Flummoxed. A Short Story.

I don’t write short stories often. Also, as familiar as this may be to my real life, it is a work of fiction and most events in this story are entirely made up. Particularly the ending. Because it didn’t actually happen. But I was inspired by my own reclusive cynicism. Once again, before you start, I want us to be absolutely clear. THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION. EVENTS IN THIS STORY MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE BEEN INSPIRED BY REAL LIFE, AND ASSERTIONS THAT I MAKE IN IT ARE NOT MY ACTUAL THOUGHTS. Ok. Whew. We good? Ok. Let’s do this.

I’m not shy. I’m more… socially flummoxed. If I know you, I’ll talk to you. If I don’t know you, I will probably be friendly, unless you have some characteristic that I dislike, for example, talking too much about inconsequential things, answering more than one question in a row inadequately but believe you’re the smartest person in the class, or just having one of those faces. You know what I mean.

So when I came to college, I have to admit I didn’t have high expectations. Sure, there was a point when I believed there would be a pool of dateable guys ripe for the picking and a reasonable number of people similar enough to me to be my friends. But as the weeks went by, I stopped leaving my door open for forced socialization and resigned myself to the fact that most of the men on campus were either taken, gay, or alcoholic.

And that was fine. I had one friend, Sharon, who was equally as reclusive as I, and my roommate was tolerable. The boys in the rooms around me were good for fixing my printer and throwing things at when I was in a mood. Maybe it wasn’t as different as high school as I would have hoped, but at least no one was actively mean to me. I also wasn’t living at home, which was a definite plus.

“Morning.” The guy from down the hall -Seth?- murmured, as if unsure. I managed a weak return of the sentiment and a passable nod. We passed and I glanced down. I was wearing my flannel, rainbow reindeer Old Navy pajama bottoms, a too-large University sweatshirt, and my mouth tasted like pre-teeth brushing garbage. Even my hair, normally long and curly, was a vague shadow of it’s sometimes-glory. I say sometimes because, let’s be honest, curly hair has a mind of its own and if you’re lucky you’ll get two days of reasonable wearability a week.

I continued my absurdly long trek to the community bathroom thinking. Had I ever actually had a conversation with Seth? We had mutual acquaintances and lived on the same floor… oh. Right. The microwave incident.

Let me just say this in my defense; when I say, to use the word again, absurdly violent things to people, it’s not because I’m a sociopath. It’s that I find overdramatic sadism funny.

That’s not really helping my case, is it? Let’s continue.

We’re not allowed to bring our own microwaves from home, because they would short out the entire building’s power. If you wanted something warmed up, you had to make the hike to the kitchen that the entire building -three stories- shares. It’s on the first floor. I’m on the third. To hell with that.

But recently our building invested in a microwave for the hall. Just one, solitary, occasionally malfunctioning microwave bolted to the table it’s set on. Because, you know, we wouldn’t want someone sneaking it away under their shirt or something. Whatever.

My unyielding weakness for asiago cheese was my undoing. It always has been. I didn’t feel like walking to the dining hall for lunch because I had laundry in the washer and like hell was I putting pants on before I actually had to be in class. So I sliced up some of my cheese onto some of my coveted wheat bread -new years resolution- and headed over to the microwave. If I had to walk 8 miles to take a shower, I at least deserved a grilled cheese.

Right as I rounded the corner to get to the microwave, though, I saw Seth step up and place something, probably a burrito, inside it. At this point I had two options; wait in awkward silence and risk him choosing a conversation topic I wouldn’t be able to keep up with adequate social grace, or make a move.

“I’m going to have to kill you know, you know.” So sue me. I went with option 2.

He glanced up at me and furrowed his brow.

“You got to the microwave first. So now I have to kill you.” I spoke slowly, so as not to confuse him further. Maybe he was slow?

“It’s only forty seconds…” He replied with a smirk, catching on.

“Forty seconds that I’m unwilling to wait.”

“Right. You couldn’t kill me.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. What would you do?”

In my head, I profiled Seth. He was tall, with almost bowl-cut blond hair and nerdy glasses. Not geek-chic glasses with thick black rims, but the glasses your mom made you get when you found out you were far-sighted. The ones with the thin, chrome wire that look perpetually dirty. He wasn’t bad looking, I supposed, in that adorably dorky, World of Warcraft way. Oh yeah, I could definitely take him.

“I’d light you on fire. With my mind.” I finally replied.

He laughed. “That’s impossible.”

I scrunched up my face in concentration. “Just try me.” Fire, fire I chanted in my head.

