Segments

 

Hayley swam toward the shore, giving it her all. She was so close.  She was one of the few who actually put on a life vest when they were given out on the boat. Others chuckled like the aristocracy on the Titanic. This was, after all, a small craft out for a whale watch, not some ocean liner. She remembered as a child seeing large ships out on the horizon when she was at the shore. This little boat was nowhere near as far out. She wasn’t even sure why it capsized. Too tight of a turn? Had one of those whales they were watching for slid under the boat.         

When she went into the water there was a feeling of panic, which most of those thrown into the water felt. 10-20 people, all plunged into the chill water, all scrambling to find something safe, let out a chorus of screams and cries. But Hayley felt somewhat calmer than the others as she realized she wore a life vest.

That feeling of calm didn’t last long. Other, seeing her with what they’d jokingly cast aside, now tried to pull the vest from her body. She had to fight off the self-important who thought they had more right to live than she had. But her fasteners were on tight, and she was able to get away from the others before she was deluged with an overwhelming clutch of hands. If only they’d relax and tread water, they’d be fine until a coast guard cruiser picked them up. 

She had started swimming toward the shore, which didn’t appear terribly far, just to get away from them. It was farther than she was used to swimming, but she didn’t want to take the chance that someone from the tour would grab at her again, and possibly drown her in their attempt to get her life vest. With the vest, she was fairly certain she could make it to the shore, even though she was certain that one of those people on the beach had seen the boat capsize, and would at least call 911.

There was a crowd of people standing in a group on the beach, watching those from the boat splashing and shouting. Others watched for a bit, and then returned to their sunbathing or swimming. It surprised her that no one on shore seemed particularly alarmed, and no one seemed to be taking action.

Hayley wasn’t sure why she had taken this boat ride in the first place. She had never been much interested in whales – or other sea life, really. Fish were things on other people’s plates in restaurants, something she didn’t care for. She was far more interested in dogs and cats.

Tom had encouraged her to get out of her comfort zone and try something new. Where was Tom, anyway? He hadn’t come on this excursion. He was probably still in bed at the hotel, since the whale watch started before he wanted to get up.

The others floundered in the water, no closer to shore than when they were thrown into the water. Still, there was no sign of the coast guard. She was nearly to the shore, although still farther out than the farthest beach-goer.

Suddenly, she felt a tug on her foot, followed by excruciating pain. She turned and saw a shark. She pulled her foot toward her body, and saw the shark’s teeth embedded in her heel.

“Oh, no you don’t, you bastard. You’re not getting my foot! I will not be a cripple because of a stupid suggestion Tom made.”

She slammed her fist into the shark’s head once, twice, a third time, and it let go. Wasting no time, she swam off to the shore, making it faster than she thought possible. She had to get to shore before she bled to death.

Those on the beach watched silently as she swam, the shark following the trail of blood she was leaving. No one made any attempt to rescue her. Where were the lifeguards? Surely, they were supposed to help anyone in distress? They had a boat besides whatever gear they used for people closer in. Why weren’t they helping?

The waves finally began to push her closer to the beach, the final one pushing her into such shallow water that she scraped her face and knees on the sand. Still, no one moved. The sunbathers didn’t even seem to notice. The standing crowd watched like automatons that hadn’t been programmed with empathy or the ability to move.

 She managed to stand up, blood trailing behind her as she limped toward the crowd.

“Help me,” she said.

 No one moved.

She limped toward them, and saw one young man with a towel draped over his shoulders. She grabbed it, and sat to wrap it around her bleeding foot.

“Hey!” he said when she took it. “That’s mine. Give it back.”

“What’s wrong with you people? Can’t you see I’m injured? I was just attacked by a shark! I was thrown off a capsized boat. There are people out there who are going to drown if someone doesn’t help them. I need to get to a hospital!”

The crowd looked uneasy. The man whose towel she had taken took a single step forward, but then thought better of it. 

“Give him back his towel,” another man ordered. The others grumbled assent.

 She saw a policeman walking down the beach toward her.

 “Finally!” she said. “Officer, the boat I was on capsized. There are people out there in the water who are going to drown. Someone needs to get them. I was bitten by a shark just before I reached the beach. You want to warn people not to go in the water here. And I need to go to a hospital. She was beginning to feel light-headed, and wasn’t sure how long she’d remain conscious.

