Might Have Been Ch. 01

After admiring our work, we drove Sarah home, and continued to Dave’s house. “What do you think of her?” he asked.

“A thermodynamic paradox.” (Cool and hot at the same time – we were such geeks.)

Dave's smile reached his ears. “I think she is Exquisite.” I could hear the capitalization in his tone. “We are going out on Saturday.”

My heart sank in disappointment and envy. I congratulated him, not knowing Dave was heading toward a romantic doom that might have been mine.

Despite my lack of sleep, I made a point of waking early, and I dosed myself with extra coffee, so I could arrive in time to join Dave and Sarah for our first joint art show. Students were greeted with a band of angry snowmen on the school lawn, carrying signs:

“Summer is a Liberal Lie!”

“Fight the Summer Myth!”

“If Summer is Coming, Why is Today Colder than Yesterday?”

“Alternate Theories of Seasonal Change Demanded in Science Classrooms!”

“I Will Give You My Snowball When You Take It from My Cold(er) Dead Hands!”

“John 3:16”

A sign in the back announced, “This protest was brought to you by Lance, Dave, and Sarah.” Sarah and Dave had insisted my name be first, as it was my idea – although to me, it felt more like Sarah’s.

We collected the reactions of the student body. Sumbeech Carl extended his middle finger at us. Amber and Sidney, the Toothsome Twosome, smiled politely and complimented us, after which I heard Sidney explain the joke to Amber. Scott the Hoople complained we hadn’t invited him to participate. (Fat chance there had been of that – everyone except the police seemed to know he was the one who lit the trashcan fire for which Sarah had nearly taken the blame.)

The person whose reaction I most wanted to see pulled into the parking lot in a white Dodge Neon. I tracked Courtney’s progress up the sidewalk. She paused, curious at the crowd's behavior, then contorted her face in expressions of surprise, annoyance, and finally laughter. She searched for me, expecting me in the vicinity, and when our eyes met she flashed a sour smile and stuck out her tongue.

My chemistry teacher from last year was effusive and thought it was worthy of calling Twin Cities media. A reporter for the Star Tribune did show up, but by the time he arrived, Courtney had organized a lunchtime demolition crew which pulverized the snowmen and destroyed the signs. The reporter had no story, we had only our pride and memories, and Courtney had invoked the eternal wrath of Dave, who bequeathed her with the unwelcome new sobriquet: That Bitch Courtney.

Still, the bond had been formed, and our duo became a trio. We became the heart of the college clique – the students who took the AP classes, dominated the honor roll, and populated most of the school's fine art and geek clubs.

The more I knew Sarah, the deeper I fell. No one ever made me laugh more, or drove me to such feats of creativity. She was dating my best friend, so I never acted on my feelings, but Sarah still defined all high school romances for me. I would reject or ignore other girls, who were noonday stars obscured by the light of Sarah’s sun.

Enter Amy, on my eighteenth birthday.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

When I pulled into Dave's driveway at five o'clock, I heard an artificially deep voice from above, “Lance! This is God, Lance! I want you to stop masturbating!” After a sufficiently-dramatic pause, Dave jumped down from his large maple tree, hitting a three point stance borrowed from The Matrix. He had a black duster and combat boots that could have allowed him to pass for an extra in the movie, but the “Kiss me I'm Irish” t-shirt made it more ironic than imitative – particularly since he was Jewish.

“Quit projecting your own sins on poor, innocent Lance.” Sarah swung upside-down from the lowest bough of the tree, her blue silk blouse scrunching up to expose a toned, snowy stomach. I caught the glint of her ruby piercing, and gritted my teeth to steady the pangs of love and lust she reflexively drew from me. Sarah dismounted from the tree, crossed her arms, and cocked her hip. She held my eyes, and her lips formed a ghost of a smile, then she spoke again. “Amy, front and center!”

Amy was here? Amy stood from where she had been lounging on Dave's porch. She smiled and fidgeted.

I didn't know her well and hadn't expected her to be joining us. She struck me as the sweet, innocent Midwestern type, which I typically found boring. I knew of her father from his rants against immigration to the local newspaper, and I had heard he was extremely protective of her, which I guessed was why she never dated. Amy had been orbiting Sarah close of late – nose stuck in a Harlequin romance novel, never saying much. I rarely deigned to notice the quiet girls – a sin for which I would pay this night.

