In which there’s more sympatico.

Saturday night I told Kaje that I couldn’t figure out how he turned out so well.

I’ve heard all kinds of utterly insane stories from him in the past two months, and in them he is – not to put too fine a point on it – a total fucking punk. The stories are laff-riot funny most of the time (unless they’re like this), but underneath all the wacky, crazy action is a person who is clearly just about totally off his fucking rocker.

Currently, though, he’s not a punk at all. He’s big-hearted, and a fantastically honest communicator. He’s earnest. And present. And his bullshit tolerance is zero but he’s nice at the same time. A complex creature, really, who becomes more and more worth it with each passing day.

“So how did you get here from there?” I asked. “I know there were some women in that ten year gap you never talk about, but I haven’t heard shit about any of that. I think it’s time you tell me about it. So give it.”

We were in his apartment. It was late at night. He frowned a little.

“I need to know this shit anyway,” I said. “Boundaries, past hurts. Blah blah blah. If I knew you were jealous, for instance, I might be less likely to sit on other people’s laps. It’s useful to know where one’s partner’s weird spots are.”

He mumbled something about how he thinks talking about exes is disrespectful and that’s why he hasn’t done it, and then – because he’s the person he is – he shook it off and got comfortable on the couch and started talking.

+~+~+~
Two hours later, I was even more baffled. “So now we know you lie, you cheat, you’re pathologically passive-aggressive, you’re insane wicked nuts crazy, your bitches were all insane wicked nuts crazy, and you once chased a woman halfway across the county because you’d decided that stabbing her with a pocket knife seemed like a really good idea at the time. And in point of fact the only reason you failed in your mission is that you got in a car wreck that took out four lawns and a couple of trailers and should have killed you.

“Your last relationship ended, what, three years ago? And now, today, you’re mellow – I use the term lightly, spas boy – and you know both what you like and what you won’t stand for, you’re honest, you’ve hidden nothing from me – even stuff most people probably would have – and there’s nothing we can’t talk about. So what happened that made you this guy instead of the guy you should have turned into?”

He stilled, and considered the question in silence. (Silence in him is rare, you understand. He’s a talker. He might actually talk more than I do. But if you ask him something important, he’ll stop and answer honestly.) Then he said, “I don’t know. I really don’t. But you can see me, now, today. You’re beginning to know me. And you know I’m not a fucking punk.

“Weird? Yes. Dork? Totally. Spastic? Hell yes! I’ve got my laundry fluffing and my shoelaces and I know I’m a freak. But I’m not a dick.”

“No, you’re not,” I agreed. “You might be the coolest person I’ve ever met. We’re not disputing how adorable you are now. My point is that you shouldn’t be cool. With your backstory? You should be a fucking asshole.”

+~+~+~
The next morning, right after getting out of bed and just about two seconds after I perceived he was in some kind of non-standard mood, he turned to me and blurted, “I don’t know the answer. I don’t know how to explain to you how I got here from there. I realize that there’s a hole in my story, but I don’t know the answer to your question and you deserve an answer if you’re going to be with me. I feel deeply weird and uncomfortable about what I told you last night, and I don’t know how to answer your original question, and I don’t fucking dig it. And today is our day together, and I’m not going to waste it being in a funk.”

So we got in the car and went to Dutch Bros. for these disgusting frozen iced coffee things we drink on Sunday mornings, and then we drove around town and talked. And the man basically dug around in his own psyche and talked it out until we both knew what we needed to know, and it was one of the coolest things I’ve ever witnessed.

It was cool because, while I’ve known lots of self-aware people with great communication skills, I’ve never been with one – at least not like this. Dude’s whole process is cool. He does it on purpose. He does it in front of me. He does it for me. It’s freakin’ hawt, is what it is.

+~+~+~
That night we were lying in bed talking about exes and triggers and things that go bump in the night, and I was telling him that being an optimist is not always a good thing, because when that first little damage comes I probably won’t say anything; I’ll assume there was a good reason for it and write it off… even though I won’t write it off, I’ll keep it on some subconscious super-secret Tally Sheet and then one day I’ll wake up and the list will have gotten too long and I’ll dump his ass on the spot.

“You gotta be careful with that shit,” he said. “You can’t make excuses for people.”

“Excuses? Is that what it is, when you assume someone behaves the way they do for a perfectly good reason?”

“Well, yeah,” he replied. “There’s a difference between giving someone the benefit of the doubt, and making excuses for them.”

“But what if someone says, ‘Oh, sorry I didn’t bring you that newspaper you asked for, I forgot’. Because I’m likely to believe them… even if it hurts my feelings that I was forgotten and it ends up on the damn Tally Sheet.”

“Depends on how often it happens. You gotta ask, you can’t just assume. You gotta say, ‘Did you forget, or did you just blow it off?’ because how they respond will tell you. Sometimes people really do forget; sometimes they consciously decide to do something else. Sometimes it’s even for a good reason. But most of the time, they’re just fucking off… and you know it.”

“…and then you spend six more years with someone who doesn’t even like you enough to buy you a fucking paper.”

“Exactly. And though half of the bolts have fallen off, the chassis is still rolling so you just keep going.”

“Exactly.” I said. “Glass is half-full.”

“No shit.” He stared at the ceiling for a moment and said, “You and I are so alike it’s creepy.”

“No shit,” I opined.

“I’ve gotten to the point where I don’t really give the benefit of the doubt any more. My bullshit tolerance is pretty low.”

“Before you, I’d finally decided I’d really, truly, honestly rather be alone than be in a relationship that is costing me more than I’m getting out of it.”

“Me too! Fuck that… even if it is half your own fault. You know, for staying in.”

“When you knew better.”

“Yeah. I don’t want to waste any more time like that.”

“Me neither.”

“Fuck that.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, cuddling in. “Fuck that.”

+~+~+~
And then we had really super hot sex.

For, like, an hour and a half. Dayum.

+~+~+~
In other news, one of my customers told me a joke today. I repeat it here for your amusement:

Q. Clinton, Obama, and McCain were stranded on a desert island. Who was saved?
A. America!