“She stole my towel. Arrest her!”

“Oh, here, take your towel,” she said, unwrapping her foot and tossing it at him. The man backed away.

“I don’t want it now. It’s got blood all over it.”

The policeman stared at her, briefly looking at her foot. It was badly torn and blood oozed from the tears the shark’s teeth had made. She might well lose the foot.

“Did you steal his towel?”

“I wasn’t planning on keeping it. If you could get an ambulance – or if you have first aid equipment in your car, maybe we could bandage this foot properly until I get to the hospital. He can have his towel. I only borrowed it.”

“You ruined it!” the man, probably in his late teens, said. “You should buy me a new one.”

 “Fine. Get me to a hospital, and when they fix my foot, I’ll get you a new towel. God! Some people are such babies. I’m going to bleed to death and none of you seems to care.

“All right, miss, you need to come with me,” the policeman said, helping her to her feet.

 

*

She woke up and looked around. Odd, her foot didn’t hurt. The room didn’t look much like a hospital, either. The walls were a calm, pale blue, almost grey, with pictures on the walls, and delicate furniture. There was no wheeled table with a water pitcher and cup on it, as one might expect in a hospital room, and the lamps were actually pretty, rather than functional, ugly hospital lamps. There was no garish glare. 

She wiggled her toes, and felt all of them. The movement caused no pain. She was about to pull the covers of and look at her foot when someone knocked on her door.

 “Come in,” she said.

A tall woman with creamy caramel skin and dark hair pulled back in a bun entered the room. Her burgundy suit accented her trim figure, the skirt ending just below her knees, showing off well-formed legs that ended in burgundy velvet stiletto heeled peep-toe shoes.

“You’re not up yet?” the woman asked.

“I wouldn’t think I should be having just had surgery.”

“What?” the woman asked with a laugh. “What are you talking about?”

“The shark attack.”

“I don’t know what you were drinking last night, but it sounds like it hasn’t worked its way out of your system. Miranda, you have a book signing today at noon.”

“Miranda? Don’t you mean Hayley?”

 “I don’t know who Hayley is, but you’re Miranda Valente. You are in your own home, and you had no surgery. There was no shark attack.”

“Oh, I don’t know! Just so I get on the right track, what is your name?

“It’s Anne, although you frequently refer to me as Maria.”

“Is there a Maria?”

“There is,” she said sounding disapproving. “She’s the maid. And I am your personal assistant. I am not and never have been a maid.”

  Miranda pulled back the covers and saw her own well-formed legs were perfect. There were no bandages, no casts, no shark teeth marks in her foot. This was all very odd. One minute she’d been about to be arrested on a beach somewhere – she didn’t even know where – and the next, it was like someone had turned the page and started a new story, leaving Hayley and Tom behind for another day. Now she was author Miranda Valente.

She sat up and put her legs over the side of the bed, then fell in a heap on the floor

“What?” She turned and touched the bedsheet. “Why are there satin sheets on my bed? I detest satin sheets.”

“A gift from Larry, your publicist. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind trying them out with you one of these days.”

“Fat chance,” Miranda replied. “I’ll keep the pillow case. I’ve heard satin pillow cases are good for preventing wrinkles and good for your hair. But I want these sheets replaced with some nice, soft cotton ones.”

“I’ll let staff know. Now, you need to get yourself dressed.”

 Anne turned and left the room.

By the time Miranda was up, showered and dressed, her brain was back in order. Gone were any thoughts of Hayley Watkins and her husband, Tom. She was fully Miranda Valente, author of the book The Tear Collector.

Her light brown hair was combed, and curled slightly on her shoulders. She wore a pants suit of dove grey with a royal blue satin blouse. A necklace with a heart-shaped diamond was her only adornment. She wore lower heeled shoes than Anna.

Downstairs, she sat at the kitchen table and ate an English muffin and an egg, washing it down with tea served in a china teacup decorated around the rim with tiny purple flowers. She was careful not to spill anything on her suit. The tiniest speck of food on her jacket or blouse would cause a flurry of expletives and ordering people about like serfs from Larry. She smiled. He’d have an ulcer or a heart attack before he was 40 if he weren’t careful.

