Give and Take

Charlie Desmond was a cautious kid when I met him. Unlike most of our friends, he was average looking, shy, and reserved. We grew close over the course of middle school, and played high school football together. He was the grateful tagalong, the stereotypical wall flower of our friend group. When most of us moved on to Oregon State, I figured Charlie would remain our quiet, considerate, and docile compatriot. I really wish it stayed that way. Most of the other guys didn’t pay Charlie much attention, he didn’t stand out enough to attract much ire or praise. I always liked him though; his lack of audacity was refreshing in a clamoring and busy world like ours. I imagine in retrospect he felt invisible, passed over by potential lovers, left out of inner circles, and under appreciated by coaches, teachers, and friends alike. I’m not blameless in all this. I guess I’m writing this more to relieve myself of the burden than to convince you it’s real. I don’t care if anyone believes me, I just wish I could go back. I wish I could help him. It’s my confession of sorts.

I wonder if Gatsby’s fate could have been different, or if Icarus ever had a shot? I’d like to believe that we weren’t just passive observers, that we weren’t just fated to watch things unfold. I like to think we can make a difference. Sometimes it’s too painful to think we could. It’s simpler to think there was nothing anyone could have said to change his mind.

It started at a freshman party. We were all so excited to move into the world of college, to experience new things, and adventure out of our small circles. If I had looked closer I bet I could have seen the concerned wrinkles in his face, the slightly paled complexion of a nervous boy fighting back his next bout with IBS. It was like taking a small fish and dumping it in an even bigger pond. Some upperclassman had told us about an old abandoned mansion, and asked if we wanted to plan a party. I’m not sure who found it, or how they knew about it, but there was no reason to object.

That night Charlie was his normal self, attached to my hip and looking sheepishly around the room. “Can we call it an early night, I’m not feeling so great?” he half mumbled.

After my normal reassurances that it would be fine, we found some friends and tried to enjoy the night. After an hour or so I noticed Charlie had left me. At first, I wasn't surprised. I reasoned he ventured off to the bathroom. When the minutes started to slip by, I excused myself and went upstairs to look for him.

It was dark with the exception of a dim light at the end of the hall. I thought I heard him crying, or maybe laughing to himself? I knocked on the ajar door and peeked my head in, “Everything okay man?” I asked.

“Yeah…yeah,” he looked up half distracted, or maybe dazed? “I’m good, I just had to get away for a bit. I thought I’d explore and found this old bedroom.” He was sitting at a writing desk, leafing through a crisp looking journal. It stood out among the old weathered fixtures, defying the demands of time.

“What did you find?” I prodded. He became a little evasive, said it was nothing, and alarmingly said, “Let’s get back to the party!” Though I wanted to ask where Charlie is and what did you do with him, I just followed him back downstairs.

Hindsight being twenty-twenty, I can see a million situations where maybe I could have changed things. What if pressed him more that night? What if I went home when he asked? What if I spent more time, when I had it, talking to him? But it all slipped away from me.

He seemed different after my Western Civilization class one day. I was walking across campus by Mirror Lake, and saw Charlie talking with 3 women. Now I need to stress that Charlie was afraid of the idea of talking to one woman, let alone the reality of three engaging him at once. If my jaw could have fallen off it would have. Not only were words coming out of his mouth, laughter was coming out of theirs. I can almost smile now when I think of the reversal of fortune, me walking up looking stunned and confused while he exudes charisma and ease. My entrance caused him to smile, wave goodbye to them, and gesture for me to follow.

“Who are you?” I exclaimed, gaping at him. He simply laughed and told me he was having a good day. “I don’t believe that! You’ve been acting strange since last Friday, what’s gotten into you?” I said insisting he talk.

In what felt like the universe tipping on its side, he was now reassuring me that all was right in the world. We had lunch together nearby. He pulled the midnight colored journal out of his back pocket, and tucked it into his bag. He eyed me with a knowing smile. My curiosity compelled me to ask, “Alright, spill it. Why are you carrying that thing?”

Leaning in a little bit, he looked around, and said, “It just helps me process my thoughts. I write down what I’m afraid of, and when I read it, I feel better!” He smirked, reclined, and laughed loudly. “I haven’t felt this free since I was a kid.”

“Okay, but why do you need a little diary to do that?” I jabbed. He shrugged, and dove into the burger in front of him.

Though the subject changed and moved on, I was still unconvinced. It was hard to reconcile the free-spirited charmer in front of me with the cautious, self-conscious, poorly postured recluse I knew my whole life. Perhaps with too much confidence on his part, he went to the bathroom, greeting everyone as he went, and left me with his bag.

