A Letter to Christopher Mayer

Dear Chris, How are things? I know we haven't talked in a while, but I just wanted to write this to say I hate you. This may seem out of the blue, but for the life of me I would not be able to figure out why you would think that it was anything but the case. I don't think I ever truly knew what hatred was until I met you, and dated you, and got my heart broken by you, was ignored by you, defiled and degraded by you, fucked up my entire life for YOU. I have been a complete and absolute mess since high school because of you. I have denied it, and neglected it, and buried it, time, and time, and time again You are the reason I broke up with an amazing guy. You are the reason I let myself be degraded and belittled. You are the reason I was in some of the worst relationships with people i didn't even like. You are the reason I couldn't hold on to any relationship for more than a few months. You were the inspiration behind my treating other people like crap. You were the inspiration behind acting like nothing more than a burlesque dancer around you and your crew. You are the inspiration behind ever night I got too fucked up. You were the inspiration behind every guy I just couldn't say "no" to. You were the inspiration behind every drug, every drink, every stupid, selfish, life-threatening risk I took. You were the inspiration behind every item of clothing I stripped. You were the inspiration behind every tear I cried. You were the inspiration for every self-destructive act I ever put upon myself. You took my innocence away, and when I told you that you were gonna drink yourself to the bottom of the bottle one day and that would be it, I meant it and you needed to hear it. So I take back my bullshit apology I gave you in hopes we would lock lips just one more time. I take back every compliment, every glance, ever drink, ever smoke, every drug, every meaningless lay, every skanky outfit, every asshole I dated.
Sincerely,
Caitlin.
I remember the moment I met him but I don't remember like it was yesterday. It's more like remembering a scene from another life, or at least from an old John Hughes movie where I'm Molly Ringwald but the rest of the breakfast club has up and left me, and even by the end of the movie the guy of my dreams still won't like me, even though it's in the script. That's what the whole messy thing was like. A really classic, well-written script that the male ingénue decided not to follow.I was sixteen and blond and I wanted to be more famous than Britney Spears and Jesus combined. Which is why I was in Ms. Nielson's first period acting class. It was also why I was in desperate need of a CD player that would play the Broadway Musical Wicked soundtrack loud enough for me to hear, but just quiet enough so that the entire class would hear me belting along and be really really really impressed, and really really really jealous and so that maybe if by some chance a record producer just happened to be walking by the classroom he would instantly stop, turn, poke his head into the little theatre, see me singing and say "why, young lady that is the most incredible voice I have ever heard and you have the looks to match, I'm going to make you more famous than Britney Spears and Jesus combined!" Of course I imagined this sort of scenario playing out countless times in various locations (the mall, the book store, Borders, Fridays, a gas station, in the car while I was singing to music and some man in a fancy car next to me would roll down the window like in those Grey Poupon commercials, except instead of asking for mustard, he would ask me to sign with his record label). But, shocker: it never happened. I'm not sure I ever really thought it would, but hey, I was sixteen and bathing in naivety and my number one idol, Britney Spears, hadn't lost her damn mind yet. I had to keep hoping.So there I was in the little theatre, growing increasingly desperate seeing as how class was about to start and I had yet to wow my classmates with my unyielding bravado, when my friend Alisha, the fiery, rebellious girl with hair of fire and a mind to match, stood up on her chair and shouted "does anyone in this damn class know if there is a CD player in this room?!" The response was a chorus of confounded mumbles and head scratching, and finally Alisha rolled her eyes, fixed her green neon fishnets, and plopped back down in her seat. I heard her mutter something about "useless, fucking retards” and I laughed in response, as her dangerous hazel eyes narrowed and wandered to the left of me. She abruptly rose from her seat and made a move towards the heap of black fabric sitting at the desk next to mine. Up until this point I had been a little less than unaware of, and even a little disgusted by this presence. I didn't know who he was and I didn't care. I hadn't seen him there the last two quarters, but his black, over sized band sweatshirt, pulled up over his head, which was lying seemingly unconscious on his desk told me that this was not my new best friend anyway. The smell of cigarettes wafting from his direction and his dirty backpack, adorned with skulls, safety pins, and what I assumed to be some sort of devil music death metal band patches also gave me the hint that I wasn't missing much by not being acquainted with him. Nonetheless, Alisha continued on her path towards him. "Hey, Chris!" she yelled directly in his ear, which I hadn't noticed until then, were covered with headphones. In addition to making the devil child deaf in one ear, she proceed to hit his arm and shake him until a confused, angry, and (looking back on it), hung-over face emerged from the cotton tar pit. "What?" he responded, glaring at Alisha, wiping drool from his mouth. His tone said "I would kill you, but I'm too tired". He shifted his glassy gaze lazily around the theatre looking utterly nonplussed. His eyes said "I don't where the Hell I am, or how the Hell I got here, but I want some answers now...and maybe an Irish coffee" as they wandered around the room and came full circle back to Alisha."Can my friend Caitlin borrow your disk man for a sec?" she asked nodding towards me. He pulled himself a little further out of his hoodie, to expose a tired face that looked to worn for his age and a head full of gelled up greaser-type hair. I felt my eyes darting uncomfortably from the floor to Alisha to Chris several times as I felt his angry judging eyes sizing me up. Finally I let my eyes rest on Chris challengingly as if to say "I don't care how many bats’ heads you've bitten off, I want that CD player" He raised his gaze to mine and at the very instant of their connection I felt as if my world had just collapsed. The universe had folded and unfolded and divided into an even greater infinity. My brain said "look away, this boy is trouble" but I couldn't stop staring; a jet of electricity soared through my body from head to toe tickling every minuscule sensor from the hairs on my head to each tip of my innocent fingers. My brain screamed "stop staring, this is weird, I think he's trying to steal your soul!" But I couldn't stop. His eyes were like emeralds only greener. His eyes were like opals only more iridescent. His eyes were like an ocean at midnight, only more luminescent. His eyes were like lightening, only brighter, lovelier, and ten times as dangerous. At this point my brain was shrieking "FOR THE LOVE OF BRITNEY AND ALL THAT IS BROADWAY LOOK AWAY WOMAN, LOOK AWAY!!!"

