{"id":7479,"date":"2014-11-21T09:00:28","date_gmt":"2014-11-21T14:00:28","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.gadflyonline.com\/home\/?p=7479"},"modified":"2014-11-26T14:25:35","modified_gmt":"2014-11-26T19:25:35","slug":"misplaced-anger","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/misplaced-anger\/","title":{"rendered":"Misplaced Anger"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Anger_585x585\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Our last encounter was at Mike\u2019s funeral.<\/p>\n

\u201cI hope you\u2019ll agree to meet with me Joe,\u201d she wrote, as the letter wound down. \u201cMuch time has passed and you need to know the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n

It would be an unhappy, but necessary reunion. I wanted her explanation of what happened, as well as the chance to express my feelings.<\/p>\n

If God gave people the ability to build a best buddy, Mike Arnold would have been my creation. Since the day we met as freshman roommates at the University of Connecticut in August 1992, he was the true definition of \u201cthat special friend.\u201d It was he who donated twenty evening hours to prevent me from failing chemistry and avoid academic probation our second semester. He also deserves most of the credit for helping me, a shy eighteen-year-old male college freshman, achieve what was then a much more important goal.<\/p>\n

\u201cEither you\u2019re gonna do it, or I will,\u201d he said, as he lifted the cordless phone off the charger that night. \u201cBut, if you don\u2019t, I\u2019m gonna make a bigger fool out of you than you ever could.\u201d<\/p>\n

Ten minutes later, I mustered the courage to phone Brigitte Garceau and asked her to hang out with me that weekend. As fortune would have it, that call enabled me to, at last, hang the \u201cdo not disturb\u201d little red balloon around our doorknob.<\/p>\n

In November 1992, Mike started dating a stunning blonde volleyball player named Daisy Joao. She stood at five ten, spoke four languages and came from one of Brazil\u2019s wealthiest families.<\/p>\n

Mike only witnessed the beauty. I observed her ugliness. During an October weekend in 1993, I\u2019d been invited to a pre-Homecoming bash at a keg house. Mike was on the road with the soccer team. While wandering around, I came across a side room just in time to watch Daisy bounce the balls of star basketball player Barry Nichols. They didn\u2019t notice me and I exited within seconds, having no desire to see the slam dunk contest to its completion.<\/p>\n

The entire following day, I was in full panic mode, equipped with sweats and palpitations, while considering whether or not to confront Daisy, in addition to thinking of how to or even if I should tell Mike. I decided not to face off with Daisy, but was prepared to inform Mike. He bolted through the door about half-past seven.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey buddy,\u201d he shouted, as the suit and tie-clad star midfielder for the Huskies dumped his large Adidas sports bag in the center of our room.<\/p>\n

My heart thumped, as a feeling of intense nausea set in.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow\u2019d it go?\u201d I asked. \u201cStill undefeated?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYep,\u201d he said, as he propelled his athletic, five-foot ten-inch frame onto the bed with his New York Rangers comforter.<\/p>\n

I reached into the fridge and snared a bottle of water.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow was the party?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n

My pulse accelerated. Sweat poured from my forehead. I reached into the middle drawer of my desk, grabbed the prescription container of Xanax and sucked one down.<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, pretty interesting,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

He sat up in bed as he loosened a dark, blue tie.<\/p>\n

\u201cOoh,\u201d he said, \u201cdid someone get some extra lovin\u2019?\u201d<\/p>\n

He leaped up and placed his arms around my shoulders. I jerked away.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter?\u201d he asked, while stepping towards his dresser.<\/p>\n

As awkward as it was, his words provided me the opportunity for a perfect segue. My mouth and throat were dry. I chugged another healthy sip of water.<\/p>\n

\u201cTurn around,\u201d Mike said.<\/p>\n

I followed suit.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay,\u201d he said. \u201cIt\u2019s safe again.\u201d<\/p>\n

When I whirled around, Mike was adorned in UCONN shorts and a New York Yankees t-shirt. I dropped my head and fixated on a new pair of slippers.<\/p>\n

