I walked comfortably close to her, my arm around her shoulder, and hers around my waist. The street was mostly quiet, devoid of much, if any, vehicle traffic. The night was warm, but just cool enough to make her proximity inviting, if not wholly necessary. The street and window lights were positively suburban, and smell of trees and grass was wistfully carried on the slightest of summer breezes; just enough to keep the air fresh. There was not an ounce, not a single ounce of pretense. The minutes passed, rife with subtlety, and literally, my only concern that this simply beautiful moment would have to, at some point, give way to the reality which, no doubt, lurked just beyond my sight. The music of footfalls and laughing sighs was trailing behind us - and it may very well have been, just for a second or two, the summer of 1992.But, as with most things, despite my best attempts to avoid it - it came around.
I keep an unofficial list (in my head, because I'm certain that writing it down would actually make me crazy) of the five best and five worst people I've met in Los Angeles. After three years, there hasn't been a lot of movement on either. I seem to have found a middle ground where I'm (thankfully) not meeting any more self-obsessed sociopaths (alarmingly enough, dressed as normal people), but I'm also (woefully) not meeting any more amazing people. But, just when I thought my lists were complete, there was an addition last year to my Five Worst list.
I'm not a big fan of The Secret or similar works. Having been raised in a cult, I'm wary of pop-spirituality in a way that most folks can't appreciate. But I finally experienced true evidence of The Secret's "Law of Attraction" that cannot be explained by any other mathematical phenomenon of which I am aware. The aforementioned Law states "people's thoughts (both conscious and unconscious) dictate the reality of their lives, whether or not they're aware of it." (Wikipedia, "Law of Attraction") This works in both a positive and (as I found out) a negative way.
I was invited by a couple of friends to go UCLA's home opener at the Rose Bowl (vs. Tennessee). I had rebuffed their invitations on many former occasions, but I had no excuses this time - and I was eager to finally see my first game in Pasadena. As I drove to the game, I thought about who I might see there. Of course, there were around 70,000 people expected, so I wasn't just going to run into anyone... but it was an interesting thought nonetheless. I realized that the aforementioned and former romantic interest was also a former UCLA cheerleader - and still living in the area... and she might actually be there. But I wasn't going to be anywhere near the field, or the student section, so no worries, right?
Wrong.
I got to the vicinity of the Rose Bowl around 3 pm (2+ hours before game time). I really didn't appreciate how many people there would already be there - tailgating, and soaking up the sun. They directed traffic to park on the golf course - and I parked about 2 miles from the actual stadium. The golf course was literally filled with people... thousands of them. There was music, grilling, footballs being thrown around and a general joyful chaos that made me happy I had finally decided to come to one of these. I didn't have much of an idea where I was going and meandered through the crowd, just trying to head in the general direction of the arena.
Statistically, the likelihood of running into the one person in the crowd that I least wanted to see was impossible. In fact, it was impossible many times over. The colloquial perception of "impossible" is equivalent to about a 1 in 1,000 chance. If 20,000 people (a conservative estimate of the tailgating crowd) are randomly distributed over 4-5 acres, and one takes a random, direct path through that space - the likelihood of having a specific interaction is about as remote as being struck by a meteor on the same trip. I remember the smile that began to cross my face as I walked, beginning to feel the energy of the pending game, the enjoyment of so many Angelenos collected in the same place with no regard for fashion, bling or fame, and the glorious Saturday afternoon weather. I remember the carefree feeling that washed over me, comfortable in the anonymity of the assembled masses. I also remember the cold chill that took it all away as I heard my name called.
I feigned as if I didn't know who it was, despite the fact that the awful reality of the situation had hit me with a horrific clarity almost instantaneously. There she was, trotting over to me with that cold and easy smile - having just left the side of her latest beau. It would have been impossible not to see the pain on my face. I was purposefully not trying to disguise it. I didn't remove my sunglasses. And yet, she continued as if we were long, lost friends. As if nothing has transpired in the intervening months since I had the surgery; as if she hadn't betrayed my trust to my teammates, and said unspeakable and terrible lies about me; as if had actually taken one of her calls or returned one of her text messages in the preceding eight months. She casually asked how I was, and I quickly turned the conversation to her (which she was eager to get to). I tried to look obviously disinterested - wishing fervently for this whole terrible scene to just be done with... but she bantered on. Finally, and thankfully, it concluded.
She offered up some sort of subsequent meeting, which I mumbled a non-committal response to, and I was on my way. Some thirty minutes later I found my friends, and began the five hour process of trying to forget the whole thing had happened. As luck would have it, I got to see one of the best college football games I've ever seen - complete with fireworks at the end.
As for Ms. Wrong... I didn't hear from her during the game... and didn't hear a thing until a whole week later... when a text message came through from an unknown number... about how the sender was sorry not to get back to me sooner, but how good it was to have seen me. Right. I didn't respond... and safely moved someone into a permanent spot in the "Bottom 5".
I imagine there is some sort of life's lesson here - some profound moral to this story that I could ink down here in a Doogie Howser-style epiphany... but I prefer to stick to the numbers, and how since there was less than a 1 in 1,000 chance of running into this mistake, the universe owes me 999 games at the Rose Bowl without even a shred of drama.
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