He chuckled once more and the microwave went off.

“You’ll get off easy this time, but I’m watching you.” I told him as he retreated, laughing quietly.

My sandwich didn’t turn out as I’d hoped- the bread was so thin it melted more than the cheese. But I’d had a normal human interaction- normal as relative to me, at least.

Jackson, my iPhone, buzzed in my pocket. Dinner later? It was Sharon.

Sure. 6 ish?

Sounds good.

See you then.

I’m only a little bit ashamed to say that I was partially disappointed. It wasn’t that I didn’t like eating dinner with Sharon; we were good friends, and I enjoyed her company. But I’d just started a new book and if I got dinner alone I’d be able to read and eat, something that apparently isn’t appropriate when there are other people around. But whatever. When you’ve only got one friend, you learn to be flexible.

That was all two days ago. Had Seth and I graduated to a regular greeting level now? I wasn’t trying to be his friend. One friend is hard enough to keep track of. There’s birthdays, major holidays, big trips to bring things back from, and obligations to do things outside of school. I was just making conversation so I would appear less crazy than I actually know myself to be. If he’d tried to talk to me like a normal person at the microwave, the game would be up. I couldn’t compose myself like a normal person. Small talk terrifies me.

Like there’s this girl in my acting class, Karen. Karen is tall, thin, and well liked by the football team. In addition to that, the one hobby she could come up with when we were all introducing ourselves was exercise. Not running or swimming, or something less intimidating like reading, my choice. Exercising. What? Whose one defining hobby is exercising? Certainly not someone I’d find myself around. She was friendly enough in class, but they all are. I went to public high school. I know your game, pretty Karen.

Except pretty Karen’s friendliness isn’t confined in class. When she sees me around campus she not only says hello to me by name, but also asks me how I am, if we had any homework, or just anything that came into her mind. She wasn’t just being friendly, I realized. She was being familiar.

What are these people’s angles? I’m not the type of person they should be associating with! It’s not that I’m not pretty. Well, ok, I’m not. But I’m not repulsive. I’m a little on the short side and it wouldn’t kill me to work out more and get these hips under control, and it might be in my best interest to get a nose job if I had limitless money and no other skills to speak of, but I’m ok. Reasonably good looking, we’ll say. I’m reasonably good looking.

But still. Tall, skinny, football player attracting girls are not friends with me. They do not know my name or make small talk while I’m brushing my teeth.

Speaking of brushing my teeth. I had now finished my fifteen mile trek to the bathroom and begun that very ritual. Had to get it in before the cleaning ladies got here, otherwise I’d be forced to go to the second floor bathroom, and that would potentially force me to meet new people. We can’t have that, now, can we?

I finish, make the excruciating twenty mile journey back to my dorm, and sit down at my computer with my cooling bowl of dinosaur egg oatmeal. New friend request on Facebook. I swear to God if it’s someone else from high school I’m going to- oh. Hi, Seth.

I accept, because I figure once college is over I can just delete him, just like I deleted the majority of my high school peers. But it seems wrong to ignore the request when I’ll have to see him every day for at least the next three months.

Immediately, he likes one of my recent status updates, something ridiculous. I’m mildly amused, but class is in ten minutes and I haven’t put pants on yet. God, what is it with me and pants?

I run into Sharon on the way. “Lunch today?” She asks.

“Sure! I’m done with class at 11:30.”

“Cool, see you sometime around then?” She poses it as a question. We’re equally socially flummoxed, it seems. Even with people we know. There’s always that line, that line that you never know you’ve crossed until you’ve been in enemy territory for thirty miles and it’s too late to retreat or say you just “got lost”. You don’t want to screw up the one friendship you have, so we’re careful. Always careful.

“Yeah, sounds good. See ya.”

“Bye.”

Seth’s admittedly more attractive roommate Len is in this class with me. We’ve never even had a murder conversation, let alone a reason to reach the morning greeting level. Too bad. I wouldn’t protest it, although his attention might be even more unsettling. More out of place.

It’s also too bad because he’s one of those guys who knows he’s attractive. And that’s about the least attractive trait you can have. There’s nothing wrong with being confident, but he crosses a line somewhere. A line similar to the one with me and Sharon. But different.

Class passes slowly. The weekend is only a day away and we’ve just turned in our first major essay, so there isn’t much to talk about past semicolons and what we’ve learned so far. I make lists in my tiny red moleskine, feeling superior and alternately guilty for not paying attention.

