There are many roads not taken, many signals missed, many words spoken in anger and repented in leisure. I try not to regret too many choices I made, because in aggregate, they got me where I am today. There are a few sins in my C.V. I don’t feel like confessing so publicly, but here is an anecdote I don’t mind sharing. I regret my childish action because I intentionally humiliated people, and I can tell the story because those people are dead.
It was middle school, seventh or eighth grade. I was trying to develop a thicker skin, because it was so painful to be teased or bullied. Why, one girl, let’s call her A for Alice, had even asked me in class if she and I could go together. I asked her to explain what that meant, “go together”. I had suspicions. She said that meant we would talk to each other on the phone, walk around together at the mall some afternoons, and maybe kiss. Every once in a while.
I thought about it. She was awfully pretty… long red hair, pale skin, big brown eyes. I knew her mom was a flight attendant, and she was interested in art, and rumors said that she didn’t have a dad. This made her a little exotic. I also knew she was a terrible student, and, as I could be a self-righteous snob, that was kind of a turnoff.
Even worse, I suspected a trap. There were a number of eyes focused on us as Alice pled her case. I was pretty sure if I said yes, it would turn out to be a big joke, and I would be that big joke’s butt. “Ha ha, he thought he could go with her! What an idiot!” It would not have been the first time. So I told her that at this point in my life, I just wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment, that kind of relationship. She looked let down and went back to her desk. It was many years before any young lady aimed such an obvious sign of interest in my direction.
That wasn’t what I regretted, though.
One of Alice’s friends, let’s call her B for Betsy, came to our school, and they were bad influences on each other. They started listening to Skid Row and Warrant. Their grades got even worse. Worst of all, one day they didn’t show up in class at all. Rumor spread fast in a small classroom: they had skipped school and had wasted the day walking around, window shopping. I had never heard of anything so outrageous. Skipping school was like running away from home, and running away from home was something childish you did in elementary school. (You, your stuffed animals and your backpack got wet in the rain at the end of the driveway before you finally decided to go home.) They came back the next day, sullen and defiant, and in so much trouble. Everyone was gossipping about the runaways. There was even a question of if they would be forbidden to go to the upcoming middle school dance.
But they were allowed to attend the dance.
This wasn’t my first dance. I had been enough dances to start thinking they weren’t for me. Guys stood against one wall of the school cafeteria, girls stood against the opposite wall. Only the bravest kids ever actually slow danced together. Not until the dance was wrapping up, anyway, when boys and girls would grimly or nervously try out putting their hands through someone else’s personal bubble. (Her hand on my shoulder! Her other hand on my other shoulder! My hands, hovering a few inches away from the sides of her waist! My conversational repetoire, wholly consisting of, “So, you having a good time?” Spinning in a circle under the disco ball until, mercifully, “Circle in the Sand” started fading out.) In the meantime, there was just standing, staring, hopping around to Kriss Kross, and sipping punch. Not fun. At least the DJ took requests. He had Top 40 stuff and oldies music, which were my two favorite kinds of music.
I saw Alice and Betsy leaning in their wall together. I was still a little miffed that whatever punishment they’d received for skipping school was so light that they still got to come to the dance. Inspiration struck. I went up to the DJ, giggling a little, and made a request.
The DJ had the song.
“Aaaand this one goes out to Alice and Betsy! It’s Del Shannon’s ‘Runaway’!”
The guitar strummed and the piano played its staccato notes. As I walk along, I wonder, what went wrong… The cafeteria filled with laughter. My classmates knew exactly what that meant. _My little runaway. My run run run run, runaway._The DJ was puzzled, because it wasn’t a funny song. Back on my wall, I bragged to my friends that I was the clever guy that came up with that genius joke. Alice and Betsy made a beeline to the girls’ bathroom before the organ solo ended. I think Betsy was starting to cry. I stopped bragging.
My teacher, let’s call her C for Ms. Carter, stomped over to the DJ. I had never seen her so furious. She must have been asking the DJ who made that request, and I started getting very nervous. Was it possible that I would get it trouble for this? I hadn’t even done anything bad! But fortunately the DJ was a rock. He didn’t nark on me. Neither did my friends that I had been bragging to.
That’s the moment I regret, and it passed. Ms. Carter assumed this was a Mean Girls-style prank, and specifically aimed her sights on a completely uninvolved girl. Let’s call her D for Darlene. Darlene was bawled out, and kept maintaining her innocence. Alice and Betsy felt awful. I never came clean, and I certainly never apologized to them. If no one talked about it, it never happened. And was it a big deal, anyway? Of course not. It was just a song. Everyone picked on those girls, because they were going in the wrong direction. For once, I got to be on the giving side instead of the receiving side. Darlene was collateral damage, but since she didn’t do anything, she’d be fine.
Stupid dances.
We wound up going to different high schools, so I never saw them again after eighth grade. When I was riding the bus as a sophomore, I heard from a friend that Betsy had slit her wrists and died. I’d never known someone who killed themself before. I hadn’t thought of Betsy in years. I was a little sad, but I wasn’t surprised. And I remembered the Del Shannon song. A little later, I heard that Alice got knocked up. A few years later, when I was out of college, I heard that she had picked up a bad case of skin cancer. It spread. Her daughter was an orphan, according to rumor. Alice’s mom was taking care of her.
(Darlene was fine, at least. I ran into her at our high school ten year reunion. She was now a widow, though.)
Okay, so no matter how mean I might have been to Alice, it never ever would have been carcinogenic. A mutual friend (call her E for Erin), years later, told me that Alice actually thought it was pretty funny. And I think Betsy had a pretty rough time at home. That stupid song poking fun at her probably was no more than a blip on the daily list of crap she faced. It certainly wouldn’t have driven her to suicide. Right?
But maybe if I had been less of a d-word and more of a friend, their lives could have been a teensy bit happier. Maybe I could have encouraged them to make slightly different decisions that, if consequences from those decisions had cascaded in just the right direction, they would still be here now. That’s silly, I know. I might as well regret that my lotto tickets hadn’t hit those jackpots. On the other hand, I had had a pretty high opinion of myself. If I was such a nice kid, why was I trying to hurt their feelings?
I regret that I learned how awful it feels to be a dick.
I regret that I didn’t request Heart’s “Alone” instead. No dedication.