\u201cUh Mike,\u201d I began.<\/p>\n

I glanced up for a second and noticed he was clutching a photo of him and Daisy taken at an athletic banquet.<\/p>\n

\u201cCan\u2019t wait to get lucky again,\u201d he said, as he gazed at the picture. \u201cMan I missed her this weekend. Two days felt like two years. God, I love that Amazon princess.\u201d<\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t utter a word. After observing how happy he was, I maintained silence for the first of many times I shouldn\u2019t have. I deluded myself into thinking she was young, mistakes happen and she wouldn\u2019t commit such a serious offense again. Wrong.<\/p>\n

—<\/p>\n

Prior to first term finals of our junior year, Daisy paraded herself into our room and dug through Mike\u2019s desk drawers.<\/p>\n

\u201cVoila!\u201d she said, as I rested on my bed, trying to read.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d I asked, keeping my head down.<\/p>\n

\u201cGot Mike\u2019s paper for American Government,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

This time, I opted to confront her.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know,\u201d I began, \u201cboth of you could get kicked out for that.\u201d<\/p>\n

She perused the pages of the report and didn\u2019t face or acknowledge me.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo one will,\u201d she said. \u201cFirst, the professors here are clueless. Second, no one would dare challenge me given all the money Poppy gives to the UCONN Scholarship Fund and third, you wouldn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow do you know?\u201d I asked. \u201cWhy would you risk hurting him like that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLook,\u201d she said, as she snaked her way onto the edge of my bed. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you go back to being the insignificant, invisible piece of garbage you know you are? Stop getting in Mike\u2019s way. He\u2019s wasted too much time carrying you around. One word and you\u2019ll end up like Luke. Don\u2019t want that happen now do you?\u201d<\/p>\n

I bowed my head like a naughty child awaiting a spanking. Luke Stevens was a baseball player she\u2019d dated for a short time prior to Mike. A few weeks after their split, Luke was jumped and beaten during an attack that occurred in Hartford. The investigation went nowhere. I didn\u2019t doubt she could be capable of such an act and her brazen confession of having involvement in the crime scared the crap out of me. So again, I had a reason not to tell Mike of her unscrupulous ways.<\/p>\n

As our university days waned, Mike landed a job with Merrill Lynch and was preparing to move to New York City. He\u2019d also earned Academic All-American honors for achieving an almost perfect grade point average through four years of study. One week before graduation, another major announcement came.<\/p>\n

\u201cShe said yes!\u201d Mike ran into our room screaming. \u201cShe said yes!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho and to what?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cDaisy accepted my proposal you idiot,\u201d he said. \u201cWe\u2019re getting married and she\u2019s moving to New York with me.\u201d<\/p>\n

That moment had come. I was at bat. Bases loaded. Two out. In a few minutes, I could have hit the grand slam and revealed everything I\u2019d known about Daisy. I whiffed. The sad part was, I chose not to. This occasion proved to be the easiest of all to remain silent.<\/p>\n

As our college days waned, I saw less and less of Mike, who spent the majority of his time with Daisy. I feared that, had I said anything, I\u2019d never see him again and our friendship would be history. The thought of losing it was far too painful for me to bear. Once more, I was a lousy friend.<\/p>\n

The duo remained engaged and married the following July. Five years passed and life progressed well for both Mike and I. Mike rose to the position of Sales Manager at Merrill Lynch and purchased a home in Saddle Brook, New Jersey. I became a sports reporter for the New York Post<\/em> and settled into a Dobbs Ferry, New York home with Brigitte. Neither she nor I could stand to be around Daisy, but I still managed to see Mike once a week for our constitutional racquetball game in Manhattan.<\/p>\n

Late in 2000, Mike developed a bad cough that lingered. In February of 2001, it progressed to the point where it landed him on the floor during one of our games. He gagged several times, seemed to have difficulty breathing and spit out a decent amount of blood.<\/p>\n

\u201cDude,\u201d I said, as my voice cracked, \u201cthis ain\u2019t right. Had this for months. Better see your doc.\u201d<\/p>\n