On the way back to my dorm room -where else would I go?- a girl from down the hall smiles at me as we pass each other. I manage a weak nod and grimace. Please don’t tell me we’ve reached the point where we’re familiar enough with the notion of one another that we have to do this every time we see each other. She returned my ID card once when if fell out in the stairwell. I once handed her a paper towel. Her roommate is in my film class.

No, there’s no way the unwritten rules of social interaction require consistency in greeting already. I can probably get away with pretending to text at least 60% of the time, mostly because she doesn’t know me well enough to understand the full scope of my unpopularity. Who would I pretend to text, my mom?

Shit. My mom. I forgot to call her last night. I’d have to do that between my next two classes. I repeated my intention a couple times in my head to make sure I’d remember. Otherwise I’d get lost in Liz Lemon’s hilarious antics and forget I even have a mother. That might actually happen, terrifyingly enough.

A guy, Andy is his name, smiles and says hello to me. I return the sentiment in equal enthusiasm. He’s so consistently stoned that I don’t have to worry about either his intentions or my lack of social grace around him. Not like he’d remember. If anything, college has made me appreciate pot heads.

I decide to change my regular path to go check my mail. Along the way, I recognize Daniel, who is in my night class on Tuesdays and also did a fantastic job in the play the night before. This is your chance to appear normal in a genuine way! My excited mind realized.

“Daniel?” I venture, walking up to where he sat. He was even on my way to the mailroom. What a lucky break. He doesn’t hear me. “Daniel?” I try again.

He finally looks up, a little bit afraid. He’s not socially flummoxed, but actually shy. Immediately, I regret my choice, but it’s too late now, so I power on.

“You did a really great job in the play last night.”

“Oh.” He looks surprised. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, you were awesome. Congrats.” Oh, God, shut up Hailey, just shut up. I tell myself.

“Thanks.” He even manages a little smile.

I’m so sorry Daniel. I say in my head as I retreat, ashamed. I have become that which I hate the most. A small-talker. Poor Daniel. I practically ambushed him.

No mail. Oh well.

I take the stairwell on the far side of my building so I can reach the bathroom on the way back to my dorm. No sense in making that thirty mile hike both ways. My business done, I emerge again, ready for a peanut butter sandwich in my dorm room and some rousing NBC comedies.

Seth appears from around the corner, his room much closer to the girl’s bathroom. “Toilet room”, as its sign proclaims.

“Oh. Hi, Hailey.”

Well, look at you! Even knows my name! “Hi, Seth.” Yeah, I know your name too, mister. Paranoia creeps in. Probably, he’s seen me around campus with Sharon. I’m really not fishing for compliments when I say that she’s ten times prettier than I am. It’s already happened once this year, a guy pursuing me and then switching his affections at the last minute. Not that I really care; I’ve decided I’m going to be Jane Austen, always writing about epic romances and never actually having one myself. Seth hasn’t moved towards his door, so I brace myself for whatever comes next. He’s not really Sharon’s type, so I struggle to find a combination of words that would let him down easy.

“Would you like to go get bubble tea with me sometime?”

I realized something that day. My first boyfriend asked me out over instant messaging. I’d subsequently ended the relationship through instant messaging. My second boyfriend asked me out over the phone. I broke up with him over the phone while spending the night at my best friend’s house. This could either mean I was doomed to break up with boys in the same manner that they asked me out in, or that I was finally ready to graduate to being asked out in real life.

“Bubble tea?” I ask, buying time to get all these thoughts in order.

“Yeah. You ever had it? It’s kind of… weird… but in a good way.”

“Oh, right. I think Sharon’s told me about it before.” I drop the name casually, just to see his reaction. Girls like me don’t just get randomly asked out after finishing peeing.

“Sharon? Oh, you mean that girl you watch Psych with in the hallways sometimes?”

“Yeah… that’s her.”

“Oh. Right. So… um. Bubble tea? With me? Sometime?”

God, he was actually asking me out. Not only did he brush off the Sharon mention, but he also brought the conversation back to it’s original intentions without initiation from me! Where have you been all my life? “Um. Sure. When?”

“Tomorrow, maybe five ish? That’s when I get off work.”

“Sounds good. I’ll just… meet you at your dorm?”

“Yeah, ok. Well… see you then.” He ducked his head and raced to his room, deftly unlocking the door like a man on the run.

This relationship wasn’t going to work out. We were too similar. Too identically socially flummoxed. But who was I to doubt my eggs before they’ve been hatched? Jane Austen isn’t going anywhere.