Hope.
Pandora’s box is problematic, especially for me, because it raises the debate of the nature of Hope. It begs the question: is hope a strong virtue, to withstand being packed away with so much evil and survive, or is it the weightiest vice, so thick, heavy, and consuming that it must lie in wait to be found? I’ve known a few Hopes in my lifetime. Each, in succession, has raised some standard of what it will take for me to hope again… and each has brought me to Pandora’s box.
I have a commitment issue. Actually, I have a lot of issues, I’m practically a subscriber; I even have some issues with my issues, double-sized with glossy covers and pullout sections. None of them are Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Editions either; sorry Phil. My problem with commitment is that I have a tendency to bind myself to relationships that don’t exist; I commit to Hopes. I guess my way of thinking is that ideally I’ll wait patiently building up trust and faith to becoming a friend, and should a mutual attraction develop then the investment of Hope matures into Love. This is still just theory, and a seemingly naïve one. What usually ends up happening is this: I slowly open myself up, one petal at a time, to the one I have my heart set on, meanwhile they, in full bloom, meet someone else, hook up, sometimes break up and find another after crying on my shoulder and leaning on me through the difficult time(s), otherwise things get serious, they become engaged, married, or simply detached, and I end up in one of two positions; lying wilted in a heap with a myriad of others tossed aside, or displayed nicely in a vase labeled “best friend” or “like a brother”. My idea of love is that it isn’t put on display. Love takes root; true love is grafted on, then takes root, and a whole new hybrid is created.
I think the real problem in that, is not with the plan in itself, I think it’s essentially a good plan. One vital thing needs to be remedied in the equation though. Hitherto, what I’ve done is this, I’ve fallen in love with Hope, and in so doing I’ve stopped hope from maturing into love. If Hope is a blossom, Love is the fruit.
“Hey, you know that girl who served you at the counter? She wants to talk to you.”
An employee of a movie theater came to the place where I was sitting with my father and my brother and said this to me five minutes before the movie was scheduled to start. I couldn’t believe it.
“Excuse me?”
“She wants to meet you. Her name is Leslie and she thinks you’re hot… Do you do drugs or any other freaky shit?”
I looked at my father and my brother incredulously… they were doing all they could to refrain from laughing out loud.
“It doesn’t even matter. Just go talk to her. She’s really sweet.”
I could tell they weren’t going to take the hint that I’m not well versed in these kinds of situations and would rather just sit, relax, and enjoy the show, because I’d be lost in going and talking to some girl whose only association with me is having served me a box of candy.
“Fine. I’ll talk to her before I go.”
“Her shift is over before the movie gets out.”
“Then you’ll have to give me a minute.”
“Alright, I won’t even start the movie until you come back… that way you won’t miss anything.”
“Thanks. That’s very considerate.”
There are times that I can’t even tell when I’m being sarcastic.
The employee left me with my thoughts, and my father and my brother, and their chiding. I excused myself, because anything was better than having to put up with my familial harassment. Leslie was in a back room when I came out of the theater, but as I approached the counter a different fellow employee went to summon her. I sensed that something was afoot.
Leslie, the girl who sold us our snacks, was a very attractive girl, she had longish dirty blonde hair, a beautiful smile, lovely eyes that always seemed imploring because she was rather petite in stature, but that seemed to suit her athletic frame. I was actually somewhat taken aback; the only girls who ever seem to show an interest in me are ones I’m not attracted to; Leslie was the first and only exception to date. When she emerged from the room she was in, I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pride. Naturally that led me to try and hide the fact that I didn’t have a clue what I was doing.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
So far, so good.
“So…”
It was all down hill from there.
“Your friend said that I should come and talk to you.”
“I’m sorry…”
“Don’t be. I mean, I’m glad I was given such an opportunity. I’m not one to speak up unless an opportunity presents itself.”
“No?”
“No… I’m pretty bad at this.”
“No you’re not.”
“Thanks for the encouragement.”