He eyed me and nodded, before beginning to sob without warning. I rushed over to him.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t know what\u2019s happening,\u201d he bawled. \u201cThe cough\u2019s only part of it. For months, I\u2019ve been tired. My stomach feels like shit, and I\u2019ve been getting these terrible headaches. Think this\u2019s bad man.\u201d<\/p>\n

The call came February 10. After a staff meeting, I noticed my cell\u2019s screen read \u2018One New Message.\u2019<\/p>\n

\u201cHave something important to tell you,\u201d Mike wept through the voicemail. \u201cWhen you get a chance, please get back to me.\u201d<\/p>\n

During lunch, I phoned him.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

I needed to blast the phone\u2019s volume to hear the Brooklyn accent that always boomed.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s going on?\u201d I asked. \u201cYou sound terrible.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t quite know how to tell you this,\u201d he said, as his voice\u2019s tone lowered further and broke up, \u201cum, um, I\u2019ve got AIDS.\u201d<\/p>\n

The phone slipped from my fingers and crashed onto the desk. A long pause ensued. My vocal chords felt paralyzed. It took almost two full minutes, but I was, at last, able to muster some kind of comment.<\/p>\n

\u201cHoly shit,\u201d I said, as my heart thwacked.<\/p>\n

I trembled more than when my Mom revealed she was dying of stomach cancer.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey sure?\u201d I asked, knowing full well this wasn\u2019t the type of news he\u2019d joke about or share unless he was two hundred percent sure. \u201cCan you get retested or get a second opinion?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThey\u2019re positive,\u201d he said. \u201cI expected something bad, but this. How the hell could this have happened?\u201d<\/p>\n

In a word, Daisy. She\u2019d waved her conniving and deceitful ways in my face like a dirty sock. I wanted to air the grievances but again held back. What difference would it have made now? A pang of guilt sprung upon me faster than a panic attack.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou should feel like shit,\u201d my conscience yelled. \u201cShould\u2019ve done that back in college.\u201d<\/p>\n

I knew Mike had some serious issues to contend with and wanted to give him all the space he needed. Two weeks went by. While commuting home one evening, my cell chimed its guitar ring. Mike\u2019s number registered.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s happening?\u201d I asked, unable to think of anything more clever to say.<\/p>\n

\u201cA lot,\u201d he said. \u201cAs it turns out, the bitch had HIV and didn\u2019t bother to tell me. Said she didn\u2019t know how or when she got it but only found out last year. Guesses it was before we started dating. We had a big blowup. I threw her out and filed for divorce.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJeez,\u201d was all I could say.<\/p>\n

He sobbed for several minutes but regained composure long enough to apologize and say he had to go. It should have been me who begged for his forgiveness. Upon ending the call, a horrible wave of nausea enveloped me, and I raced to the restroom. There was always a reason I didn\u2019t have the guts to speak up. Now, my best friend was dying because of my cowardice.<\/p>\n

Four months elapsed before we spoke again. I reached out several times, but Mike said he wanted to be alone. I understood and respected his wishes. While nosing through The Bergen Record<\/em> on the train one morning, I came across a story about a twenty-seven-year-old man named Michael Arnold, who\u2019d been busted for committing his second DUI over the last three months.<\/p>\n

That night, I called him, hoping he\u2019d wish to meet. He agreed, and we got together the following Tuesday. As I sat sipping a Bud from a booth inside the Cyclone Diner on Flatbush Avenue, a man with dirt blotches all over his skin and whose breath reeked of whiskey settled down across from me.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy God,\u201d I shouted. \u201cGoodness. What the\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

He\u2019d lost a good deal of weight and had sores up and down both his arms.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know,\u201d he said, while he cried. \u201cDon\u2019t need to tell you how it\u2019s going.\u201d<\/p>\n

I shook my head at a deliberate pace.<\/p>\n

\u201cBeen great,\u201d he said. \u201cSold my house. Moved back with my parents and was fired.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShit,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

He sunk an ashen face into his hands.<\/p>\n

\u201cI adored her,\u201d he wailed. \u201cHow could she kill me twice?\u201d<\/p>\n

