Andrew
/Kristina Stocks
The really important kind of freedom involves attention, and awareness, and discipline, and effort, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them, over and over, in myriad petty little unsexy ways, every day. That is real freedom.
- David Foster Wallace, ‘This is Water’
We match on Bumble, the site that insists it is more progressive than Tinder because “the lady talks first.” It’s easy to fall into this trap. Dating online is so artificial that whenever you’re offered a slice of what you believe to be reality, you latch on.
I did this with Andrew, and he with me in return, in a small and awful way.
We meet on uncomfortable wicker chairs at the back of an Italian restaurant on Corydon. It is dark, save for clear blown glass light fixtures that look like jellyfish, more art than utility. I look up in uncomfortable moments, wondering how a light fixture could look simultaneously silly and pretentious. He has dark features and olive skin, a classically handsome cliché. He looks at me in a hungry way that made me inadvertently thankful for a low neckline and blotted red lipstick.
I told him I like to write, and he leans in with fanatical intensity, plunging into a description of the blog he’s writing:
“It’s about my office. The water cooler bullshit, the birthday cakes and total insincerity of everyone there. It’s satire. I am getting very into it.”
“What do you do?”
“I am an actuarial analyst – I have been doing it for like, seven years.”
Sounds official, I think.
“What does that entail?”
“The insurance industry uses statistical models to analyze data and calculate the probability of and costs associated with certain events, such as product failure, accidents, property damage, injury, and death. They use the results to design and price insurance policies.”
I am 22. Andrew is 33. He is so mysterious, so adult. I find him incredibly sexy. I am a waitress and work part time at a non-profit.
“That’s fascinating,” I say, leaning in.
He leans in a little too, takes a sip of his beer,
“Can I tell you a secret?”
Oh, yes. “Yes!”
“I hate it. Imagine your soul being sucked directly out of your ass – that’s what my job is like.”
“Oh.” Not what I thought he was going to say.
“I am working on getting out of the industry. This blog is, I guess, just my way of privately venting about it. Office life, you know? Dredging up garbage every day – the probability of people hurting themselves or failing. Because the thing is, I love success. I don’t want to think about failure. I mean, I don’t care if this blog doesn’t take off or anything, I mean I don’t think it will take off. But who knows right?” He tilts his beer up to me.
“Yeah.” I say.
“That said, you’re a writer.” He leans in again. “Got any recommendations for me? Any reading I should do, other than your work which is of course a given.”
At this point, I’m sweating through my lacey date-night shirt. Why the did I tell him that I write? What kind of phony am I?
“I’ve been into David Foster Wallace lately.”
Even though it’s true, I have been really into his work, I think, what a stereotypical thing for a recently graduated university student to say. Silly. Pretentious like the jellyfish lanterns. But I ramble on,
“He has this great book of essays called ‘Consider the Lobster’. My favourite is the essay of the same name, which is concerned with the ethics of boiling a creature alive in order to enhance the person cooking’s pleasure.”
Andrew looks at me blankly.
“It’s… really good.” My cheeks are hot and I gulp my wine, then I remember,
“Actually—he has this wonderful commencement address called ‘This is Water’. You should listen to it. In a roundabout way, it hits so many of the points you were just talking about with the monotony of a 9-5, and the conscious decisions we get to make about being good to one another. Kind of the bigger picture.”
This speech has a tender spot in my heart. I have long struggled with meaning and purpose, so to share the contents of it with a total stranger is unnerving. I have a written copy of the speech in my room, folded neatly and placed in every journal I use. I rush my last sentence, still nervous, “And I’ll lend you the book of essays. I am not doing it justice. It is really good.”
He is either looking at my chin, or my cleavage. Like he’s considering something. Do I have something on my chin? He tilts his head.
“I will go home and listen to it tonight. And, hey, would you read my blog? I love constructive criticism.”
He’s definitely not a writer, I think. But I am flattered he’s asking. He’s so handsome I feel like I can’t look at him too long for fear of staring,
“Absolutely!”
We finish our drinks and walk along Corydon. It is early fall, the day had been warm and now the sweet smell of leaves decaying lifts from the street.
“Amazing,” he says, “we live so close to one another,” he’s pointing west, “I am just on Christina Ave.”
“I walk by there all the time to get to the gym!” I say.
“Really?” he says.
Is he surprised I go to the gym? I think. But the moment of insecurity only lasts a moment.
He gives me that confusing look again, then leans over to kiss me. Am I supposed to invite him in for a drink? Can I risk it? In the basement apartment, I sleep in a single bed. Andrew must be six foot three. And if my roommate is home, he will certainly scare Andrew away.
“Goodnight,” I say quickly.
“I’m going home to listen to that speech!” he says.
I am not certain I believe him, but I smile and wave as I enter the building.
My roommate, Clark, is in the hallway. Clark is holding a six pack. He’s wearing a suit and the tie is haphazardly loosened and thrown over his shoulder. He was looking up from the basement hallway onto the street. He saw Andrew and me talking.
“Who were you SMOOCHING?” he exclaims.
