The Traitor
I disobeyed God by going back to California.
Does it help if this time it was San Diego instead of Los Angeles? It had only been seven years since he told me to run. But that had been because of The Cult. This was different. It was a wedding. Which is still a cult. But this time people are holding flowers and are dressed nicer. It’s the little things that matter.
Erin collected me at the airport. Seven years ago, we’d been excellent strangers. For six out of those seven years, our only interaction was the like button on Instagram. When Covid forced everyone home, though, we’d reconnected over our mutual love of writing. We exchanged projects over email, calls over coffee, philosophies over brunch. Now she was pulling up in her diesel-chugging, beige sedan.
“I can’t believe you’re here!” She told me repeatedly as we eased onto the 5. She insisted that we do something fun. The beach, that was her must-do. Pictures with the sea lions, turning down solicitors in the park, laying on the horn when someone stole her parking spot. That was her idea of a good time. Me? I’m a man of simplicity. I wanted In-N-Out.
Later, I joined her and the wedding party around the outdoor fireplace and noted The Lack. The Lack of space in her cramped “backyard.” The Lack of warmth from her friends adrift in seas of awkward smiles. The Lack of self-awareness.
Erin’s artsy friend, Melinda, came to the party late. She was of slight stature with painter’s fingers and white wisps in her black curls. Her thin skin had a pallor that should have been rare in the Golden State. Her empty, red eyes were wide with weed.
Hugs. Kisses. “Who are you? Oh, that’s nice.” Sits down.
“Guys,” she starts, crossing her legs and rolling her eyes. She pulls out her vape pen and sucks in a hit. She lets out a yellow cloud with a yawn. “Wildest thing happened at Target yesterday.”
We all lean in. Wild? Target? This was California—wild could mean anything. “So, I was in the self-checkout, and this lady in front of me throws a pair of Beats in the bag without scanning it. Which, I’m like, whatever, live your truth. Then this lady behind me starts shouting and calling for security?! Like, what even is that? Get with the program, lady.”
Nodding. Muttered agreement from all the other Council members. “She needs to get with the program, lady.” Erin nods among them.
Erin who had confessed that she was all for civil rights but looting the local CVS seemed “a little much.” Erin who now sided with Melinda without glancing in my general direction.
I blinked. I blinked again.
One thing I learned from “Christ Above All” College was that when the Universe’s Tectonic Plates misalign, you can feel it. Some people feel the rumble in their stomachs. Some people get it in their heads and go kinda light. Me? The vibrations hit my epiglottis. Symptoms include:
Trouble swallowing,
Shortness of breath,
Inability to speak.
Emily Rose, a dear friend from “Christ Above All” College, told me all about Expectations Theory. It’s simple, one individual expects one thing to happen and is shocked when it doesn’t. It includes expectations like:
Receiving love from a partner,
Having a parking spot at the mall,
Erin speaking her mind.
Like I did after Melinda changed topics. “Eh, maybe we shouldn’t trust the addict when he says he doesn’t shoot up heroin in front of kids. Just a thought.”
“Are you serious?” Melinda twisted her face in disgust, mouth agape. “These are real people. Like, you shouldn’t judge others just because you don’t understand what True Pain is like.”
True Pain:
Like staph infection when I was in second grade,
Like being bullied in church because I “sounded gay,”
Like Erin’s tacit approval of my public tarring.
“Where did you say you were from again?” Melinda sipped her beer, leaning back on her throne.
Deep in my heart, there are many doors. One of those doors opens into a library with legion tomes. Therein lies a record of Important Rules. It lives in an open-faced wooden display at the entrance. The book itself is made of rough green leather, thick yellow pages. It smells awful: the taste of snot mixed with tears, the memory of being called “fat” on my first Boy Scouts campout, the homo-hatred at “Christ Above All” College. The smell is important.
As The Council laughed, I, arms crossed and alone on my plastic Adirondack, scratched in a new entry. Important Rule #47 reads as thus, “Some people will allow the public humiliation of a dear friend to spare themselves the greater humiliation of being correct. Beware of such people.”
I thought I understood Erin when I landed in San Diego. I definitely did when I left.