What Could Have Been

 Markwildyr.com,Post #245

 

Image Courtesy of Freepik:

 

Last week’s post aboutan AI-created story didn’t generate much in the way of comments. I’m not aspanicked about it as my buddy Don Travis. I understand his post this week is anAI story written to his specifications.

 

This week, I went nostalgic. We allplay the “what could have been” game on occasion. Let me know how you like thisone. (AI had nothing to do with this one.)

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WHATCOULD HAVE BEEN

I’d known Jason Muldavidforever. Through all the stages of my life: from Johnny Boy to Johnny to John. Oneof my earliest recollections is the two of us digging in a sandbox with toyshovels at the little park only a block from our houses… which sat side by sideon Elderberry Street. In fact, that’s what the neighbors called us, theElderberry twins, even though Jason was dark-haired and dark-eyed while my hairwas sandy, and my eyes an uncertain green… hazel, I think they call it.

I’m not sure that, as toddlers,we knew which was our own home, the red brick or the blonde brick. Just to beclear, the red brick was the Hogan household—mine. But neither of us botheredto knock when visiting the other. We just barged in and expected to be welcomedin those halcyon days when no one locked the front door.

Looking back, I believe wewere in love in an innocent way. I fretted when Jason—or Jase as he became tome—wasn’t at my side. I’ve heard his mother complain he was a different kidwhen he wasn’t with Johnny. I never grew out of that stage. I thought of himthe first thing in the morning and the last thing before bed. In my nightlyprayers, he was the first person I asked the Lord to take care of.

We were likely eleven ortwelve when things began to change. I distinctly recall the first time weplayed softball on opposite teams. We’d been waiting for someone to drop out ofa sandlot game, and when one did, Johnny was called. When the next kid had to gohome, I ended up on the other team. At the time, I couldn’t put a name to myinternal rage when Jase kibbitzed with his team’s second baseman and razzed me whenmy turn at bat came. I got a double and managed to kick the second baseman inthe ankle as I slid safely on base. After the game, as we walked home, he threwhis arm around my shoulders and blathered on like nothing had happened, but itsure did feel like something had gone awry to me. At midnight, my eyes poppedopen, and I identified my anger for what it really was. Jealousy.

That was the beginning of myordeal.

Simply put, over the next fewyears, Jase matured physically and emotionally. I only managed the physicalpart of it. Emotionally, I remained tethered to my childhood buddy. That wasn’tfatal, unless I tried to hang on too tightly… which I did a few times. Jasealways pushed back, tactfully, at first, but when I refused to adjust to theinevitable changes, he got a little firmer about it.

And I don’t think he was theonly one who saw things. Jason, as I said, became Jase, and was always referredto that way, while I was Hogan. I know, it’s a little thing… but it says a lot.

Middle school was rocky butnot unbearable, but when high school rolled around, the changes were soprofound, my base, my foundation seemed to be crumbling beneath me. And all thetrouble came down to one thing… girls. Or that’s the way it was in my mind, atany rate.

When Jase discovered them, Iwas left at home hurting. It got a little better when he suggested we doubledate some, so I found a girl I could muster a little interest in and taggedalong when I could. We both lost our virginity one night when he parked hisChevy convertible on a country lane. I still recall the absolute shock—despiteprior clues—when I realized I’d rather be up in the front seat with him doingwhat he was doing to his date than being in the back doing what I was doingwith mine.

But nothing was as shatteringas his wedding night. I was, of course, his best man, and it took every ounceof self-control I could muster to keep from running out on him in tears. But Iwent numb and held on. Shaking his hand at the conclusion and kissing the newMrs. Jase on the cheek—instead of biting her—and tossing rice with the rest ofthe well-wishers got me through that hell. But that night was even worse. Itput an end to the fantasy that one day we’d put all this foolishness behind usand discover—really discover—one another.

The agony continued throughcollege. We went to the same college and roomed together for a couple ofsemesters before he moved into the dorm reserved for jocks—he was a decent halfbackfor the team. We both remained in our hometown, although we moved from theadjoining red brick and blond bricks to different neighborhoods. Both of us pursuedsuccessful careers… me as the owner of the local deli, and Jase as a banker. Intime, I became Uncle John to his son and his daughter. Their bachelor unclebecause I never married. Eventually, I learned to accept what part I had inJase’s life and let go of the dream of what could have been.

Contrary to romantic fiction,I never met another “Jase” or Jase’s successor in my dream fantasy.Unfortunately, I’m a guy who mates for life—even if we never got around tomating. But eventually, I put my obsession in the proper place and learned tolive with it.

Until last week.

Last Friday, we met for lunchand were joined by a couple of other friends, one of whom was a coach at thelocal high school. Toward the end of the meal, the coach told us of a situationat the school—without revealing names—of a couple of guys on the basketballsquad were found masturbating one another in the locker room after they thoughteveryone had gone. The coach laughed at the boys utter embarrassment andhumiliation, apparently deeming those appropriate punishments. I quietly shriveledinside.

After lunch, we walked up the streettogether, me to my shop and him to his bank, when he turned serious.

“You know, I didn’t reallyappreciate it how Coach got a laugh out of catching those two boys. They’rejust going through growing pains. Everybody does things like that when he’s growingup.”

Jase stopped and stared at me.“I often wondered why we didn’t do anything like that.”

I must have reacted in someway, because he grasped my arm.

“I don’t know about you, but Ithought about it at times. Lots of times.”

I managed to speak through adry throat. “Why didn’t you do anything?”

He released my arm andshrugged. “Kept waiting for you to do something. But you never showedany interest, not even when we were rooming together. If you’d given me a clue,who knows?” He grinned. “Might have ended up marrying you.”

I failed to laugh the way heexpected me to. I just glared at him. “Jason Muldavid, sometimes you can be onestupid son-of-a-bitch.”

In some perverted way, it feltgood to walk away imagining the glories that could have been while he stoodthere with eyes like quarters and his mouth hanging open. Couldn’t helpwondering if he even got it now.

Probably not. He’d have tothink outside the box for that, and Jase wasn’t very good at thinking outsideof boxes.

 

*.*.*.*.

I don’t knowabout you, but this resonates with me. I vividly remember the guy I fantasizedabout for years. Wonder how he’s doing these days.

 

Until next week,

 

My contactinformation is provided below in case anyone wants to drop me a line:

Website and blog: markwildyr.com

Email:markwildyr@aol.com

Facebook:www.facebook.com/mark.wildyr

Twitter: @markwildyr

Now mymantra: Keep on reading. Keep on writing.You have something to say, so say it!

See you later.

 

 

Mark

 

New posts the first and third Thursday of the month at6:00 a.m., US Mountain time.