“Bumble date,” I pause, “I think it went well.”
“Huh,” Clark says, “Any man would be lucky to tolerate you, Stocks.”
I punch him in the arm. “Where you going?”
“River beers, baby! You in?”
“Not tonight.”
“Your loss. See ya!” He barrels up the stairs.
Two hours later I got a text. It was Andrew.
Listened to “This is Water.” Amazing! Must discuss more in person. What else you got for me?
*
On the second date I brought an armful of books. It’s my collection of David Foster Wallace books. We have been texting nonstop and I am charmed by Andrew’s frenetic and intense energy.
“Amazing! Amazing!” He has a deep, affable laugh. We met at a Starbucks, and his long legs press against the table, overwhelming the wrought-iron chair. He has a habit of talking with his hands. He flirts with the girl at the counter a little, and she blushes.
“What are you doing this weekend?” I ask as we sit down.
“Well, I am picking my son up from my ex’s tomorrow.”
I try not to keep the frothy latte milk from shooting out my nose as I choke and say,
“Son?”
“Yeah, I have a four year old son. I thought I mentioned him?” he says breezily, all smiles and sweetness.
“No, I don’t think you did.”
“Oh, I do. He’s the best.” He pulls out a picture on his phone. Very cute. Shocking light hair that he clearly didn’t get from his dad. “I take him on weekends. Ever since the divorce, it’s been really important to me to keep things as normal as possible.”
“I didn’t know you were divorced.”
“Huh. Thought I mentioned it.” He takes a sip of black coffee and says, “Hey! I quit my job! I think I am going to start a non-profit. Use my knowledge for good. I know it seems crazy, but I have been thinking about it for a long time. I am going to use my private sector skills and transition it to something better.”
As we part ways, he tells me I should come over after he has a couple drinks with his soccer buddies tonight.
“We can keep chatting about David Foster Wallace!” he says.
*
It’s late and his apartment is a small two bedroom. The walls were the depressing colour of taupe that is inextricably linked with temporary living spaces. There was a mass-marketed painting of a woman holding an umbrella, back turned. Costco art. There are colorful Lego blocks embedded in the tan carpet. There are pictures of his ex wife, their son, and Andrew together. In one photo she is holding up their son in the middle of an arena, in a blue two piece outfit and sculpted abs.
“Your wife was a cheerleader for the Blue Bombers?!” My hand instinctively flies to my soft middle section.
“Ex wife,” he says, not looking up as he drops blocks into little plastic containers, “Still is.”
I help pick up the remaining blocks, and he pulls two bottles of Alexander Keiths out of the fridge. He seems drunk, chatty but forgetful.
“Did you have fun with your friends?” I ask.
“Oh yeah.”
We sit on the couch. I’m wearing a dress and the polyester of the couch itches against my freshly shaven legs. He takes three sips of his beer, puts the bottle down, and begins kissing me. Our lips don’t line up, but I ignore this and press through with awkward mechanical fervor.
Overall, the sex was clumsy, bland, and passionless, but I don’t care. I figure it will improve, he had a bit of a buzz, and I am hung up on this guy. He’s so handsome. So interesting. I don’t mind that he doesn’t ask questions about me. It’s not intentional – he is just going through something. Besides, I think to myself, he’s the adult.
I turn over and smile at him. The duvet smells like Bounty fabric softener. He’s staring up at the ceiling, twirling his fingers. He looks proud. Maybe the hookup wasn’t as unsuccessful as I felt it was, I think. He slurs as he says,
“You know, I have never been with someone for their mind. I have only ever been with people I have been attracted to.”
He keeps looking up at the ceiling as he says it. I suppose being attractive and being intelligent aren’t mutually exclusive, and now I know on which side of the spectrum I fall. My heart sinks.
“I should get going,” I say, “It’s late.” Tears are stinging my eyes. I pull a corner of the blanket with me to cover myself as I slip my dress over my body.
“Okay,” he says, pulling on sweatpants, “I’ll walk you out.”
*
This is the part where, in a false memory, I tell you I walk away. I take a step back and calculate the reason I have been making this decision. I tell you that I don’t go home and before changing into my pajamas, stare at my naked body in shame. I tell you that I don’t pursue a person that is so clearly using me in their own thought experiment. That I overcome my glaring insecurity, even if just for a moment. But that doesn’t happen.
I don’t hear from him for a few days, but then he calls me and asks me to come for a walk.
“I have something to show you!” he says.
We meet by the apartment for a walk. He has a bandage on his left forearm. He excitedly begins pulling it off.
“I got a tattoo to remind myself how important this message is to me.”
In a gaudy typeface, the phrase This is water is emblazoned. It runs along the fleshy part of his forearm, facing him.
“It’s facing me so I never forget.”
We have hit the end of the street. Corydon Avenue finishes and then loops around the notorious Confusion Corner. It is a traffic circle in reverse, with no pedestrian throughway, and the highest number of fender benders on the continent. They added traffic lights as an afterthought. The city planner really wasn’t thinking of its citizens when they made Confusion Corner.
