October 4th, 2005
Watching Mal experience college for the first time is like watching a child deprived of sugar enter a candy store. Everything is different now that Mal's back. And for the first time in forever, college doesn't suck now that my old friend is here.
We spent the last two weeks catching up. Mal's been commuting and living back home in Copper Valley with his mom, Kanani, his sister Shiloh, and his stepfather Joe. I learned that he never intended to become an Army Ranger but began training in Fort Benning after the 9-11 terrorist attacks. Ranger operations changed drastically after President Bush declared war on al-Qaeda, and Mal along with his battalion were frequently deployed to conduct parachute assaults, special ops raids, and engage in direct combat. Mal told me about the time he and his fellow Rangers endured five harrowing days of gunfire from Iraqi forces, only for the ordeal to end when they captured the fighter dressed as a civilian giving away Ranger positions to his people. But that was not before a pregnant Iraqi woman feigning distress drove a car bomb towards their holding position, killing three of his friends.
As he recounted his tale with me, I could hardly believe that this was the same kid I grew up playing soccer with, the same guy who'd sneak into the girls' locker room with me to get a peek at Shannon Dwyer's breasts and share his dirty magazine stash with me. An all-star champion in football and wrestling with unnatural height and strength and copious amounts of discipline, Mal is the type of guy who could be primed for killing. But there's no doubt the past four years have left a permanent mark on him. And in a strange way, I feel somewhat responsible to help regain a sense of civilian life.
He was ecstatic when he learned I'd taken up bodybuilding. Before I knew it, Mal began tagging along with me to the Little Crow. At first, it felt like we were in high school again and dicking around in the gym. But the more time we spent together, the more I caught glimpses of evidence my old friend had changed.
It started with the inspirational comments he'd spew whenever we'd start lifting.
"All discipline seems painful in the moment," Mal grunted last Tuesday as he pressed the barbell up from his chest. "But it later yields fruit of righteousness. That's from the Book of Hebrews."
While on a run together last Friday, Mal urged me on by saying, "All runners run, but only one gets the prize! Run to get the prize, Aram!"
And then two days ago...
"Did you know that the apostle Paul wrote, 'your body is a temple of God' in one of his letters to the Corinthians? Isn't that amazing?" Mal pontificated while executing yet another pull-up. "The Bible is just so cool and relevant!"
I straighten from my last rep sweaty, sore, and effectively exercised. I finish replacing the weights I used and drag a towel across my face. It would be one thing if Mal's transformation is just limited to his motivating quotes. But I've noticed several more differences that are rather unexpected and bizarre.
Glancing up, I see Mal standing near the wall by the water fountains, talking with a tall girl with long, red hair and a nice figure. The jacket she wears indicates she is part of the CHU Women's Basketball team. Suddenly, Mal places a large hand on her shoulder and bows his head in prayer, not noticing for a second the wary stares from other people in the gym. The red-haired girl sniffles, stifling a sob.
He's been doing that a lot lately. He'll walk up to the most random strangers on campus and strike up a conversation. People never turn him away. Guys will immediately give him their respect, while girls blush and flutter at his shredded muscles and godlike height. Mal asks the most personal questions, and for some reason everyone is compelled to share their deepest fears and longings with him. Several minutes into his conversations, Mal will then lay his hands on them in prayer, supplicating for divine intervention or healing. When it's over, the girls will often cry and blabber to Mal that he's incredible, or that he told them exactly what they needed to hear.
I watch with incredulity as the red-haired girl hugs Mal, thanking him for his prayer, and rejoins her friends standing outside the gym. Mal turns towards me with a huge grin and draws an imaginary rifle from the air and aims it at me.
"Pew, pew, pew, pew, pew!" he exclaims playfully, hopping over an empty bench. "Did you see that?! That was awesome! When I saw her walk in here earlier, I felt like God wanted me to tell her that her grandma was gonna be okay. Turns out her grandma's having surgery today, and it was—"
"—exactly what she needed to hear," I mutter, lobbing my backpack over my shoulders and clipping the chest buckle tight. "Seems to happen a lot."
Mal and I leave the gym, passing a group of girls dressed in skin-tight leggings and tops getting ready for a yoga class. Mal turns his head and flashes a winsome smile at the lot of them, while I roll my eyes. College girls are all predictably the same.
We exit the Little Crow and approach the busiest intersection of Church Street where it meets Crescent Drive. It's currently the lunch hour, and hordes of students thicken the sidewalks. I parked further down Church Street today since the lot for the Little Crow was full. Mal follows me as I lead the way towards my car, his shoulders and head towering over everyone else as we walk.
"I don't know how you do it," he says after a while.
"What?" I ask, dodging a fast-walking girl with a bulging handbag and giant iced coffee.
"There are so many pretty girls here on campus! Everyone is all so beautiful. I can't keep my eyes off the curves, the skin, the smiles," he sighs. "How do you not notice? Does you heart ever stop racing?"
I nearly snort with laughter, but the look on Mal's face is so forlorn that I force myself to maintain my composure.