 

                                                                *

The whole story started – when? I can’t say precisely that there is a beginning to it or when that might have been. I lived my life as I’d always done, and somewhere along the way the whole mess rather evolved.

First of all, let me introduce myself. My name is Christopher Elliot. I am at this writing twenty-seven. I have lived most of my life in a small town in Brecon, Wales, where, I’m told, nothing exciting ever happens. My life seemed to me a series of exciting things. Let me say the exciting things seldom happened outside my own imaginings.

“Christopher!” I often heard my mam say to get my attention. Simon told me it was often the third or fourth increasingly harsh repetition of my name that got my attention. “Whatever are you daydreaming about?”

 I would shrug my shoulders and wonder something aloud, at which she’d skewer me with a puzzled look.

“I wish I knew what was going on in your head.”

 She’d be half frightened to death if she ever knew how my mind worked. The twisted lanes and alleys of it, some leading nowhere, others leading to the very depths would drive away even the most loyal friend. Perhaps that’s why I’ve had so few loyal friends in my life.

But I digress. That was my childhood, and events I wish to relate occurred in some form when I was sixteen.

I had returned to school after our usual summer holiday. Being sixteen was not easy for me. I don’t suppose it is for anyone, but at the time I didn’t know that. I only knew that life for me seemed difficult. When I looked around me I saw the other boys successful at sports, attracting girls and bragging of their conquest of those same girls.

 I had no way of knowing whether or not the bragging of the other boys had any whisper of truth to it; I had no close friends in whom I could  confide and have confirmed the tales I’d heard. The other boys knew me only as Elliot. A few spoke of me as the mad hatter, owing to a particular cap I wore to school. Not as many as five actually called me Chris.

Sixteen was that half-light time in which one is not quite a man, although the pretension is there, and not quite done with childhood – at least I was not. Dragons, goblins and faery folk would still make their way through my mind, offering a magic world of escape from the harsh, lonely reality of the social side of school.

“Head still tucked neatly into a book, Elliot?” one of my classmates asked as I passed through the corridor. I knew from his tone that something was about to happen. If I said nothing he was likely to become physical in the attempt to get my attention.

“I didn’t know you were familiar with the concept of books,” I replied, smiling. I hoped the smile would soften the comment, but nothing softens determination made of stone.

 “You think you’re quite the scholar then, don’t you?” he asked, blocking my way along with a couple of his friends.

 “I don’t think I’m anything, but I have a class to get to.”

He tried to stare me down, although he was barely five centimeters taller than I. For my part, I tried to look bored or patient, and hope I didn’t look as scared as I felt. He was at least a stone heaver. Mam used to remark that I was thin as a reed and someday a good puff of wind would have the best of me. The last thing I wanted was to be involved in a fight in the corridor. Worse, I wanted this dispersed now to avoid being accosted on the way home.

A moment of silence seemed to grow before a subtle shift occurred – no doubt a teacher had appeared at the opposite end of the hall.

“Oh, let Miss Elliot go to her class,” one of his friends said, and they moved aside. I passed without a look back.

This sort of scene played itself out on a nearly weekly basis, one boy making a remark in the company of his friends and my attempt to either ignore it or make a witty remark. Sometimes I avoided confrontation by some miracle. Occasionally a friend would come to my assistance.

On one particular occasion the boy in question knocked my books out of my hand. My notes scattered in the hallway. As I retrieved my books and papers, he managed to grab a few pages.

“Those are mine,” I said, making an attempt to take back my papers.

 “Oh, what have we here?” he asked and immediately fell into a dramatic reading of a story I had started writing.

“Give it back!” I said making another attempt to get my papers. He stepped back.

“Oh, Miss Elliot wants to be a writer,” he taunted.

“Give it back, Andy!”

“I don’t recall giving you permission to call me by my given name.”

I gave him a look and made another lunge to retrieve my work. He again stepped back, only this time he backed into the headmaster.

“Brooks, are those your papers?”

“No, Sir.”

“Then I suggest you give them to Elliot and both of you go to your appropriate classes. Whatever the problem is, settle it outside school. I’ll have no shenanigans in the corridors.”

