I had just turned 19 years old. I felt the world was waiting for me, anxious for my arrival, ready to share its secrets with me as soon as I emerged. It was more than just at my fingertips, or in my hands, more than any idiom; it was my patient servant, silently eager for me to rise to my place in the universe.

She had just turned 19 years old a month prior. She knew I was great, headed for possibilities uncharted by the likes of the common man. She thought I was “it.” Yet, with all the steadfast devotion, she had her own ego to feed. It wasn’t entirely megalomaniacal like mine. She just felt like Mother Nature had passed down Her mantle and she was to populate the earth with her offspring. I wasn’t in line to be her husband; I was only to be the father of her children. She just wanted my noble blood.

I later found out that I was far from being the only one worthy to tend the fruit of her loin, as I was just another player in the sick game that was her sex life. Even while she was with me. To cheat is one thing, but to cheat and not feel guilty, still maintaining a McCarthyist attitude of sanctimony, that is beyond me. Or at least it was beyond my working comprehension at the time. Remember, I thought she was to take my side as queen of all that existed.

Not that any of this truly matters. I mean, we were spending the weekend in Jersey, for goodness’ sake. This should have been my first clue. Jersey is like my Gomorroh, a place I have no business in, a place with nothing for me. I didn’t completely understand this at the time, and perhaps I still don’t.  But at that time, spending the weekend at the beach with my so-called soulmate mattered above all. 

Notice I didn’t call it “the shore.” I still maintain a degree of integrity, no matter how shredded or jaded. Back then, I wanted to prove myself to the world. Now, I’m just barely trying to prove myself to myself, which is all that is important anymore in this world of whirlwind illusion.

I believed sincerely in compromise and reciprocity. Give and take. There always has to be some kind of sacrifice on both ends to achieve mutual satisfaction. There is of course, a line to draw in the succession of compromise, as there are certain ideas that should not be forsaken for the common good, certain lines you should not cross. But nonetheless, if the compromise is sown with the steady hand of integrity, both sides will be satisfied and reciprocity can occur.

Even as somewhat of a closet narcissist, I understood this Taoist principle of letting go in order to receive and be fulfilled. She could not understand this to save her life. Her drive, as selfless as it was painted, had no trace of self at all. It was pure, unadulterated greed, and not even she understood where it came from. Some twisted by-product of her cookie-cutter childhood and her recent growing pains over her faith possibly, but it’s not worth my precious time to ponder.

I learned volumes about reciprocity that weekend, and even moreso looking back on it in hindsight. There is much to be learned from the past, and all the clichéd adages about knowing where you came from in order to see where you are going have more truth to them than the average wives’ tale.

During the rainy, sterling grey weekend, the character who caught my attention most was not the wench who used religious dogma to powder over her generous imperfections and sleights in judgment, but a harmless rogue who came out of the mist into the equation like a strange attractor. He was 24. His girlfriend was 19 years old.

The suburban princess I was with invited along her best friend, who was the kind of girl I should have been dating. Oh, sweet Mandy. Carefree and not caught up in appearances or forgotten ideals.  Though, she lost points later in the weekend for bedding some loser she met who drove a Dodge Neon. She justified herself precociously and ineffectively by referring to him as a “pity hook-up,” that she was doing the poor guy a favor. Talk about lack of integrity. Mandy knew her merciless, avaricious friend, my date and arch-nemesis, and what she was capable of. If she wanted to hand out pity passion, she would have done best by throwing some my way and making things interesting.

Anyhow, she brought along another friend who should have been from Jersey in the rare, benign case that she wasn’t. Her eyes and hair always looked dirty, her freckles took away from her crooked smile, her brightness rivaled that of most medieval dungeons, and she always wore wifebeaters. But out of the 3 girls I was with that weekend, hers was the chest I spent the least time glazing over. The matriarchal hussy I was dating certainly had the bosom to nurture all the dozens of suckling bastards she was ready to birth. 

Again, none of these Rosencrantzes had the goods on the star of the show. The trashy tanktop girl, whose name was actually Trish, brought along her boyfriend. Who, if possible, was more trashy than she was. And not in a scary bar-brawl, Old Milwaukee,  “you don’t know me” kind of way, either. I mean in a very dorky, little orphan Annie meets Alex P. Keaton way. The kind of kid you want to smack right in the head when you see him, and then kick him when you hear him laugh. The word “kid” definitely comes to mind, and the vision becomes far more pathetic and disappointing when you realize that he is 24, looking and acting like he is 17 on his Sunday best. Other words that come to mind include “loser,” “failure,” “nobody.”