"You get used to it," I tell him. "After a while, you'll realize the girls here are nothing special. They're all vapid and brainless, interested only in themselves."
"It's different for me," Mal insists. "I haven't seen this much skin and curves since senior week four years ago. It wasn't like this at all in the desert. It's a lot for me to take in."
We stop at the pedestrian walk sign near Arch Street at the local convenience store and pharmacy.
"Do you remember Heather Lee from the field hockey team back in high school?" Mal asks suddenly.
"Yeah, of course I do," I nod, thinking back to my junior year history class when I'd stare longingly at Heather from afar. "She was one of the few girls in school who didn't get on my nerves. Everyone had a crush on her."
"Well, I never told you this," Mal scratches his head. "But I went to her friend's birthday party the summer before senior year, and she was there. We all drank a bit. Later that night after everyone left, Heather and I talked for a long time about life and what we wanted to do after graduating. God, she was so pretty... anyway, one thing led to another, and she gave me a blowjob."
He pauses to scan for my reaction. "At the time, it felt great. But I was a different person back then... more selfish, more unfocused. And then when I joined the Rangers..." his voice trails off and he shrugs. "God is the most important thing to me now. But being on a campus full of beautiful women is harder than I thought it would be. I'd rather jump out of a plane into enemy fire than to feel tempted like this every day."
I'm unable to respond. Disgust, rage, and jealousy slick around in my stomach. Mal was one of the only people who knew how I felt about Heather in high school. It had taken me two years to summon the courage to tell her how I feel, and when she rejected me, it was Mal who encouraged me not to slide into depression. But all that time, he was just incubating his own greed and lust. As for Heather... my face hardens with anger just thinking about her. She's not as pure and innocent as I'd painted her to be, which is somehow even more disturbing and upsetting than Mal's confession.
Irritated, I step on ahead of Mal to cross the street, but he catches up with me in two long strides.
"Anyway," he says as we resume walking on the other side of the street, "are you coming to the prayer night that I'm helping to host this week? It's in Condor. Some people have been passing out flyers about it on campus."
A tiny muscle in my brow begins to twitch. The last thing I want to do is to attend a prayer night with Mal.
"Dunno," I mutter. "I need to check my calendar."
Mal guffaws and slaps me across the back, causing me to stumble. "What calendar? Come on, I know your routine like the back of my hand now!" he leans towards me with a big, cheesy smile.
"I'll think about it."
"There's something I don't understand," Mal says. "You were the one who brought me to your church youth group all those years ago. If you hadn't done that, I wouldn't have thought to cry out to God while I was alone and away from my family in the desert while facing certain death. Why does it feel like you're become a skeptic?"
"Because maybe I have!" I snap, glaring at him. "Not all of us have had the luxury of going through a spiritual reawakening, or whatever the hell it is you call it! Some of us live very boring and tedious lives with no meaning and purpose, because God has forgotten about us, and we no longer care to try!"
I spot my car and stomp forward to unlock it. I can feel Mal's eyes on me, but I don't care. Wrenching the door open, I throw my gym bag inside and take a deep breath.
"You know what? I'll come to your prayer night. But not because I think God will do anything for me. I'll come because you asked. Happy?"
I don't wait for Mal to respond. I slam the car door in his face and start the ignition. I merge into the busy traffic on Church Street, all the while ignoring Mal's concerned reflection in the rearview mirror as he watches me drive away.
---
It's quiet in the Burnie tonight. And after the day I've had, this kind of quiet is a balm to my tired soul.
Like most students at Copper Hill, I've burned a night or two studying for exams in the Marie Burnley Library, hence the nickname. But unlike most students who see the Burnie as a fortress of solitude and torture, I find comfort and solace in the consistency of the creaking wooden chairs, rustling papers and printers, and soft hum of the building. Then again, I seem to be unlike most people in many ways.
I move silently up and down the aisles, wondering how many secret moments these bookshelves have witnessed over the years. How many moments of clandestine passion have these books seen? How many prayers for an academic breakthrough have they heard? If only I could extract those secrets for myself, then maybe I could unlock the mysteries of life.
Chuckling, I stop in front of a water fountain and glance up at the clock on the wall.
She should be here soon.
I continue to amble around the shelves and pass what seems to be an entire section dedicated to computer signal processing. At one point, I had considered engineering as a field of study – but I scratched it off my list of potential career paths because engineering requires a horrendous amount of math. And I loathe math. I reach the edge of a shelving unit and peer out. Still no sign of her. Best to be patient, she may just be running late today.
I've noticed her for some time now. Her name is Laurel Pierce. She usually comes to the Burnie in the evenings to study, and she prefers to work at the second to last table in the library atrium. She nurses a terrible caffeine habit, sipping from the same, predictable Starbucks thermos each time she's here – how anyone stands to drink coffee is beyond my comprehension. Last semester, Laurel and I took the same section for microbiology. She often sat in front of me, where I could admire her sleek, blonde hair hanging down her back like a curtain of gold.