Even Andy Brooks knew better than to oppose the head. He grudgingly handed me my papers, and went on his way.

Of all things, a girl rescued me. Sian Bowen was one of the girls many of the boys longed for. Since none of the hopeful boys had ever dated her, each held to the vain hope that he would be the one. What they didn’t realize was that she wasn’t allowed to date, and wasn’t interested in boys like Andy Brooks.

Still, she’d heard what happened and had also had an earful of Andy’s dramatic reading of what he’d seen of my story.

“I hear you write,” she said, approaching me after school.

 Not knowing her very well, I didn’t know whether or not this was some sort of taunt.

 

[Sometimes a writer will start an idea on any available piece of paper – including paper towels – while in a waiting room or at lunch alone, and not having time to finish, will file it away, only to start something completely different the next time. This is separate from writing a complete story, to which access might only be available at home, and requires more time and discipline. I would imagine most writers have a file of some sort of story ideas like this. They serve a purpose. It allows one to doodle to fill up a time space, and also provides a prompt for writing at a future time. I have a dozen or so of these, some only a sentence or two, some at least as long as the ones presented here. Some are terrible, and would never go anywhere, kind of like drawing cross-hatches along the border of a paper. Others look like they might be interesting enough to turn into actual stories once the ones currently in progress are finished.

You have just had a taste of the writing mind. Be afraid. Be very afraid. ]

 

 

     

 

You Don't Know Me

 Auhor's note: This piece stemmed from my reaction to the daily shootings/mass shootings/beatings, etc. that currently happen unabated in the U.S. My reaction each time is, "What is wrong with people?" This is my attempt to figure out the mindset of those who do violence.

You don’t know me. I’m nobody. I've been told that often enough to know it’s true.

            You come from a family where arguments between parents are the norm. You’re not a huggy-kissy family. “I love you” isn’t something said. If you say it, you’re looked at as if you’ve just announced you’re from planet Earth.

            “Well, of course we love each other; we’re family.”

So, you choke it down, longing to be swept up in a hug warm enough to take your breath away. But it never happens. And sometimes choking down the words makes you feel like you're dying.

            Maybe you grew up fearing Totalitarian regimes and the threat that someone would drop the bomb on us, or perhaps that a plane you’re on might be hijacked and used as a weapon. 

            Your religion was of an angry God of Commandments: Thou shalt not. A God who threw Satan at you like a banana peel that could slip you up and trick you into sin. And the faithful, those who had chosen Jesus as their "personal" Savior, prayed over you in the hope that you would accept their version of Jesus. And they cursed you if you didn't.

             Maybe you were accused by teachers for things you didn't do. Maybe your parents blamed you for whatever troubles happened. Perhaps your classmates saw this and marked you as an easy target, never knowing the real you. And eventually the real you died.

                You don't know me.

             Maybe friends or younger relatives that you knew fairly well were nice enough in the presence of adults, but then said things that stabbed you in the soul when the adults weren’t around. You would never let them know. Rule 1: Never, ever give someone the satisfaction of knowing they’d hurt you. If you did, they won.

They were like the bullies on the street, in the schoolyard, in the lunchroom and in the school bathroom. The so-called friends who would pick a fight just so you would go away.

There were always bullies. Sometimes they took your lunch. Sometimes they simply called you names. But sometimes they threw rocks at you, stole from you or told lies about you, just to make you squirm. You could never understand how they knew you were the one they could bully, how they could see that target on you. And if they saw your pain, you made their day.

And so you played alone, digging in the sandbox until you dug too deep, and one of those hairy bugs with a million legs came scampering out of the hole and frightened your little self, forcing you to play somewhere safer.

            “I’m your friend,” someone says. Yes, they are, in forced places like the school yard or at a party where they socialize with you until the burden of your friendship proves too much, and they excuse themselves to talk to people of lighter acquaintance.

            And yet, and yet, and yet. They consider you a good friend, even though they’ve left you alone with a beer, to wander around, drinking too much to forget that you don’t know how to socialize. They’ve left you floundering. That makes you grin. You picture a flounder at a party: a fish out of water. That’s who you are. And you have a private laugh at that.

            You don’t know me.