“Nice, Andrew. Really.” I smile at him as sunlight glints off a Toyota Corolla, temporarily blinding me.
*
A few weeks later Andrew posted on Facebook to promote his newly formed podcast. He was launching into the promotion of his podcast and blog at breakneck speeds.
The title of the post promoting the podcast was clickbait:
“HOW I CHANGED MY LIFE BY CHALLENGING MYSELF”
It was the episode description that caught my attention. “I beelined it to the tattoo parlour after quitting my job to place a life changing message on my forearm.”
I clicked it with morbid curiosity. He hadn’t contacted me since our walk. The audio began with scuzzy, low-fi techno.
“Okay, so before I begin, I want to tell you how I discovered this message I have placed on my body forever.”
He must have bought an expensive mic— the audio is great.
“So I began my blog a year ago, because I was miserable, chained to a desk, dealing with typical office politics. I was sick of it. Sick and tired of being sick and tired.”
Oof. These were the kinds of clichés I suggested he take out of the blog. He carries on,
“Fast forward ten months. I am alone, scrolling through YouTube – mindless” he pauses for dramatic effect, “when I discover David Foster Wallace’s commencement address called This is Water.”
I groan. Clark bangs on my bedroom wall from his room.
“You okay?” he asks. I pause the podcast.
“I’m fine.” I hit play.
“The serendipity was amazing. I stumbled across This is Water at precisely the right time for it to make the maximum impact. It was a total gut-punch moment for me. When the student is ready, the teacher appears, and this was IT for me - the tidy packaging of a bunch of things that had been floating around in my head just prior to that point in time.”
Amazing, I think, and thump my laptop shut.
Though annoying, I am not angry that he didn’t give me credit for discovering the speech. Wallace says, “A huge percentage of the stuff that I tend to be automatically certain of is, it turns out, totally wrong and deluded”. I suppose this was one of those situations. The thing that bothers me was the regurgitation of something I care about deeply, a message that he was, for the most part, summarizing accurately but not actively practicing.
What had Andrew changed? I exhale, eyes wandering to my bookshelf.
He never returned my books.
I suck up my pride and send him a text.
“Hey – can you return my books?”
Three hours later Andrew responds:
“Krissi, SO happy to hear from you. I just want to be the first to let you know that I have met someone. Her and I have this special bond. It is amazing. I truly hope we can remain friends.”
Totally wrong and deluded.
“You bet – can I have my books back?”
“I’m not finished with them yet. Can I get them to you next week?”
Amazing.
“Sure,” I reply.
And he does get them to me the following week. We stand on the concrete outside my apartment. He lumbers over to me in a Northface jacket, alarm signal red.
“The podcast, business, and blog are going so well. It is a ton of work, but I am so proud of what I have accomplished so far.”
I nod, staring at the books under his arm.
“So busy though, sorry it took me so long to get these back to you.”
“No problem.”
He walks away without another word. There’s been another accident at confusion corner – traffic is backed up and people are honking, sticking their heads out the car windows, swearing. A peculiar sense of relief washes over me. Andrew turns a corner and I am sure I will never see him again. I balance the books on my forearm.
David Foster Wallace said the only thing that is capital-“T” True in life is that you get to decide how you’re going to try to see it, that is the freedom of learning how to be well-adjusted is that you get to consciously decide what has meaning and what doesn’t.
I see old Italian men smoking cigars and laughing on the sidewalk. The brick of the mid -century apartment buildings is an amber orange as the day fades. There’s a young couple holding hands and sipping lattes. The last few leaves whistle on the sidewalk. I turn inside. Outside the door of the apartment, I hear Clark playing big band music. He shuffles and dances as I walk inside:
“Stocks!”
There are many bits of goodness in our slices of reality. There are parts so real and essential, so hidden in plain sight all around us, that it is critical we remind ourselves of their value.
Clark and I bump hips and dance a little. He pops popcorn and I tell him about my day, the thing with Andrew. I tell him how much the speech matters to me. I tell him,
“It feels almost… tainted now.”
“What was the speech again?”
“This is Water by David Foster Wallace. Are you familiar with it?”
“Oh—yeah,” Clark says, popping popcorn in his mouth, chewing with his mouth open,
“Wallace was a total hack.”
Kristina Stocks is an emerging writer and researcher. She was recently accepted into a Master’s of English and creative writing at Memorial University in St. John’s, Newfoundland. Her story Andrew is part of a larger creative nonfiction essay collection titled Winnipeggers, which examines independence, sexuality, and unexpected friendship. Andrew was first written five years ago after a series of particularly bad dates and examines the skewed decisions a young person makes while coming to grips with their self-esteem.
You can find her work in Drunk Monkeys Literature and Film, Defenestration Magazine, Variant Literature, and Remington Review, among other publications. She is the nonfiction editor for Lemonspouting Magazine.
She lives with her fiancé and their adopted Husky that hates the snow in St. Johns, Newfoundland, Canada. Follow her on Instagram @kristinaaanne
