Chapter Fifteen - Lord Byron Versus Saint Mark
My high school had two art teachers, one I hated and one I liked. A full art credit was required for graduation. After smashing through one semester under the guy I hated, (who hated me back, incidentally. I'll never forget the time he told me, "Mark, you're a cancer--you destroy everything you come in contact with." The feeling was mutual) it became clear that I would have to get my other half credit some other way.
The most obvious was ceramics class. That class had the added perk of putting me in the seat next to If Only (well, it was a perk at the time).
I learned very little in that class (except that drawing and writing were the limits of my artistic talent) and produced a few pieces, all of which were on par for a fifth grader.
One thing I remember was a friend named Alicia making a big platter. Before being fired, it was a dull, gray and yellow mass. When it came out, it was a deep blue surface decorated with golden fish.
I made a pot with a similar idea in mind. The trouble was, I didn't prep the clay properly. There was a small air bubble near the lip. During the firing, the difference in temperature made the pressure level inside that bubble skyrocket, causing it to erupt outward, busting the pot into a million pieces. On the bright side, it took out some crazy left-winger's political sculpture with its shrapnel ("Wow, I'm sorry, Regina. I had no idea my pot would explode, let alone that it would take out your President with horns, tail, and cloven feet. Bummer.").
It just goes to show you how one little flaw can annihilate something that's worked just fine before.
Which brings us back to that booth in McKinley's.
"Considering you came to my room in the middle of the night, vandalized my door, got the RA pissed at me, and were talking about me behind my back, I should probably be a lot more pissed off than I am." Chandler began. "But all things considered, it looks like everything you did was for what you thought were the right reasons. Plus, you're my friend, so I'll cut you some slack. Promise to hear me out?"
"I promise." I said.
"Okay, this is what happened between me and Katalin. Notice the past tense; she's yours for the taking now." Maybe it was just because I was already miffed at him, but the way he was objectifying Katalin really bugged me. "It was Thursday night of last week. I went to Brooks for dinner, but didn't see anyone I was friends with, but I saw some of your buddies from election night. So I sat with them. A few minutes later, a girl came up and introduced herself to me as Katalin. The others were already almost done eating when I sat down, so they left before too long. It was just me and her.
"We got to talking, and before long, you came up. Did she tell you her nickname for you, yet?"
"Nickname? She just calls me Mark." I said. If he was lying, I couldn't tell.
"She says she doesn't call you this to your face in order to keep you humble. But when you're not around, she calls you 'Saint Mark.'"
I smiled at that. "Go on."
"So anyway, we really hit it off. We got to talking about music. She mentioned that she liked The Damned, and I told her I had their complete discography. She said she still hadn't heard their 1980 album, so I offered to burn her a copy.
"We went back to my room. Justin was already gone for the weekend. We kept talking, and one thing led to another."
I kept myself from throwing out a comment--I'd promised to hear what he had to say, and anything I would have let out just then only would've made things worse.
"But something wasn't right with her. She...she wasn't getting into it. I know I'm not much to look at, but I've never seen a girl so reserved while making out.
"I could tell she wasn't going to go any further, and I guess that was good in the long run--if you're going to go this close to ape-shit about getting to first base, you'd probably stab me for fucking her."
I suppressed a desire to sneer so strong it made my face itch. I was starting to get an idea of his game plan. First, seem so socially inept that sincerity was implied--that is, be so blunt that the listener was clamoring for lies to sugarcoat the sentiment. Then he'd go for compassion, or possible appeal to intellect. He must not have been aware that I knew how to play this game.
"Go on." I said, refusing to give him ammunition.
Chandler continued with seeming reluctance. Either I was getting to him or he was trying to get my guard down.
"Suddenly, she pulls back, says she can't do this, that it doesn't feel right. Only a creep would try to keep a girl that shaken up going. Despite your sudden lack of faith in me, I'm better than that.
"So she takes her CD and goes to leave, but stops short of the door. She turns and makes me promise that I won't tell you about what just happened--"
"--Didn't stop you." I cut in.
