I’ve got a couple of embarrassing stories to share with you and I have this deep, uncomfortable suspicion that our story time is going to end up in a weird place that I don’t want to go. Let’s find out together, shall we? It’ll be fun.
A short time ago, I was in an art gallery reception-type of event. I knew the artist being honored and his wife and was happy to go and support them with my presence. Sure, it meant going to a social event and having to talk to people I don’t know at all or very well, but I was happy to do it.
The event went very well and there even were some other people there I knew. People I love, actually. When they left, I decided to make my exit as well. I said goodbye to my artist friend and then spoke to his wife by the door. She was talking to someone else and decided to introduce me. The guy was older than me and had a drink in his hand. When we were introduced I noticed he extended his arm in my direction. I met his gesture with an open hand ready to shake. Only, my open hand did not meet his open hand. My open hand met his closed fist that he extended in order to give me a germ-free fist bump. If you’re imagining my open hand cupping his closed fist gently and very awkwardly, you’ve got it about right.
What could I do now? My hand was clasped around his closed fist. His skin was soft and warm. I wanted to die.
I remember gently shaking his fist up and then down before letting go. Please groan with me in pain now. It was the most horrible outcome possible.
Oh, it gets worse. A week passed and another art event arrived. This one was at school so it was home turf for me. Generally I’m free to move around inside the school gallery or just hang out on the outside of the glass doors. I make my rounds to speak to students and goof around and then slip out into the common area to get some air. It’s a comfortable space for me and I usually have relatively few social surprises.
The awkwardness I experience most often on home turf is that parents or other student associates will attend and I’ll need to try to speak to them. Since I live here, I feel it’s my responsibility to speak to them first and that’s a small circle of hell for me. Because of the location, I can normally get my nerve up, go speak and then retreat if necessary.
On this particular night, I had done all of those things and was feeling pretty good. It was the last event of a long Thursday and my mind had already switched over to thinking about the sculpture I wanted to make in the studio the following morning. I was still sort of adjacent to a conversation with several students and I decided to start making my way towards the exit. I even announced this to the students and started slowly moving to the door. As I did, I saw someone approaching and I heard them say, “I bet you don’t remember us do you?” I scanned the faces of an older couple and couldn’t place them in my memory. I was immediately certain I had never met them. I asked the lady who had approached if she could refresh my memory while my mind raced through old (paper) photo files in my brain. Paper files in manilla folders stuck in paper dividers in the old metal filing cabinet that is my brain.
The lady was quiet and had a kind face. The man wore a straw fedora and a smile and I immediately loved him. Did I know them? From where? Why were they here? Who were they with? I worked the context clues like an old street informant on Dragnet. They were near a student I knew well. Did they know her? It was looking like I was talking to a grandparent that maybe I had met at a gallery event years prior. This was not exactly a comfortable situation, but I was on home turf and I wasn’t rattled. I meet a lot of parents and grandparents. No big deal.
The kind lady quietly said that they were the parents of a name I could almost recognize when she spoke it. Almost. I repeated it back and saw paper files and folders flying through the air in my head. Who was this person? Why did the name sound familiar? As one of the folders hit the inside of my skull and photos flew out, I caught the glimpse of the face of the name she spoke. I wasn’t 100% there yet, but I did have a connection. I felt the pressure to respond that I remembered and I did remember the name and the face. I know I started speaking as it was all still registering and coming together.
“Oh, I do remember! How is he doing?” were the words that came out as I was remembering exactly how I knew this person.
So, the memory that that was in that brain folder was this: This guy was a guy I met exactly one time 14 years ago. I had been teaching part time at the school I graduated from and I accepted the full time job at my new school. When I arrived on campus at the new school, I was introduced to several students who were hanging around in the week prior to classes beginning. This one guy, I had been told, was a great art student with a lot of promise. He was not feeling fulfilled in the old art program and was moving to the same school that I was leaving in search of greener pastures. We were literally just passing each other as we traded schools. His girlfriend suggested that he meet with me before leaving. He made an appointment and we met in my office that day. We talked about why he was unhappy and I gave him some pros and cons that I could see about both schools. He shook my hand and left my office. The next day, he packed his bags and left for the other school. I never saw him again. The girlfriend stayed and I taught her for the next couple of semesters. I think I heard that they parted ways. That was the entirety of my experience with this person.
Back to the moment. I’m standing in front of this adorable couple of gray haired humans and I had regained that memory of the name they spoke. I’ll be honest and tell you that I was already starting to question how they even knew me. We had never met. I had met their son once for about 15 minutes, again, 14 years ago. Why did they even know who I was? How could they know me, better yet, recognize me?
I wasn’t sweating like I would in most awkward social interactions, probably falsely comforted by the home turf. “Oh, I do remember! How’s he doing?” were the words I said. The lady’s face fell into what I can only describe as a sadness that she was all too familiar with. Her husband spoke up and said with a stillness, “He passed”.
Yeah. I wanted to be anywhere else immediately. What had I done? How did I get myself into this? I was literally just trying to leave and now I’m neck deep in emotion. The lady and the gentleman said several times over the next few moments, “He used to talk about you a lot”. I was comforted by their grace towards me, even as I could feel their still tender pain.
Luckily, and I do mean luckily, I did not ask the next question that came to my lips. I wondered what happened. 14 years is a long time and there was a global pandemic a few years back. It could have been almost anything. The young man would be in his mid 30s now. Lots of young people die. It could have been anything. They didn’t specify or leave any hints that I could find. Or, at least, I didn’t notice any hints as my head was spinning out of control. I had scrambled to recognize these beautiful people, been put on the spot to remember their son and now I was barely treading water as I learned of his death. All I wanted was to leave.
The next morning I texted the student/friend who was in the exhibit and asked how she knew the people. She explained and I asked if she knew how the guy died.
Suicide.
If you’ve ever wondered why social interaction is such a big deal to me and people like me, this is your answer. I dread social situations because it seems like every time I subject myself to them I walk away drenched in sweat after having shaken a stranger’s closed fist and asked a beautiful couple how their dead son is doing. And then, because my brain is the way it is, I will dwell on these experiences for months. Agonizing over every single detail. Why. Did. I. Say. That.
Here comes the left turn.
How did that guy I met once for 15 minutes, 14 years ago, talk about me a lot? What did he possibly have to say? I have no idea what I said to him specifically. I say a lot of stuff. Some might even say that I say a lot of stupid stuff. It’s sobering to think that something you say once on a random Tuesday might ring in someone’s head for years. It might be the only story they tell about you to others. It might be the thing they base their career path on. It might be the thing that drives them to be kind or terrible to others.
When I finally stop torturing myself over the terrible social interactions, I’m going to get right on torturing myself over my words.
This is why I’m a hermit.
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