“Are you from around here?”
“Yeah, not far. I live right around the mall… in the apartment buildings.”
“East or West?”
“West. Number eighteen.”
“I have a friend in five.”
“What about you?”
“I’m in the ‘L’ section.”
A pause followed. An awkward one. I broke it.
“So… do you go to school?”
“Northern High School.”
“My brother went there. I went to Mayland Arts. I’m in college now.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, look I really should get going… the movie is about to start.”
“Here.”
She handed me a folded piece of paper, on which was neatly printed “Leslie” and seven legible digits.
“Call me.”
I know why I said it and I’ll admit it could have been a grave mistake not even giving such a seemingly great individual a chance, but I couldn’t help it, I had met Hope first, and I was taken… Hope just didn’t know she had me.
“I have a girlfriend.”
“Oh…”
“But maybe we could still chill sometime…”
“Sure, call me.”
I never spoke to Leslie again. I took my seat for the movie and stared blankly at the screen. I don’t even remember what movie it was that was ruined for me. I couldn’t escape the feeling that I had made a mistake. For what it’s worth, I am sorry. I’m sorry that I am how I am at times, but, c’est la vie. It’s no excuse, I know, but I’m aware of my limitations and it would not have been fair to be with Leslie and still be thinking of Hope.
After my father remarried he went back into the ministry relocating four hundred miles away. Regardless of what a relationship is, there are factors that are apt to influence it. Absence makes the heart grow fonder only in contrast to the presence that makes the roots go deeper. I’ve only just recently learned that there’s something to be said for history. That’s getting ahead of myself… Needless to say, my father and I, once quite close, drifted suddenly apart. Efforts made to close the gap mended little. My relationship with my mother wasn’t much better, despite the close proximity or due to it. In short, I ceased to have a home when mine broke; from the time I was fifteen years old I lived in hopes. I’ve sustained myself with ideals and dreams and futures less bleak, none of which have been realized to any degree worth articulating. Changes have occurred in my life, both major and minor, but I’m still alone and homeless, albeit sheltered and better off than many, so what right have I to complain? My complaint lies in myself, in who I am, and in how I’ve become this faithless hopeless creature in search of meaning and identity.
Phil said he knew me. He thought he could predict what I would say or do. He’d try to prove his case by finishing sentences that I ended in some predictable fashion, or mimicking some gesture or expression. He said I was deep and superficial.
“What does that mean?”
“You have all these ideas locked away, trapped behind masks and fronts. When will you learn to open up and risk yourself?”
“Someone will break me.”
I met Hope at a church function of my father’s congregation. My previous Hope, Julianne, had been engaged some time ago and that had marked the definitive end to that hope. No one had since evoked in me the same purity of passion and inspiration that emerged from my time with Julianne; that is until Hope arrived at the banquet in a black evening gown and glided across the dinner hall to the table I alone was sitting at. I tried to close my mouth but I don’t recall succeeding, watching with awe and admiration her grace and finesse, she was introduced to me by her sister-in-law, an acquaintance I had met during an earlier visit.
“This is…”
Hope.
A new Hope is distinct and separate from all those that previously held the title. What makes them so is the very fact that they are given the same distinction. To hope, one must anticipate an unforeseen ecstasy, realized only in possibilities rather than experiences. To be Hope, one must embody that same anticipation. From that night to this, I have been in a constant state of anticipation of the next opportunity I would have to see, hear, touch, smell, or otherwise sense her. Hope is sensory. Each hopeful experience births a greater hope, until all that remains is an action I’m incapable of carrying out… that covering cocoon of confession that enables the metamorphosis of hope to love.
Hope isn’t something you can just turn from at a whim. I think there’s only three things that will break Hope’s spell: Hope’s betrayal, a greater Hope, or the transformation of Hope to Love. All are capable of breaking someone, but it’s only the latter that will set you free in doing so… and I think that in everyone love eventually takes priority…
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