"Let me finish. Then I told her not be a stranger, she said she wouldn't. She didn't keep up her end of the deal, so I'm not keeping up mine."
He didn't continue, so I spoke up.
"And what was the point of telling me all this?"
Chandler sighed theatrically. "Dammit, Mark, look beyond this idea you have that I'm the enemy! Do I have to say it explicitly? Katalin's got a thing for you!"
I wanted to believe it, I really did. But I couldn't let myself. "This conversation is over." I said, rising to leave.
"Don't you fucking dare! I'm not going to let you wreck something you both want because neither of you has the courage to bring it together. Stay, if not for me than for Katalin!"
I sat back down, but didn't say a word.
Chandler leaned over the table. "Look, I've done some unsavory things with girls before, and I've never seen a girl as guarded. You told me that you had a crush in high school that went soure because you didn't know how to tell her. Did you ever think that Katalin might have the same problem?"
"Nice try, but she had a boyfriend in high school."
"Did you ever ask her about him?"
"No." I confessed.
"Well, I did. Apparently he was a pretty big asshole. Every few months or so, he'd do something to piss her off enough for her to break up with him. A few weeks would pass and he'd get lonely, come up with some grand apology, and she just didn't have the heart to shut him down." That much was consistent with Katalin's character. I didn't think Chandler had spent enough time with Katalin to know that. "And get this--he's the one who started the whole thing."
A fervent hope stood in my heart, enveloped in a shadow of doubt.
"Now," Chandler went on, "Before you can condemn me, I'm going to tell you that, yes, I've lied to you. Several times, of varying degrees. And yes, I suppose I do manipulate people. But let me show you where I'm coming from, how I got this way, and maybe you'll understand."
I checked my watch. I still had an hour to burn. "Go ahead."
"My father was born on January 27th, 1926. He graduated from his high school as Valedictorian. He went to Harvard business school. By age 26, he was a successful stockbroker. By age 30, he was a millionaire.
"He married his first wife when he was 27. They had a son name Lawrence in '59. By the time they split in '63, the old man was worth an estimated $5.3 million.
"The second marriage was in 1970, to a trophy wife. It barely lasted a year before she took him to court and squeezed an impressive alimonry payment out of him.
"In 1974, at age 48, he produced an illegitimate daughter. Another followed two years later, almost to the day.
"In 1983, his secretary retired. He hired a woman named Marian Smith to replace her.
"By 1985, their relationship was much more than professional. She was pregnant with his kid. Apparently he felt differently about Marian that he did about the other girls he'd knocked up, because he married her before the baby was born. At age sixty, my pop had a new wife and a new son. She was 33. She named the kid after her great-uncle Byron. That kid was me.
"Dad was never around much when I was growing up. He ran his business until I was twelve, when my mother turned up positive for breast cancer." Chandler started to choke up at this point. "You don't know what it's like, losing a parent. Let me tell you, cancer is the worst way. Just watching her slowly die, knowing there was nothing I could do, even just to ease her pain--" he held up a hand while he collected himself. I have to admit, he was pulling my heart strings. He picked up again after a moment. "But there was nothing we could do. The disease had already spread by the time we caught it.
"Before Mom died, Dad aged remarkably well. There's a picture I have of him at my tenth birthday. He was seventy, but could've passed for fifty-five. Not afterwards. It like he aged 30 years in those months. He retired, left his company to my half-brother Larry, a guy who already had a wife, a son, and a mistress of his own." He spat the word "mistress."
"Most people assumed Dad was my grandfather on the rare occassions we went out in public together. He took an interest in my schoolwork, but not much else.
"Until high school, that is. I complained that I didn't have many friends, and girls were only interested in me because of our money. So the old shyster taught me how to make them care about the rest of me.
"The old man didn't hold me back, except for two rules: My grades had to stay up, and I had to stay clean. Apparently my older half-sister had OD'ed on cocain when she was 19 and barely survived.