It was only when Alisha leaned over and whispered "good god, that boy is wrecked" in my ear that my soul returned from outer space, the air made its journey back into my lungs, my brain ceased its withering and emerged shaking violently from a far corner of its encasement. And finally my eyes said their blue goodbyes and fell a million miles once more to the cold tiled floor of what I once knew to be just the little theatre. After I felt a sufficient amount of nano-seconds had passed since their departure, my eyes darted back to Chris, and then swiftly away again. I had broken our staring match, but apparently he had failed to deduce that it had come to an end. He sat there staring at me intensely. Even when I glanced back in his direction and glanced back down again to check that he really was still looking, his eyes did not disappoint me. His eyes never disappointed. They are the only thing about him to this day that don't; that won't.

But yes, he was still staring carefully finishing his inspection. After what seemed an eon, but what was, in reality, a minute or less, his gaze still set on me, he answered Alisha with a coy "yea, she can borrow my disk man". He removed his headphones from his ears, and the disk man from the pouch of his hoodie and handed them over with a slight, mischievous, James Dean sort of smile. It was the smile that shook me wide awake. In an instant, the life changing experience I had felt was completely obliterated; the creation of a whole new universe was eradicated with that one stupid smile. I know that smile. Guys begin to smile like that as soon as they learn how; just after their voices change and just a little before they start sneaking playboy into their Captain America comics.

I mustered as much of a smile back as I permanently broke the look that had lasted just a little too long between us. I put the headphones on and replaced his Social Distortion disk with the Wicked soundtrack and pushed play. Listening to this music was all that I could do to distract myself from my our uncomfortable encounter until class began. About 526 years later my Ms. Nielson strode into the theatre with perfection, as always, and the bell which marked the start of class sounded throughout the building. Salvation had come.