I’m not sure if looking helped or hurt the situation, but wouldn’t you? I unzipped the front pouch of his bag, and put the journal on the table. It was more malleable to the touch than to the eye. It flexed just enough under pressure while still feeling sturdy. I opened it carefully and saw a litany of handwritings. Some were cursive, some were plain, others were messy, others were clean and clear. As I began to read I noticed they all were some kind of petition or request. They all seemed to be asking someone, or something, to remove one fear or another. To get rid of apprehensions, and abolish anxieties. They weren’t exactly complicated requests, but all of them sought to remove one unease or another. The most recently impressed page said in small Charlie sized letters, “I want to be free of my fear of women.”

I wish I could say that journal shone with bolts of light, or trembled with a deep voice from the abyss. But it sat there, normal as ever besides it’s undying cover. I wish I burned it then and there. It takes and takes, but never gives.

I tucked it precisely back where I found it, tried to zip the bag up once again, but the zipper caught with too little time left. Charlie half-skipped back to our table and slapped me on the shoulder, “I just got a girl’s number!”

“What, in the bathroom?” I asked quickly.

“No! I met her over there at the bar, she works here,” he said while catching my eye line meet his bag. “What did you—” he trailed off. He saw the half-zipped pouch. He fumed, grabbed his backpack, and left me sitting there feeling guilty. After all, not knowing what I do now, could I blame him? I felt foolish for being so jealous. If this worked for him, who was I to say otherwise?

Weeks went by, and Charlie had taken to the habit of avoiding me. He seemed to rise from our little pond of obscurity, like a fish escaping its primordial self. He was the star of the Beavers, the life of every party I went to, and the praise of all professors in the classes we shared. I don’t know if my pride or my jealousy was stronger. I wanted to be him, I wanted the success he had, and I resented him for being so unbridled. Is this what he felt like for years? We were all in Charlie’s shadow now.

Christmas break came, and not a minute too soon. I felt my whole world was out of alignment, and it wasn’t just Charlie coming out of his shell. I couldn’t place it precisely, but I was grateful to return for some much needed time alone.

I thought I’d find some perspective after a few days. What solitude couldn’t bring however I thought some time with my old friend would. I wanted to tell him how sorry I was for my pride, and my envy. More than his success, my ego had kept us at arm’s length. So we ate at my house, and conversation moved slowly at first. After dinner we sat on my porch, in chairs watching the sun go down like days gone by.

“Charlie, I’m really sorry. I’ve been jealous of you, and I’ve been keeping my distance. I’m happy for you bro, I truly am,” I said with eyes cast down.

“I’ve noticed that. Don’t like it when the shoe’s on the other foot bro?” My stomach dropped, and my temper flared.

“Bro, I’m trying to apologize and you say that?” I said in disbelief. Charlie stood up suddenly knocking his chair over behind him.

“My whole life I’ve been hiding in your shadow. And now that I’m doing well, you spend 3 months hiding from me? You know, I think you’re the one who’s trapped in your own head,” he spat.

“Yeah, you’re so brave—” I stood up, “—where was all that bravery when I was looking out for you year after year?” I shoved him. We argued back and forth for a few minutes, and our rhetoric grew hotter and hotter. Charlie stormed off and that’s the last conversation I had with him.

Next term we didn’t acknowledge each other, in class, during practice, or even that night at the party. Rich kids, upperclassmen, threw money in like candy, and the night progressively got quieter and quieter. The last round, like something out of Casino Royale, was pin-drop silent. I saw him slip out a card tucked in his sleeve. The upperclassmen eyed him but he couldn’t see it.

‘Charlie—“, I whispered, “—you shouldn’t mess with these guys.”

“Don’t—” he didn’t break eye contact with cards, “—I'm on fire.”

The crowd went wild when Charlie took the whole pot, $20,000. The older guys smirked at one another, packed up, and left without event. Charlie reveled in the moment, clapping our teammates on the back. He was ascendant now, untouchable in our eyes.

The next day his body was at the bottom of the Takelma Gorge. Whether it was intentional or accidental didn’t matter really, you can only fly so close to the sun before you’re burned.

I stood outside his dorm room, numb. I went inside, and saw his bag on the floor. All his written fears chronicled for me. The last thing he scribbled wasn’t a request so much as a plea. It was a quote from Augustine’s Confessions, “For what I am to myself without you, but a guide to my own downfall?” As I write this in it, I think it’s magic has run out. At least for me. This book only takes, it never gives.