An old story

I knew a guy once, I guess I still know sort of know him, who liked Tequiza--you know, that tequila-and-lime flavored beer that Anheuser-Busch puts out. He liked Tequiza, and Corona, and Dos Aquis. This guy was one piece of work. Tall, and so good looking that it was almost surreal. He was the Cool Dude. The one who talked to everybody, even the unpopular folks. Who could do anything. Win anyone over. The Cool Dude knew more about music than me, which is pretty impressive. And when he would talk to you, you really felt like the only person in the entire world. He'd fix you with these beautiful eyes, his tall, tanned body towering over you, and you felt empowered and protected and fascinating, as though whatever you were saying had meaning only he could understand.
Obviously, like everyone else--men and women alike--I was in awe of the CD. We shared a love for the beach and deep John Mayer lyrics, a common hatred of our jobs, and, one night, a bottle of tequila and an impromptu "I know more songs than you do" singing match in the hot tub at a beach resort that probably almost got us thrown out of the place. I was way, way too smart to actually fall for him, though. Guys like the CD end up with beautiful blonde women, girls who are as amazing to look at as they are. It's just the way of things. The Cool Dude took over a room the instant he walked into it, bringing light into the absolute dullest of situations. An ordinary girl just couldn't hold her own next to him. So it would be absolute folly for me, a girl about as ordinary as they come (in looks, anyway) to even waste the energy.
But of course I shared the common infatuation with him...and then, eventually, became enamored with the idea that he needed saving. He had a broken heart--some girl had all but done him in. The more time I spent with the CD, absorbing his dynamic personality and his jokes that always made the right people laugh, the more I felt this enormously sad emptiness coming out of him. He was surrounded by people at work, at home, and his cell phone rang constantly. And yet he was so unhappy. Once you got used to the glaring light that he gave off, you could see it in his eyes. And you could read it in the way he drank (all the time, and he could put it away like no one I've ever met), the way he talked a mile a minute, the way he clung to people. Everyone always assumed that people were clinging to him, but I don't think that's the whole truth. I think he filled every space in his life with people, hoping maybe they'd fill the hole that girl had left. I knew something about that kind of emptiness. It got to be too hard to hang out with him, this gorgeous guy who I really just wanted to comfort in some small way. One night we both had an obscene amount of alcohol at the bar down the street, and I guess all that shared sadness and empathy backed up on me. We got back to his place and he threw up, while I sat and sobbed ( I have a terrible habit of doing that in lieu of the classic vomiting routine when I've had too much to drink) and said God knows what. For all I know I confessed my undying devotion to him. It was never the same between us after that night.

It wasn't hard for us to grow apart--his life is full of people, and I was just one more, and not one that he felt any responsibility to keep up with. And it cuts both ways; I never really bother to stay in touch. But I think about him when I'm feeling too ordinary or inadequate or ugly or whatever. I remember that emptiness, that sadness that he carried around. Someone like that--so perfect to look at, so adored, and so utterly fucked up. It's a humanizing reminder that nobody's perfect. I guess he's on my mind tonight because I'm drinking a bottle of Tequiza (don't make fun of me) and feeling cranky and confused about love and The Boy and my place in the world. I wonder what he's up to these days.