Contrary to what my family members (and Mal) would like to believe, I am an old romantic soul. Just because I haven't met any girls on campus who I'd like to date or get to know doesn't mean I don't believe she doesn't exist. I happen to have very high standards when it comes to a potential partner, and I believe society and its broken families have wrecked so many women that it's generally difficult for most girls my age to believe they have anything good to offer. There's an art to wooing another soul to open to you – and too few of my peers today appreciate the thoughtfulness required to properly court. In many ways, Laurel fits all my requirements for a prospective partner – beautiful inside and out, petite, feminine and intelligent. Even though we've only exchanged a few greetings, I can tell she's the type who stays committed. But it takes time to cultivate trust, and I have been patient to wait for the right moment.
A few weeks ago, Laurel began crying in the library when she thought no one was nearby. In the days that followed, she'd stop her work every now and then and burst into tears. I vaguely recall from last semester a lacrosse player boyfriend walking with her to and from microbiology class. He's an idiot to let her go. As I stood among the shelves listening to her cry, I ached along with her. How could such a beautiful girl like her be so sad? He must have treated her badly to make her so miserable. I felt indignance and anger on her behalf, as well as an overwhelming urge to protect her. I was surprised by the strength of my own emotions, and as such, concluded that I must encourage her.
Right on cue, Laurel walks into the atrium with a large, striped tote over her shoulder. Today, she's wearing a shirt that flatters her curves. Her style is polished and subtle, not brash, or sloppy like most sweatpants-wearing women on this campus. Her golden hair drapes over her back, straight and smooth. I watch as she takes a seat at her usual table.
Wait for it.
Laurel takes her books out from her tote and sips her coffee. She organizes her books, lays out a few writing utensils, and leans over to retrieve a pink planner. She reads and writes a few things in her planner, and then pauses.
This is it. Time to move.
I emerge from my spot behind the shelves and walk purposefully towards her.
"Hi, you probably don't remember me," I begin.
She turns towards me, surprised.
"Hi! You're... you're..."
"Aram," I offer. "We took microbiology with Baker last semester?"
"Oh, yes! I remember now," she replies, her expression relaxing.
Her eyelashes are thick with black mascara and her lips are pink with some kind of gloss. Why do women insist on hiding their true selves behind cosmetics? The makeup obscures the true essence of a woman, and it somehow makes her seem more fragile. I want to tell her she is perfect the way she is. But instead, I shift the straps of my backpack and remember what I came here to do.
"So, I've been wanting to say something to you for a while."
"Oh! Okay," she smiles nervously.
I gaze into her eyes, channeling only sincere intent.
"It's just that I've noticed you here before," I explain. "And I know you recently went through a breakup. Whoever he was, he isn't worth your tears."
"Wait... how do you know all this?" she asks slowly.
"I've been paying attention."
"Oh..."
"You are so incredibly beautiful," I say, careful not to break eye contact with her so that she knows I mean each word.
"Wait, what?" she laughs out loud, eliciting a few glances our way. I decide to take a step forward.
"You are so beautiful," I repeat. "Don't forget that about yourself, ever."
"Um... th-thank you!" she exclaims, blushing furiously.
Time to go.
I turn on my heels, but not before giving her a small smile. It's a delicate dance, flattering a woman. I've given her enough hope to keep going for now. If I keep adding fuel, eventually I'll be able to coax a flame for us, and she will no longer hurt.
When I step outside the Burnie and into the cool night air, I smirk with satisfaction. Mal's not the only one who knows how to give an aptly timed word. The expression on Laurel's face was priceless – what wounded girl doesn't need to hear again and again that she's beautiful? But when I return to the Burnie the next night, Laurel is nowhere to be found. I search for her through the rows of books and even check the private study rooms – but she is gone.
"Some chicks are like that," my roommate Pat nods sagely when I relay to him what happened. "You probably scared her off."
"How?" I ask, baffled and angry. "I was considerate and clear."
"Exactly! You're way too intense. Be less upfront, less available. Keep her guessing what your play is. You wanna make her feel just slightly insecure," Pat drawls.
Pat Hamm and I met through a bodybuilding club on campus. He's a pothead who lives a rather uninhibited lifestyle (which did not thrill Mother when I told her we were going to rent together), but he and I get along well enough. And at the end of the day, he helps cover rent and utilities for our shabby duplex unit on Bradshaw Street.
"That is truly terrible advice," I snort, massaging my temples.
"Says the man who isn't getting any!" Pat sneers. "Whatever. It's her loss anyway."
But hours later, I toss and turn in my bed, unable to fall asleep. Why is it that guys like Mal can go away to war and return like they are the blessed incarnation of the divine? What makes him so special that he gets all this attention? If only everyone could see what I see that a part of his childhood is still lost in Iraq, maybe they wouldn't flock to him for all the answers they need and want in life.
Angry and confused, I stare up at the cracks in my ceiling and whisper under my breath.
"I didn't abandon you," I hiss to no one in particular. "It was you who abandoned me, first. Do you hear me? YOU left first! What are you going to do about that?"
My words vanish in the dark. I feel nothing but a deep emptiness.
God doesn't care about you.
I fall asleep with that phrase echoing in my mind.