He wasn’t the kind of troubled or abused victim of socio-economic circumstance. There was no “man” holding him down. He was the kind of guy who probably could have done something with his life, if only he weren’t such a tool. I forget his name, but I’ll call him Elwood, because that’s what he looked like he should have been called.

I asked Sue, the shrewd mindfuck I was dating, what the hell the deal was. Who was this guy? Where did he come from? And what was young sexpot Trish doing giving up the hambone to this pitiful loser?

Elwood was a last-minute addition to the trip. He had just lost his job, and he had taken the train to meet Trish at the beach, get drunk and not worry about where his next meal would come from. He had nothing to go back home to. And no money to pitch in for the hotel. That didn’t stop him from buying some girlie liquor.

I’m sorry, that should be irrelevant. The point is that he had money for booze but not to pay his keep. But also, he drank Sambuca and Schnapps, and that cannot just be glanced over and left alone.

Sue’s attitude and reserve were similar to mine, but her calm response to the situation, in addition to feigned ignorance and fabricated nonchalance, was that he was “harmless.”

I thought that somebody in his shoes at 24 had a slightly different working title than “harmless,” but I suppose if you don’t have anything nice to say, you should just concentrate on the fact that you are spending the weekend with a busty girl with a tongue ring, and nobody’s parents are within earshot.

I should clarify. This was pertinent because we had met at school near the end of the semester, so much of our relationship was long-distance, and involved sneaking around the house in the middle of the night while either party’s parents slept not too far away from the ground zero that was our intimate experimentation. And by experimentation, I mean the kind where you rub a balloon on your head to demonstrate static electricity. There was no cold fusion discovered in our bedroom. A lot of cold, not much fusion, anyhow.

I tasted her flower for the first time that weekend. My novice musings provided me with a regrettable but necessary experience that was never reciprocated. Teased with via her sly movements beneath the covers and the Arabesque display of her mouthpiece, but to no conclusion. A preview for a movie that never hit theaters.

And I was not happy. I put myself out there only to come away with a bad taste in my mouth and frustration in my depths. So frustrating, in fact, that on the second morning, I went to walk the sands explicitly alone and wrote about it. I knew then I was wasting my time, giving my all to get the bare minimum in return.

But I suppose there was no harm in trying. Life boils down to the experience you take away from it anyway, and everyone has to start somewhere, most times near the bottom.

The first night there, I didn’t even want to be there. I had spent way too much time in traffic, way too much time getting lost, and I felt that I was making a lot of effort being the partner in the relationship with no driver’s license. That’s a whole ‘nother can of worms, but let’s just say that I foolishly got it suspended. Foolishly not only in the manner of forfeit, but also in the fact that it was in attempt to see her. She had the car, the money, the license, and the lenient parents, yet I was the one making all the damn trips. And this time to Jersey, nonetheless.

Now, the wastebasket Elwood hadn’t arrived until Saturday afternoon. Promptly after making his inept introduction, he left to buy foo-foo liquor for himself and the girls. Upon his return, the happy-go-lucky couple went out to rent jet-skis. Wait a minute, backtrack. I’m 19, and I’ve never been jet-skiing at the beach. Why not? Money. So, remind me, why isn’t this guy paying for the room again? I was ready to get ignorant, but refrained, not so much to pose as a gentleman before my woman, but more because I felt sorry for the fruit fly before me. He couldn’t have weighed more than a buck-fifty in mud-caked fatigues. Not that he’d be one to wear them.

The trashy couple and their third wheel disappeared for the afternoon, and my date and I walked along the cloudy, depressing beach, talking about nothing much. It eventually got nicer, and we were able to lay out. Two fools in love, or at least that’s what we called it. Wearing fishermen’s hats, we were trying to decide on a romantic setting to make love together for the first time. My first time ever.

She at one point suggested right out on the beach, in the dune behind some tall grass. By that point, though, it had become windy, and she had put on a sweatshirt with the hood pulled tightly but awkwardly over her head. Her eyes squinting, her nose crinkled; She looked absolutely ridiculous. I could not help but think I would be losing my virginity to E.T.

Before it got too cold, and we were still laying out musing about our physical attractions, she leaned over and kissed me. Not just kissed, but really made out with me. She normally came off as prissy and prudish, in addition to “not much fun,” so this was a bit out of the ordinary.