            There were other relatives, too, the ones you don’t know so well or at all. The grandparents, who always seem vexed at something. The great aunts and uncles you’re expected to know even though they haven’t seen you since you were a baby. All get the obligatory kiss. Sit down, be quiet, don’t break anything, and for heaven’s sake, don’t touch anything with sticky fingers.

            The mother says the grandmother doesn’t mind having you visit since you behave. There are other grandchildren who jump on her furniture or open drawers they shouldn’t.

            But that doesn’t sound like TV grandmothers, or ones on social media who think grandchildren are the best part of life, who distribute hugs and kisses for the slightest cause, who freely say, “I love you.”

            And the great aunts and uncles you’re obliged to kiss and pretend you know,  the step-relatives, what of them? Didn’t parents teach you not to talk to strangers, not to take candy from strangers or get in their cars? These are strangers to you, yet you’re obliged to bestow the Judas kiss on the cheek.

            And yet, and yet, and yet, it isn’t the stranger who presents the danger. It is in the home. Come, take a look at this, and while you obey to observe some photo or new discovery, what was once a casual arm over the shoulder becomes an unwelcomed grope. And you are not allowed to say no because it’s a parent. The Commandment God says you must obey your parents. And you do not have the right to say no. Disobedience would surely  condemn you to hell. You stop believing in a future hell because it's here, now.

            Your one sanctuary, your room, is violated late at night when you awaken to find groping hands invading your clothes. He realizes you’re awake when you try to escape those hands. They are withdrawn and he soundlessly leaves, perhaps hoping that you’ll think it was just a dream.

            And you say nothing. Who can you tell? Who would believe you? The mother must know. She married him. She knows what he is like, so she is to blame as well. She didn’t protect you. Rule 1: never ever give anyone the satisfaction of knowing they’ve hurt you. Rule 2: never ever take private family business to outsiders. Rule 3: if someone has done something to you, you must have done something to deserve it.

            And yet, and yet and yet, other people don’t seem to have these experiences of family.

            Maybe he has a nickname, like Sly Fox. Various people call him that. You don’t know where the name came from, but they laugh when they mention it. They know.

            You become a cutter. Not with a razor blade; that would be a sin, and surely destine you for that other hell. No blood must be drawn. Instead, some sharp-edged plastic toy that, when rubbed roughly against the childish skin, will cause friction burns or blisters.

            It’s supposed to let the anger out, but all it does is cause more pain. So, you stop. Plenty of others are happy to inflict pain without you  helping them. Instead, the anger builds.

            You don’t know me.

            Anger can do many things. It could make you give up and end things. It could make you take revenge on even the tiniest perceived slight. It could make you take vengeance on those others consider innocents. After all, you were once an innocent. You were the one that all of the bullies saw as a target. But do two wrongs or a multitude of wrongs ever make a right? Do you have the skill to reason that far, or are you simply an instrument of vengeance?

            You secretly wonder if you’re like him. That suspicion is like that furry bug with all of the legs, living in the pit of your soul. You don’t want it to come out; you don’t want it to be there. You don’t want to be anything like him or the bullies. Sometimes, something clumsy you say or do – or even think – makes you suspect you are like him. If you are, you deserve everything that’s done to you. And maybe you want to take as many people out with you as you can.

            Perhaps one person holding out a hand, saying, “I’m your friend,” can make all the difference. Perhaps the meaning of “I’m your friend” is calling the authorities to tell them about things you’ve done or said before you wreak your vengeance.

            And yet, and yet, and yet.

            You don’t know me.

Pranksters, Practical Jokers and Other Bullies

 

From this title, it’s obvious I’m not a fan of this behavior. I know what it feels like to be on the receiving end of it from vast experience. (I refuse to call myself a victim; I won’t be anyone’s victim.)

Pranks and practical jokes are, in my opinion the lowest form of entertainment – if you can even call it that. It isn’t about laughing with someone, but laughing at someone.

Those who participate in pranks and practical jokes often think the person they’re trying to victimize has too high an opinion of themselves, and needs to be brought down a peg or two.

Actually, the prankster is the one needing to be brought down a peg or two. They think playing a practical joke shows that they’re smarter than the person they’re trying to bring down. It doesn’t. It shows what a bully they are.