I stayed silent one last time. It would be hard to argue against the fact I\u2019d killed him many more times than that over the years. We didn\u2019t see each other again. He died October 19, 2002.<\/p>\n

The \u201creunion\u201d between Daisy and I occurred at Husky Blues Bar right off UCONN\u2019s Storrs campus. I arrived at the landmark hangout at a quarter to one in the afternoon. I paid little attention to the thin, white-faced, limping woman who approached me as the clock struck one-thirty.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis seat taken?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cAfraid so,\u201d I said. \u201cWaiting for someone.\u201d<\/p>\n

She eyed me.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know,\u201d she said, as she attempted to clutch my right hand.<\/p>\n

The realization didn\u2019t cause the slightest reaction on my part. I yanked my hand away.<\/p>\n

\u201cWow,\u201d I said. \u201cCan\u2019t be.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt is,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

Her anorexic-looking body slinked into the other side of the booth, before she wheezed and went into a coughing fit, spitting a fistful of blood into a napkin.<\/p>\n

\u201cWant a drink?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cRum and coke,\u201d she said, as she cleared her throat.<\/p>\n

She observed me. I let my eyes wander to anyone or anything but her. After several minutes of an uncomfortable silence, she again cleared her throat.<\/p>\n

\u201cI know you\u2019d kill me if given the chance,\u201d she began. \u201cYou feel like I murdered him and, to be honest, you\u2019re right. I couldn\u2019t bring myself to tell him, but I swear I didn\u2019t know until long after we were married. I don\u2019t expect to be forgiven, but I owe you an explanation nonetheless.\u201d<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t speak, but nodded<\/p>\n

\u201cI contracted it from a drunken fling I had with Barry Nichols during homecoming weekend sophomore year,\u201d she said, as her voice cracked. \u201cDespite my reputation, I\u2019ve only been with three men. Luke, Barry and Mike.\u201d<\/p>\n

This time, I knew she wasn\u2019t lying. A few months prior to our encounter, I\u2019d read that Nichols died of AIDS-related brain cancer while playing hoops in France. Nonetheless, I couldn\u2019t and didn\u2019t want to face her. The pronouncement only enhanced my anger. It was another proverbial electric shock treatment to the balls. I witnessed that whole affair and, if I\u2019d been honest from the jump, perhaps Mike would have broken it off with her and not been infected with the fatal virus.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m serving my penalty,\u201d she continued. \u201cI\u2019ll be dead within six months.\u201d<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t hate her. At least not for the reason she thought. Reality stood in front of me like a giant statue.<\/p>\n

\u201cAs much as I want to blame you, I can\u2019t,\u201d I said. \u201cI knew and saw who and what you were and are but always found an excuse not to do what I should\u2019ve. He may not have believed me, but had I tried, we might have been looking forward to this Thursday\u2019s racquetball game. I think I\u2019m worse than you.\u201d<\/p>\n

After placing my hands at the edge of the table, I ascended at a measured pace.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood bye Daisy,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

I lumbered to the counter, paid for the drinks and stormed outside.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

Matthew H Emma is an on-hiatus journalist currently pursuing his dream of becoming a full-time creative writer. He\u2019s written numerous short stories, the first draft of a novella and is working on his first screenplay. Five of his short pieces have been published and featured in such online literary magazines as Alfie Dog Limited, Linguistic Erosion, The Vehicle and Agave.<\/span>\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Our last encounter was at Mike\u2019s funeral.<\/p>\n

\u201cI hope you\u2019ll agree to meet with me Joe,\u201d she wrote, as the letter wound down. \u201cMuch time has passed and you need to know the truth.\u201d<\/p>\n

It would be an unhappy, but necessary reunion. I wanted her explanation of what happened, as well as the chance to express my feelings.<\/p>\n

If God gave people the ability to build a best buddy, Mike Arnold would have been my creation.<\/p>\n

READ MORE.<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":226,"featured_media":8483,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4,200,219,217],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7479"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/226"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=7479"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7479\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8490,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7479\/revisions\/8490"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/8483"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7479"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7479"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7479"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}