to be curious about that love machine of hers—the Jet Ski for those with short-term memories—and find out all I could about it. So I was the moron back then, too. I still had Abby and our silent nights on the couch in front of the television, but that day at the park gave me the chance to have a new life of excitement and a decent girl to enjoy it with. And the girl loved me. Abby never said “love” the entire time I knew her. Rachel, on the other hand, said it and probably meant it. These were the things that the band geek kid in me had once dreamed about all those years ago.

Deep down, however, hearing those words triggered a feeling too intense to handle, and it helped me sabotage Rachel’s chances at happiness. Therefore, those relational scholars would’ve made an accurate assumption about me.

I actually remember the first night she said it. We were driving home from the lake, as one might expect, when she asked me to stop along the side of the road. I can’t tell from the lack of landmarks, but I think it was close to the spot where we’re sitting now. There was an exposed stretch of road that ran through an expansive parched field, with a few foothills in the distance and a small block of woods far behind us. As the sun neared the horizon, and the mosquitoes made their way into the rift of our spatial circumference, the crickets chirped and the breeze that blew through the area faded.

There wasn’t any reason for us to stop other than to talk face to face. And Rachel knew I was uncomfortable talking to any woman face to face, but she asked me to pull off to the side anyway. And sure enough, she wanted to talk face to face.

When she opened the door and stepped onto the grass, I assumed I was off the hook. I figured she just needed to take a leak and wanted me to stop so she could get out and dig a hole. But then I remembered that girls don’t pee on the side of roads like guys do and that Rachel wasn’t so well-disposed around me, so I was confused.

She stood silently by the open door for a good twenty seconds before walking around to the front and leaning against the hood. I remained seated for a few minutes before getting out to see what in the world she was doing—I thought maybe she was reflecting on the recreational day we had. She took my hand and smiled when I leaned up next to her.

And that’s when she said it—the word love—to me. The very first time. Yeah, she said it a bunch of times since, but that was the first.

I released her hand and returned to my seat. That was the moment that changed everything. And all the stinking mosquitoes were biting me.

I’d say that at least two months passed before I made my big snap at her. Maybe three. To be honest, once those words started leaving her loose lips, all my days started blending together. It was grating on my nerves—not because I disliked her, but because I wasn’t ready to accept her feelings. My true ambition was to have fun zipping across the water. And I thought that’s all she wanted, too. She had been in one bad relationship after the next for at least two years; I figured the last thing she wanted was to stick herself in another one. So I had no desire to bring our relationship closer than what our Jet Skis allowed. To even mention the word love would’ve only complicated such contentment, becoming dangerous for both of us.

She broke our unwritten boundary when she brought it up. And then she continued to break it when she started sneaking me kisses and such. Although the kisses were within reason, because who really hates being kissed by a pretty girl, everything else spelling love and romance and deep relationship with her just seemed like too much.

I arrived at the point where I couldn’t handle the direction she was steering us. The last thing I wanted was to cause more relational tears, so I forced myself to hate her, just so I would be the one to break up and spare her the agony of going through the same crap that she’d gone through with everyone else. I didn’t want our days of jet-skiing to take the road of sacrifice, but our dating relationship had to end.

Of course, that ultimately introduced us to a new set of problems. Our casual dating fights escalated into ex-boyfriend/girlfriend flame wars. When those transformed into insult matches, I could no longer stand the idea of being anywhere in the same proximity with her—except for those times when we were on the lake.

Eminent disaster fell at last.

And yet, here we are staring at the fields, sitting side by side, waiting for a passerby to notice us, wondering what to say to each other should no one mount our rescue. It’s painfully obvious that I’m the one to blame for our stranded state. And though I’m sure I could fabricate some excuse about how it’s really all Rachel’s fault, I just don’t feel like it anymore. I suppose that’s a step forward.