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That was a great first date. I picked her up in my Rambler American, and off we drove for some dance hall/bar somewhere, and on the way I pulled out the half gallon jug of cheap wine I had with me and asked her if she was one of those girls who objected to drinking while driving. And when she took the bottle and had a swig, I knew we were going to get along fine. So we went dancing (and drinking) – dancing was where I took most of my first dates in those days, and it generally seemed to work out pretty well – which means I got a lot of action out of it. So at the end of the evening, we ended up at her place, and when she put her hand on my thigh I figured it was a go. And it was, and after some rolling in the hay (her brass four poster bed), we crashed. And in the morning, we awoke, and went at it again. And at some point, we got up and began to get dressed. And when we were both almost completely dressed, my body said ‘one more time,’ so I tore off my clothes and then tore off her clothes, and climbed on for another go round. And we were both having fun, and our parts were meshing as before, when she reached over her head, pulled a razor sharp commando knife from a sheath she had hidden at the head of her mattress, and held it so the point was just above my right kidney.
‘What are you going to do now?’ She asked, with a wry grin and taunting eyes. It was clearly a test – and I was more than equal to the challenge.
‘You’d better get me the first time,’ I responded, with a grin of my own.
It was the right response. She smiled, replaced the blade, and we continued with our embrace.
This was in college, at the dawn of my ‘big man on campus’ days. I spent eleven months with this girl, and when I knew it was all over I slept with her one last time, and as invariably happened when I did that, she got pregnant. And as also invariably happened, she showed up at my door, prescription in hand, and asked only that I pay for half of the abortion.
I was only too happy to comply, thanking God for Roe v. Wade and a woman’s right to choose. I was always highly in favor of that – not through any inherent nobility, only for my own fear of responsibility. I was grateful that a woman could look at me, look at her swelling womb, and decide ‘bad idea.’
I describe all this simply to point out that I was in no way an inherently heroic man. I was a human being, filled with faults and frailty, and consumed with the idea that I must fulfill my desires, and meet my expectations, if I was ever to live the life I dreamed of. And to this and I considered my own happiness paramount, disregarding the feelings of others, and taking every obstacle to my sense of self worth as a personal attack.
I do not consider this behavior unusual – it is virtually ubiquitous, in my opinion – particularly among the very young. Acceptance is not easy – life had to hit me over the head with a hammer every day for many years to teach me that I was not in charge, and that those who blocked my desires not only were not doing it to attack me (even if they thought they were), but were simply pursuing their own happiness, because they were not in charge either.
So I have been brought to a place where I consider heroism to involve very little in the way of proactive behavior. Someone called me heroic the other day – it happens quite often anymore – and I gave him my standard answer to this remark.
‘As far as I’m concerned,’ I said, ‘anyone who makes it through the day on planet earth is a hero.’ And I do feel that way. In my opinion, it seems that we are all heroes, striving to maintain some sense of self worth in a universe that leaves the ultimate decision up to us.
I don’t deny that I am human. I do have opinions and beliefs as to those behaviors that are better suited to noble and heroic labels – compassion, integrity, self deprecation, and so forth – and I have, in fact, come to believe that I have made great strides in this regard – but I cannot get past the feeling that those strides are, of necessity, merely vanity. I know that I think of myself as heroic, that my behavior has become, in my opinion, both selfless and compassionate. But that, it seems to me, is as much the luck of the draw as anything. In earlier days, I often wondered how I would react if the woman in my life (especially the young lady I was involved with for seven years) fell victim to some truly damaging disease. Would I be motivated – by love or self sacrifice or any other reason – to become a care giver? Or would I determine my plans for my life did not involve being limited in that way, and move on? And if this happened, would people have a negative opinion of me? Would every one talk about ‘0, poor (blank).’ She caught (disease), and her husband/boyfriend deserted her.’
I feel quite certain that that is what would have happened. For I feel equally certain that I would have felt driven to pursue my own hopes and dreams.
I might have felt a certain degree of guilt about that – about being proven callous, and indifferent, and self interested. But I got lucky. I caught the disease myself. And I cannot run away. I have been forced to stay and deal with it, and become my own care giver. And since I carry that burden in good humor, people call me heroic. But I don’t kid myself. I would not carry this burden at all if I had any choice in the matter. Life handed me lemons, and I made lemonade. But I don’t forget that plan A was always to not get handed any lemons.
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