I leaned back and asked her, “What about all these people around?”

She said, “Fuck ‘em.”

I laughed. She was not one for profanity by any means. I was truly shocked. This was about as out of character as I had ever seen her.

“I thought you would like that,” she continued. “I said it just for you.”

I think that was the only thing she ever did for me.

After eating some bad pretzels, some terrible chocolate-covered bananas, and some mediocre cheesesteaks, we came back to unwind at the end of the evening. Mandy came in with the dumbass duo, stumbling, quite roasted off of the sweet nectar they had imbibed all afternoon. Of course, the scrawny knucklehead was the most inebriated, by far.

They were causing some hootnanny about nothing in particular, when the idiot did what many immature young men do when they are drunk and bored, and he pretended to be gay. This wasn’t the biggest deal until he pounced on the bed, hugging me and then humping me over the covers. I didn’t like him sober, and I really didn’t like him drunk, but I found no enjoyment in him molesting me in front of my girlfriend.

I angrily tossed him off, and he tumbled onto the floor, off of the bed, looking foolish.

“What the fuck?” I exclaimed. “ I don’t even know you.”

“You’re right,” he mumbled. “I don’t know you, I shouldn’t have…”

His voice trailed off in shame as his tipsy lady friends held back giggles behind looks of discomfort. Mandy saved the situation by suggesting they go outside to cruise the boardwalk. The others followed suit, mumbling in inebriated accord. As they walked out of the door, she caboosed behind them slowly, trying to reassure us.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “He’s harmless.”

That whole incident may have been the highlight of our Saturday night. Not much else happened, and even their drunken return was uncharacteristically quiet and without event.

The next morning, I woke up to see Elwood grabbing his dingy bag and trudging out the door. His face was red, his hair was all over the place, and his eyes were squinty. He looked like he was hating life and had a long Sunday afternoon to look forward to.

As the girls were rustling around for their things, dreading the 11:00 check-out time, I sat up in bed, thinking about how sorry the entire situation looked. I thought about how little their drunken debauchery brought them besides groggy regret in the form of a nasty hangover. Not that I wasn’t one for getting wasted; I had enjoyed more nights of indulgence the past two years than most had in twenty.

Wasn’t I care-free and bold? I’d like to think so. But I had purpose; I had focus. I wanted to be my own person, make my own way in this world. I wanted to own a business one day, work for myself. I wouldn’t be falling down the stairs at 24 with no job and no place to go, no direction to follow.  How could someone let his life come to this?

I was living out my time, I was in the moment. This guy was a has-been holding onto something he may have never had. I had it, and I would never lose it. And it wouldn’t entail puking up Sambuca to get over the pain of being fired from a dead-end job.

I knew what I wanted. I would be with the one I wanted to be with. I would be working towards my life’s goals; I would be honestly making my dreams come true, against all cliché. I wouldn’t be harmless; I would affect people, touch people. I would leave my mark. And at 24, I would just be getting started.

Looking at Elwood, I saw everything I loathed, and the opposite of everything I stood for, everything I wanted out of life. I shook my head, convinced I would never end up like him. I was on the right track, I was doing everything right. I had purpose. I had focus. I knew I would make it. I could feel it.

Watching him leave sent a chill through my body, though. I felt uneasy, looking at what I could never allow myself to become. Even though I had nothing to worry about, it was a wake-up call. A glimpse into what could happen down the road if I was careless.

And here I sit, feeling uneasy, a chill running through my body with every keystroke, realizing the profound truth that has enveloped my life. Here I sit, 5 years after that insignificantly meaningful weekend, 24 years old, a complete loser.

Every day, I have to look over my shoulder for the pink slip at my embarrasingly low-paying job, stressed out of my mind, living from check to check.

My drinking career has gone from good, clean fun to, well, puking up “Razzberry” rum on Sunday mornings.

I’m dating a 19-year-old who I have nothing in common with. I don’t know how we got together, and no one else understands us, either. She’s younger than my kid brother for Pete’s sake.  And of course, she’s from Jersey.

I thought I was better than that kid. I looked down upon him and shook my head.

And here I am, in his shoes, exactly as I predicted I wouldn’t be. Here I am at 24, dating a 19-year-old Jersey girl, about to lose my job, with nothing to live for but the next weekend’s buzz.

But don’t worry about me. I’m harmless.