"I wasn't so good at math, which I thought the old man'd put on a pedestal. He told me he didn't care if I never laid eyes on the stock market--he had one son following in his footsteps and wanted the other to make some of his own. The old man insisted I take accounting, though; he said there was no point in having money if I didn't know how to hang onto it.
"He said I could go to college anywhere I liked, but he wanted me to apply to the Ivy League. He said that as long as I could get into one of them, he'd give me a 30% share in his will. That was worth about 2.4 million at this point--it was motivation enough. Harvard and Yale rejected me, but I got into Columbia.
"What I'm trying to show you, Mark, is why I'm like this. Before the old man put power in my hands, I was nobody. But when I'm in control...well, you've seen the results. You'd have a hard time finding a girl I can't get with or a guy I can't befriend on this campus."
"I know one." I said. Chandler told a good, consistent story, but there was one little flaw he hadn't noticed.
"You still don't believe me?" Chandler raved in disbelief. "How long until you have to go to class? I have pictures on my computer of me and the old man--"
"Isn't Photoshop great?" I spat, rising from my seat.
"Okay, what makes you sure I'm not telling the truth?" he demaned, visibly angry for the first time since I'd known him.
"When I came to your room last night, you had a FAFSA statement sitting on your dresser. FAFSA is need-based. If you're worth 2.4 million dollars, FAFSA won't give you a dime.
"Oh, and don't bother following me out. We both understand the dynamics of that situation, am I right?"
With that, I walked out of McKinley's and the life of Byron Chandler.
Originally posted on January 15th, 2005
The most obvious was ceramics class. That class had the added perk of putting me in the seat next to If Only (well, it was a perk at the time).
I learned very little in that class (except that drawing and writing were the limits of my artistic talent) and produced a few pieces, all of which were on par for a fifth grader.
One thing I remember was a friend named Alicia making a big platter. Before being fired, it was a dull, gray and yellow mass. When it came out, it was a deep blue surface decorated with golden fish.
I made a pot with a similar idea in mind. The trouble was, I didn't prep the clay properly. There was a small air bubble near the lip. During the firing, the difference in temperature made the pressure level inside that bubble skyrocket, causing it to erupt outward, busting the pot into a million pieces. On the bright side, it took out some crazy left-winger's political sculpture with its shrapnel ("Wow, I'm sorry, Regina. I had no idea my pot would explode, let alone that it would take out your President with horns, tail, and cloven feet. Bummer.").
It just goes to show you how one little flaw can annihilate something that's worked just fine before.
Which brings us back to that booth in McKinley's.
"Considering you came to my room in the middle of the night, vandalized my door, got the RA pissed at me, and were talking about me behind my back, I should probably be a lot more pissed off than I am." Chandler began. "But all things considered, it looks like everything you did was for what you thought were the right reasons. Plus, you're my friend, so I'll cut you some slack. Promise to hear me out?"
"I promise." I said.
"Okay, this is what happened between me and Katalin. Notice the past tense; she's yours for the taking now." Maybe it was just because I was already miffed at him, but the way he was objectifying Katalin really bugged me. "It was Thursday night of last week. I went to Brooks for dinner, but didn't see anyone I was friends with, but I saw some of your buddies from election night. So I sat with them. A few minutes later, a girl came up and introduced herself to me as Katalin. The others were already almost done eating when I sat down, so they left before too long. It was just me and her.
"We got to talking, and before long, you came up. Did she tell you her nickname for you, yet?"
"Nickname? She just calls me Mark." I said. If he was lying, I couldn't tell.
"She says she doesn't call you this to your face in order to keep you humble. But when you're not around, she calls you 'Saint Mark.'"
I smiled at that. "Go on."
"So anyway, we really hit it off. We got to talking about music. She mentioned that she liked The Damned, and I told her I had their complete discography. She said she still hadn't heard their 1980 album, so I offered to burn her a copy.
"We went back to my room. Justin was already gone for the weekend. We kept talking, and one thing led to another."
I kept myself from throwing out a comment--I'd promised to hear what he had to say, and anything I would have let out just then only would've made things worse.
"But something wasn't right with her. She...she wasn't getting into it. I know I'm not much to look at, but I've never seen a girl so reserved while making out.