Amy would even the numbers, but I feared she would be conversational dead weight. We would either ignore her all night, or waste time explaining everything to her. I stifled my annoyance, let my Midwestern manners take over, and greeted Amy politely. When Dave and Sarah grabbed the back seat, I held the door for Amy to take shotgun.

We drove into Mankato to eat dinner at an Italian restaurant. I ordered a pesto that was heavy on garlic.

Bemused at my menu choice, Sarah shook her head, turned to Amy, and said, “You might want to inoculate yourself.” Amy ordered the pesto as well.

The conversation was a melange of banter and stories, including the recounting of Dave's Sit Down You're Rockin' the Boat miscue from the first Guys and Dolls show, where he lost synch with the rest of the cast during the alternating sit/stand choreography of the chorus, resulting in Dave continually popping up like a solitary prairie dog. Sarah challenged whether Dave and I could still improvise Runyonesque dialogue, asking just as the waitress brought our meals. I affected a gruff New York accent, and asked the waitress, “I do not suppose this fine disestablishment has a dessert menu that my companions and I could peruse?”

The stifled laughter from Dave and Sarah convinced the waitress she was being mocked in some obscure way. She sniffed and wordlessly fetched the requested menu.

I was apologetic to my friends. “I don't think I sold the line. I need a fedora and a pinstripe suit with a carnation in the lapel.”

“You really want to dress like a mafioso in an Italian restaurant?” Dave asked.

“Good point. I hear the Genovese family is trying to squeeze the Gambinos out of the stranglehold they have on the Mankato heroin trade. Next week, I could be wearing cement cross-country skis down to the bottom of the Minnesota River.”

“Wise man,” Dave commented.

“Wise guy,” Sarah corrected.

Amy moved her head like she was watching a tennis match, saying nothing.

Next was Denzel Washington and Ethan Hawke in Training Day. I remember hoping Denzel would shoot Hawke in the head – I resented his scruffy facial hair and his sleeping with Uma Thurman. I was sitting on the far end next to Amy, where I couldn't talk to Dave or Sarah, so I leaned over to ask Amy whether I should grow a scruffy beard. She laughed and replied, “No, I think you're cute enough. You don't need an indecisive goatee.” Her hand touched my cheek.

On the drive home, Dave and Sarah insisted on stopping at a park, which was deserted in the late hour. The night was warm for the middle of October, and earlier frosts had massacred this year’s crop of mosquitoes, creating a perfect Minnesota night. Dave waited for Sarah to put on her shoes, and the two of them immediately scampered into the woods. I watched Sarah’s shapely behind disappear into the brush with my best friend, leaving me alone with Amy, who sat down next to me on a granite boulder.

Amy just sat and watched the sky.

I hated silence. The movie was the obvious topic of conversation. “I think Denzel Washington is the best actor of his generation.”

“I liked that one with Meg Ryan and him in Iraq.”

“Courage Under Fire? It borrowed too much from Rashomon. The unreliable narrator technique gets old fast.”

“What did you think of Denzel in this one?”

“The guy deserves a Best Actor Oscar for other films, but this won't get it for him. It's a nice performance, but Ethan Hawke drags down every film he's in.” I glanced in the direction Dave and Sarah had vanished, trying to spot them.

“Did you see Ethan Hawke's slacker Hamlet?”

“We talked about going, but I was afraid of...” I stood up, striking a Shakespearean pose. “To be, or...” I paused, looked offstage, snapped my fingers in annoyance, and demanded, “Line!”

Amy laughed and applauded. She proved to be better company than expected. She may have demurred in groups, but she was chatty one-on-one. “You're so good in comedy. In Arsenic and Old Lace last spring, you were even better than Peter Lorre in the movie.” She earned more points for knowing the Capra film than for thinking I outperformed Lorre, which in my youthful arrogance I took as my due.

I thought I heard Sarah's melodic laughter coming from the trees, and tried to detect her once more, to no avail.

Amy and I continued talking, and I became more awake to Amy’s physical presence. She was short, with a round face and a button nose, and kept her strawberry blonde hair in a bouncy ponytail. At school, she hid her body in sweatshirts and baggy jeans, which conveyed an illusion of plumpness, but tonight she had sworn off frump-wear, and sprayed on a tight, pink, scoop-neck shirt, that revealed a healthy bust and a trim stomach. With my sex-obsessed teenage libido, it was hard not to stare.