When I hear of an actor who enjoys playing practical jokes, I immediately think less of them as a human being, and reconsider paying my hard-earned money to see their films.

Pranksters are those who thrive on adulation as well as the discomfort of others, often those they mistakenly call friends. Who would be friends with someone they can’t trust?

Is it really kinder to play a “joke” on someone than to say, “Hey, Ugly, come here,” and then take their lunch and stomp on it? I think not.

But pranksters don’t just pick on those they consider “above themselves.” They pick on those, just as other bullies do, who are less aware of the situation or who are shy or introverted.

“Hold my beer. Watch this. I bet I can get that person to…”

Yeah, right. What happened to being kind? You have no idea what that person has been through. Perhaps they’ve made some egregious mistake that they feel terrible about. Perhaps their pet or a relative has just died. They may have low self-esteem for a variety of reasons.

Does the prankster consider that? No, they do not; because they’re all about themselves and showing that they have the upper hand.

And why do people think it’s okay to behave this way? Most likely because we have so many TV shows glamorizing pranks and practical jokes. Actors brag about the practical jokes they’ve played on their colleagues.

Candid Camera started out as a sweet show where people sent in videos of their pets or small children doing funny but not embarrassing things. It quickly became acceptable – sometimes preferable – to send in videos of downright embarrassing episodes – the sort that makes any viewer with a conscience cringe – and even set up practical jokes.

From there other TV shows were spawned that ran with the idea, each trying to outdo the other with how obscenely mean they could be. Some even give money to the contestant who can play the biggest practical joke.

But what about the person on the receiving end? Does anyone consider them? They do not. If they don’t laugh, they’re being a poor sport, regardless of how mortifying the prank is.

They’re told they have no sense of humor if they don’t laugh off what may have wounded them deeply.

We hear all the time about people committing an act like Columbine because they were bullied, and sometimes the bullying is in the form of repeated practical jokes. There are also those who commit suicide for “reasons unknown.”

I’d be willing to bet those reasons are very well known. Some kids are very sensitive to teasing, including practical jokes. And the practical jokers get away scot free because the current mindset is that we don’t call people out for acts of viciousness. How dare you shame someone for that?

They were just kidding. It was all meant in fun. Lighten up.

That’s the same excuse given when someone makes a sexual or racist remark, especially as a punchline to a joke.

Probably because I’m an introvert lacking in social skills, I’ve been an easy mark most of my life. And I hate the fact that absolute strangers as well as those who know me and should know better feel entitled to insult me with their pranks.

The first such prank happened when I was four or five. My family was visiting my mother’s uncle and cousin. Her uncle had me sitting on his lap. At one point, he offered me a piece of candy. Now, I’d been taught not to take candy from strangers, and to me he was somewhat of a stranger. I also didn’t take anything from anyone without asking permission from my mother.

She told me I could have it, so I said, “Yes, please.” He immediately put it in his pocket and said, “You can’t have it.”

Who would do something so mean to a little kid? Although I didn’t have those words at that age, I felt humiliated for expressing a desire for something I clearly wasn’t entitled to, embarrassed that others saw the exchange, and betrayed by my mother, who, I thought, must have known he wasn’t going to give it to me.  Why didn’t she intervene? What lesson was she trying to teach me?

I got it loud and clear: Don’t trust people. Even the ones you know will stab you in the back.

I was told by others that he was kindness itself, and would never do anything to hurt anyone.

Perhaps if I’d cried, he might have understood. But more likely, he would have said, “I was just kidding.”

And I didn’t cry. I didn’t want to let on to anyone how humiliated I was. I didn’t want them to know he got to me. Unlike my bolder cousins, who would have gone digging in his pocket for the piece of candy – they were used to that kind of behavior, apparently – I accepted his refusal as a clear indication that I must be a bad person.

I got off his lap, and kept my distance for the rest of the day. Every time he tried to offer me that piece of candy, I said, “No thank you.” Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

Even my so-called friends played pranks on me.

One friend insisted I was invited to her younger brother’s birthday party. I was about 10. I didn’t receive an invitation, and my mother questioned whether or not I was invited. Clearly, to everyone but me, I was not. But my friend told me I was, and I considered my word my bond. I expected no less from others.