I don't know why I feel such a need to give every single detail about that moment. Perhaps because it was the mark of a turning point in my life. Up until I met Chris, everything around me I can only describe as pink and glittery. This doesn't mean that I lead a charmed life. My mother had just died three years prior, but even though that left me with enough emotional issues to fill up ten million of my therapist's journals, I still believed that life, and fate, and people, were mostly good. I tried my very best to get good grades, and, I will reluctantly admit, that I looked down upon those who did not. I liked pop music, I believed I would be a world famous entertainer, I loved wearing pink girly clothes and bopping along to the A*Teens as I perfected my look every morning. Basically every Disney movie ever created was my motivation and inspiration to find my own happily ever after. I was, at this time in my life convinced for the second time, that I was one step closer to having it. His name was Warren, and while I was a Junior in High School, just on the verge of being able to operate a vehicle with a licenced driver present in the passenger seat, he was a Freshman at Stony Brook University. His major? Physics. As much of a flake as I tried to be during my teenage years, I could never truly hide the fact that I was much more interested in brains than looks. Warren's intelligence and fierce scholastic aptitude drew me like a surfer to the sea. It also didn't hurt that despite his intelligence and lack of anything close to a fashion sense, Warren was a very attractive guy. He had naturally tan, soft, flawless skin, that I swear would glow every time my fingertips came in contact with it. His lips were full and pouty and gave him that Bob Dylan sort of brooding look, but when they parted into a smile, which was often, a friendly warmth emerged and saturated the world in complete comfort and sun. He didn't have a bad body either. Though he had terrible asthma, as, of course, only a stereotypical science could, the boy sure could run. But the thing I noticed first about him, and the thing that made me say "I love you" a mere nine days into our relationship, were his eyes. They were indescribable. They too, were green. But a richer, friendlier, handsomer green. They made me think of underwater everglades and the glow of a planetary nebula, out in the furthest imaginable corner of space. I got lost in them so easily, and never cared to find my way home. Warren was just wonderful. He was sensitive and sweet, dorky but cool, intelligent, but so relaxed. I don't think I've ever laughed so hard, so often with anyone else. I still look back on our relationship as one of my best, romantic, friendship, or otherwise, and to this day I am still painfully aware of the wonderful thing I gave up, when I gave him up. I'll never forget him ask so honestly, so calmly, "do you have a thing for Chris?" and my reply, a confused, guilty and reluctant "yea". He accepted it so well, and though that wasn't the end of our relationship, I'm sure Warren, the practical person he is, was making a mental preparation. The end of our love was the start of my descent; a rough but swift descent I decided to make when I decided to cut my warm, happy safety net with Warren, and take my chances with Chris. Among the many coincidences and ironies of this situation, was the fact that Warren and Chris lived right down the street from each other, but hadn't spoken in years until I bridged that gap. Until Warren sadly, but humbly passed the torch. Until Chris lazily, carelessly, and barely caught the torch, then dropped it in a muddy puddle along the path to his next and fleeting flame.

However, at this point in time, I knew nothing of what was to come, and life was still pink and peachy. As drama class ended, I gently replaced the Wicked soundtrack with the disk covered in dancing skeletons. With a raised eyebrow, and one more attempt at a smile, I muttered a "thanks" and avoided Chris's eyes, (though I could feel them burning into my head) and handed him the disk man. "Anytime" he cooed slyly, and sauntered towards the door. As I exited the room after him, I couldn't help but notice the eccentric fan club that had gathered by the door in anticipation for him. I heard shouts of joy as his friends, who apparently lived at Hot Topic, greeted him with many different forms of his first and last name such as "Mayer", "May May", "Chris Lightening" and many others. As random students passed in the hall, even the most normal, respectable, and well-to-do, they smiled and waved enthusiastically at "May May" and savoured his each and every slight response as if he was the new teen dream. Finally, as he and his posse gathered their assorted skull and punk rock paraphernalia, the last of his adoring fans bid him farewell. He removed his sweatshirt and threw it in his bag, and shortly thereafter unrolled his tight-fit black t-shirt to reveal a pack of cigarettes. He popped one in his mouth and rolled the rest of the Marlboro reds in his shirt sleeve and dove back into his sweatshirt. One last very normal looking girl ran over, gave him a hug and ran off to class. I watched, confused and disgusted as I watched the posse of misfits walk as warriors in the battle for rebellion outside to the courtyard to have a smoke. I stared, bewildered after him. How could it be that this miscreant had such an overwhelming rating of approval? But there it was; as I gazed after the rebel soldiers, I saw, just as I made to break eye contact with the backs of their heads, The Famous Chris Mayer, cigarette between his lips parted in a perfect scowl, turn his head towards me, remove a comb from his back pocket, slick back his hair, and give me a troublesome, haunting wink.
I was 16. I had never drank, never smoked, never had sex, and had never done any type of drug. But Hell, I was hooked on Christopher Mayer.