Amy's lovely rack made me think of sex, and thoughts of sex made me think of Sarah, and what she must be doing in the night-shrouded oak savanna behind us. Images flashed unwanted across my mind – Sarah going down, brushing back her hair to better display her skills as a fellatrix – Sarah bracing her arms against a tree, thrusting backward as she was skewered from behind, turning to give a ravenous kiss with her ruby lips. Did she moan or scream? I was somehow certain the minx talked dirty, with erotic wordplay yet another artistic medium in her repertoire. Penetrations, caresses, fluidic thrusts and a cacophony of climaxes strobed through my fevered teenage brain in a span of seconds, all spent staring at Amy's decolletage.

“What are you thinking about?” Amy had clearly noticed the attention I paid her chest. I felt the sick heat of shame and gave no answer.

Amy laid her head on the boulder serving as our makeshift sofa. Her ponytail pillowed, framing her face like a halo, resting inches from my hips. “You can tell me.” She stretched catlike, her arms reaching for the moonless sky. Her actions drew her breasts together and caused her shirt to creep up, exposing waist and navel.

No piercing, I noted, once again comparing Amy to Sarah, and thinking of the ruby embedded in Sarah's smooth midriff. My shame deepened.

Amy angled away from me, displaying the vale of her breasts, illuminated by starlight. She leaned her head back further to watch me. “You don't want to tell me?”

I had been fantasizing about her friend while I stared at Amy's cleavage. I was sure I had even licked my lips. She must believe I'm some kind of freak. “It's kind of personal and embarrassing,” I replied, hoping to change the subject.

Amy’s lips parted in a smile, undeterred. Her eyes were black pools in the starlight. “Oh yeah? That sounds interesting. Tell me.”

I admitted defeat. “Sorry, I was thinking of this girl. I apologize if I offended you.” Good manners save the day.

Amy's smile widened. “You don't offend me. What's the girl like?” Her hand found my knee, and didn't move.

“Beautiful, funny, smart.”

“Yeah?” Her fingers started rubbing my leg.

“Brunette. I think I have a thing for brunettes.”

Amy's hand left my knee, and she rose abruptly. I sensed a change in her attitude, but couldn't read much from the strawberry blonde ponytail staring at me. After a few seconds of silence, Amy shouted in the direction of Dave and Sarah's presumed love nest. “Hey guys, time to go!”

She milled around silently until Dave and Sarah ambled out of the woods minutes later. Sarah had a smirk on her face, fallen leaves in her hair, and a smolder in her eyes. She studied me, as if trying to read my expression, and then frowned like she had picked up the wrong book. I saw her exchange a glance with Amy, who rolled her eyes. Sarah resumed her eye contact with me, sighed, and shook her head, her porcelain face forming what I remembered as a bewildered sneer.

We left the park. Dave and Sarah whispered and snuggled in the back seat. At one point, Sarah's bare foot kicked me in the head. Her giggled apology was the only word spoken to me during the drive, leaving me with no company but an awkward silence with Amy. We dropped off Amy and Sarah.

“So how did it go, man?” Dave asked as I drove him home.

“What?”

“Amy.”

“What about her?”

“You never made a move?”

“No, why?”

Dave laughed. “Amy has been crushing on you for weeks, begging The Exquisite Sarah to set up the two of you. This was it.”

“No shit? Why didn't you tell me?”

Dave shook his head. “You don't remember Mellifluous Mary?”

“Fair enough,” I answered. Sarah had wanted to pair me with another candy-coated friend of hers last month – a junior. I had feigned offense, insisting she was slighting my ability to get my own dates. That had been a cover – I had no objection to being fixed up, but thought Mary was a twit. Sarah had evidently determined the best method was to set me up and not tell me.

“So what happened?” Dave asked.

“Nothing at all.”

Dave shook his head again, as I pulled into his driveway. “Well, happy fucking birthday anyway.” He punched me in the shoulder, then exited the car and walked into his house.

My knowledge of Amy's desire for me forced a reassessment. I had belatedly recognized Amy’s concealed charms, but now I considered the joy of our park conversation. Her smile had lit up the night, and I had somehow ignored her. I would have to fix the damage. Dave would never dump Sarah, so I might as well settle for someone who was less exquisite, but still acceptable.

I tried connecting with Amy again over the course of my senior year. I didn’t respect her romance novels, but saw in them a quest for a romantic ideal that matched my own love of classical mythology, medieval folklore, and modern fantasy. We both liked movies, and I tried that as a conversation-starter. We both had caught Donnie Darko on different trips to Minneapolis, and were among the few in school who liked it. The more I knew, the more I liked her, but it was too late. The chance had passed.