So, at my insistence, my mother took me to buy a gift instead of refusing to allow me to attend a party to which I had no invitation. I arrived, gift in hand, to blank stares and his mother’s offhand comment, “What are you doing here?” I immediately knew my mistake, and wanted to run home to hide my shame.

But no. I had a gift. Entre enough. “Oh, that’s who the other chair was for!” came the sudden epiphany even I didn’t believe, and I was ushered in before I could make my escape.

I suppose anyone else would have quickly overcome their embarrassment and enjoyed the party. I could not. The knowledge that I didn’t belong there hovered around me like a cage. It was the worst party I ever attended. The party itself wasn’t bad. I simply had no fun and took the first possible opportunity to leave. I’m sure the others had a good laugh at my faux pas once I was gone.

And I never took that “friend” at her word again. Fool me once.

Even in college people saw me as the butt of jokes. My first roommate made my first extended time away from home a terrible experience by her pranks at my expense.

She took the opportunity of being away from parental guidance as an excuse to be as irresponsible as possible, and I did not. Her assumption that everyone should be that way made her want to teach me a lesson for simply being a civilized human being who went to bed when they were tired.

I’m a non-confrontational individual – being raised as “only a girl” and therefore without the right to speak up for myself or show anger because it wasn’t polite – how could I be expected to behave otherwise? I developed much more passive-aggressive ways of demonstrating my disgust with my roommate, who obviously already didn’t like me for no explicable reason. When she moved out of our dorm room at the end of term, I helped her pack.

There were many other instances. What’s sad is that, when I retell some of them, people often think they’re funny, and ask if I don’t find it amusing in hindsight?

Well, no. Humiliation is never amusing, even years later. Perhaps I have too much empathy both for my younger self and for others. I have ruined more than a few people’s pranks on others in order to save the receivers from embarrassment. I only wish the same had been done for me.

I consider practical jokers the lowest life form. It doesn’t take much intelligence be mean. And the fact that these people are willing to humiliate someone just for a laugh shows a lack of humanity. What next? Torturing animals? I’m sure Ted Bundy would congratulate you and maybe suggest that you didn’t go quite far enough.

 

Social Media

I’m an introvert. Some people might argue that point, saying I’m outgoing and I could talk the legs off a chair. Perhaps I am outgoing at work. It’s part of my job requirement. And if you get me started on something that interests me, I can talk on seemingly forever.

But at the end of the day, I’m emotionally exhausted. The last thing I want to do is socialize.

I like the idea of parties, but I hate the actuality.

 Making plans to go somewhere with someone sounds nice, but once I get the chance to think about it, I don’t really want to, especially if it involves shopping.

In large groups, I’m usually the one off to the side reading a book or writing something (and contrary to what others think, people I know will never end up in one of my stories).

I hate small talk, and I usually miss social cues. I sometimes wonder if I’m on the spectrum.

While I can talk forever about things that interest me, I apparently don’t have the same interests as very many people. I don’t like mystery stories or comic books, which many of the people I know do.

Because I travel a good bit, the thing I particularly hate is when people tell me to bring my travel pictures with me. Maybe they’re just being polite about being interested in my doings, but rarely if ever does anyone bother to even look at pictures I’ve brought with me. Having carted things around unnecessarily, I get miffed at this. My attitude is, don’t say you want to see something if you’re really not interested.

With that in mind, I’ve stopped bringing pictures or anything else with me. I haven’t yet even needed to explain, “Oh, I didn’t bother because you’ve never been interested when I brought them before.”

Which brings me to social media. This is the perfect medium for anyone who likes the idea of socializing, but doesn’t care to be in a room full of people.

I first came to social media via AOL chat rooms. I don’t know if they still exist, but they used to have chat rooms for nearly every interest. Finding an actual interest proved more challenging than one might think.

One room I thought I’d like was supposed to be for writers. It ended up being a group of close friends who did nothing but discuss their aches and pains.

I tried several others, determined to find people I could chat with. Most wouldn’t talk to anyone new, and acted very affronted if a new person dared to say anything.

I did finally find a place where I was actually spoken to, and after a while formed a kind of internet friendship with some.

As with most things, chat rooms devolved into giant drama spaces. The Liars Club could have been the title for a story about AOL chatrooms.

MySpace was another place I found. People had recommended it to me as a great social media platform. Connecting with people was fairly long-distance, hit-or-miss. I would post something and random people sometimes responded. It seemed to me more like a bulletin board I had in my bedroom as a teen. It was something to decorate. It didn’t really meet my needs.

I found Sodahead by accident. It was a strange site where people got points and ratings for posting questions. Others answered them. Some people were so caught up in their rankings they would ask the same questions repeatedly just for the points. They seldom responded to anyone else’s questions.

Sometimes on Sodahead, it was possible to connect with others who had replied to the same questions I had. But by the 20^th time responding to something like, “What is your favorite color?” the site got old, and I left it.

Something I noticed on all of these sites was a bit peculiar. These were sites where people didn’t use their real names, but a screen name of a limited number of characters (I suppose the precursor to @#). If I were perceived as male, people were usually quite nice to me, and wanted to chat with me. I discovered this when someone said something that indicated they thought I was a guy – and that happened several times. Once I told them I wasn’t a guy, I was essentially ignored, if not outright bullied.

When I was perceived as female, it was harder to make friends and more likely that people would say snarky things to me. I don’t know why this was the case, since I saw other women treated far nicer than I was. I’m not sure what it is that I project that causes this to happen. In real life I spent elementary school both at school and at home being bullied or harassed, -- or simply left out -- for no reason that I’ve ever been able to discover.

Perhaps that’s why I prefer to do things on my own. It’s easier to have a good time by myself.

My brother pestered me into joining Facebook. Frankly, I couldn’t see the point. I did finally join, and discovered many of my relatives and friends were also there. I was careful about who I accepted as a friend.

I have an author page as well as my regular one, and a few of the strangers I have accepted on that page have tried to either sell me their children or beg me to marry them so they could come to America to live. Needless to say, such people were unfriended in a hurry. They weren’t going to buy my books, anyway. I’ve also had the occasional person who thought I was a swinger who was looking for discussions of a sexual nature. In those instances, I was glad I had quick access to “unfriend”.

And again, I wonder what is it about me that attracts that sort? I certainly have nothing in my profile that would make anyone think I was that sort of person.

Of course, once I was on Facebook with however many friends it says I have (I don’t know, and I don’t care), people were all about Twitter and Snapchat and whatever else is out there. “Oh, you have to do those,” I’m told.

Somehow, I don’t think so.

Even though my friends on Facebook are actual friends and family, there are newsfeeds one can respond to. Unfortunately, these days people tend to be mean and snarky toward anyone who has an opinion different from theirs.

I’m not a confrontational person. If someone says something I don’t agree with, I leave it alone and don’t comment. If someone disagrees politely, we can sometimes have a nice chat. But once someone gets snarky, I’m done.

I have blocked a few relatives who got snarky with me because they apparently don’t have the reading skills to understand something I posted, and then brought their friends in to keep the snark going.

Taking a page from the, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all,” philosophy, I’ve been known to speak some rather rude comments at my computer, in the privacy of my home office. But I wouldn’t dream of typing to Facebook comments like, “I had no idea you were such a deliberate idiot,” or “Drama queen much?” And no one will ever know if they were the object of such a sentiment, since I would never be so rude outside the confines of an empty room.

I’ve taken the suggestion of one of my cousins to protect my feelings. I don’t bother looking at comments to what I’ve written from anyone I don’t know. I don’t need the negativity in my life.

I’ve read about how addictive social media is. I find the opposite is true. At first, it’s interesting, like being in a bookstore with a credit card.

But negative, mean, bullying responses shot in my direction cooled my interest quickly. I may have had to put up with that behavior in school, but I’m not about to have it inflicted on me on the internet by strangers.

I end up checking in to see if any one of my friends has said or done anything interesting, or posted any interesting pictures. (I do look at other people’s pictures.)

I don’t think I’m anyone special, and when people start making accusations based on an innocent comment – or even a joke – that I think I am, or that I think I’m better than everyone else, or whatever, it’s like being in elementary school again.

Social media could be a godsend, but it rarely remains one. For me, it hasn’t lived up to the promises. Yes, it helps me keep in touch with friends and relatives, but beyond that, I’d rather read a book.