My mistake at the park had inoculated her against my charms. Flirting yielded nothing. The smile that lit up the night was a humorless grin when turned my way. Eventually, Amy dated Rodney Jorgenson, or “Rod The Mod”, as Dave called him – due to his beatnik haircut and the scent of cloves and pretension that hovered around him. Amy began to dress in tighter clothes, and flaunted it in my presence. She would glance at me, pointedly tongue Mr. Mod's mouth, and drive off on the back of his motorcycle. I never saw her again after graduation.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

As I grew more experienced with women, my failure was obvious. Amy thought I was lusting after her, not Sarah, and rather than taking offense, she had liked it. I had slapped her ego and never gave her a reason to forgive me. My attitude toward her – that I was settling – was transparent. It was my fault. Given the limited opportunities provided by her overbearing father, this must have been her first date. She had worked up the courage with me, and my rejection had shattered her romantic ideals – sending her off with a poetic poseur. I had failed her.

The more I thought back on the night at the park, the more stupid I felt, and the more wonderful Amy had been. Not only had her smile lit the moonless night, her laughter was music, and every motion a ballet. The proud display of her body, coming from such an innocent, was a recurring erotic fantasy.

Why had I been so blind? Sarah and I had never dated, and after the way she treated Dave I counted my blessings, and quickly cut contact with her.

Why had I focused on the superficially exquisite, cold-hearted Sarah, when a very real, wonderful woman had been throwing herself at me? How could I have not understood what Amy was offering? I had discarded the perfect simplicity of romance and innocence, and was now mired in the complicated, profane reality of Tasha.

What happened to me? Every time I relived that night ten years ago made me realize how much I had changed. While I had still been a fuck-up with women, I had the excuse of naivete. In every other respect I had been at my peak. I had developed a reputation growing up in Monroe – I was “that smart kid”, devouring grown-up books at age ten, and peppering my vocabulary with words I didn’t realize no one else knew. I inhaled knowledge, and possessed an encyclopedic memory half my teachers loved, and the other half feared – more than one had told me I was the brightest student they had ever taught, and that they expected greatness. Monroe had never birthed anyone famous, and I sensed the expectation I would be first. The only question was how I would distinguish myself – in acting, science, or politics.

My confidence had bordered on arrogance. At eighteen, I had been a popular geek – a contradiction in terms. How did I manage that in high school and college, while allowing my present life to turn into a cesspool of self-loathing?

I hadn’t achieved what everyone had seen as my potential. My career had peaked even as a lab assistant. I was competent, but on a dead-end career track. I had alienated all my friends one by one. They were driven away by Hurricane Tasha, until I was isolated and alone with a woman who hated me almost as much as she needed me.

Deep in my heart, I knew the answer. They had been wrong about me. I was never what they thought I was. My potential had been an illusion, destroyed by the flaws Tasha had since helped me see. I didn’t love enough. I didn’t try enough. I was a hypocrite pretending to care about the world, but only caring about myself. I hated her for that truth, but in my fantasies I was able to fool myself into disbelieving it.

As I drove out to Batavia, my eyes were fixed on the bumper of the car in front of me, alert for an unexpected brake light, but my mind was rewriting the night of my eighteenth birthday. I was with Amy, and her curves, kindness, and tentative achings of innocent desire. It was a pleasant illusion, where I was as clever, desirable, and honorable as I once thought I was.

My subjunctive nostalgia ended when I reached the campus. Fermilab was the premier physics laboratory in the United States, on the cutting edge of experimentation. Internationally, we had taken a back seat to the Large Hadron Collider in Switzerland, particularly since our own Tevatron Collider was shut down earlier this month. We needed an experimental success, and we had high hopes for this next one. Today would be a busy day, as tomorrow was the launch.

Richard Feynman liked to say, “No one understands quantum mechanics,” which was a humbling thought from one of the great minds of the last century. The most confusing part was indeterminacy. A quantum particle behaves like a wave of probability, potentially existing in all locations and states allowed by the mathematical equation that defines its form. It is only when you try to measure it that the particle behaves “normally”, pinned to a single position and velocity, as if caught by surprise.

What was the nature of that shift from the indeterminate to determinate? The Copenhagen Interpretation of Quantum Physics said the act of observation caused a “collapse” of the wave function into just one of its allowed states. This had been the mainstream view of quantum physics for almost ninety years.