"I could tell she wasn't going to go any further, and I guess that was good in the long run--if you're going to go this close to ape-shit about getting to first base, you'd probably stab me for fucking her."
I suppressed a desire to sneer so strong it made my face itch. I was starting to get an idea of his game plan. First, seem so socially inept that sincerity was implied--that is, be so blunt that the listener was clamoring for lies to sugarcoat the sentiment. Then he'd go for compassion, or possible appeal to intellect. He must not have been aware that I knew how to play this game.
"Go on." I said, refusing to give him ammunition.
Chandler continued with seeming reluctance. Either I was getting to him or he was trying to get my guard down.
"Suddenly, she pulls back, says she can't do this, that it doesn't feel right. Only a creep would try to keep a girl that shaken up going. Despite your sudden lack of faith in me, I'm better than that.
"So she takes her CD and goes to leave, but stops short of the door. She turns and makes me promise that I won't tell you about what just happened--"
"--Didn't stop you." I cut in.
"Let me finish. Then I told her not be a stranger, she said she wouldn't. She didn't keep up her end of the deal, so I'm not keeping up mine."
He didn't continue, so I spoke up.
"And what was the point of telling me all this?"
Chandler sighed theatrically. "Dammit, Mark, look beyond this idea you have that I'm the enemy! Do I have to say it explicitly? Katalin's got a thing for you!"
I wanted to believe it, I really did. But I couldn't let myself. "This conversation is over." I said, rising to leave.
"Don't you fucking dare! I'm not going to let you wreck something you both want because neither of you has the courage to bring it together. Stay, if not for me than for Katalin!"
I sat back down, but didn't say a word.
Chandler leaned over the table. "Look, I've done some unsavory things with girls before, and I've never seen a girl as guarded. You told me that you had a crush in high school that went soure because you didn't know how to tell her. Did you ever think that Katalin might have the same problem?"
"Nice try, but she had a boyfriend in high school."
"Did you ever ask her about him?"
"No." I confessed.
"Well, I did. Apparently he was a pretty big asshole. Every few months or so, he'd do something to piss her off enough for her to break up with him. A few weeks would pass and he'd get lonely, come up with some grand apology, and she just didn't have the heart to shut him down." That much was consistent with Katalin's character. I didn't think Chandler had spent enough time with Katalin to know that. "And get this--he's the one who started the whole thing."
A fervent hope stood in my heart, enveloped in a shadow of doubt.
"Now," Chandler went on, "Before you can condemn me, I'm going to tell you that, yes, I've lied to you. Several times, of varying degrees. And yes, I suppose I do manipulate people. But let me show you where I'm coming from, how I got this way, and maybe you'll understand."
I checked my watch. I still had an hour to burn. "Go ahead."
"My father was born on January 27th, 1926. He graduated from his high school as Valedictorian. He went to Harvard business school. By age 26, he was a successful stockbroker. By age 30, he was a millionaire.
"He married his first wife when he was 27. They had a son name Lawrence in '59. By the time they split in '63, the old man was worth an estimated $5.3 million.
"The second marriage was in 1970, to a trophy wife. It barely lasted a year before she took him to court and squeezed an impressive alimonry payment out of him.
"In 1974, at age 48, he produced an illegitimate daughter. Another followed two years later, almost to the day.
"In 1983, his secretary retired. He hired a woman named Marian Smith to replace her.
"By 1985, their relationship was much more than professional. She was pregnant with his kid. Apparently he felt differently about Marian that he did about the other girls he'd knocked up, because he married her before the baby was born. At age sixty, my pop had a new wife and a new son. She was 33. She named the kid after her great-uncle Byron. That kid was me.
"Dad was never around much when I was growing up. He ran his business until I was twelve, when my mother turned up positive for breast cancer." Chandler started to choke up at this point. "You don't know what it's like, losing a parent. Let me tell you, cancer is the worst way. Just watching her slowly die, knowing there was nothing I could do, even just to ease her pain--" he held up a hand while he collected himself. I have to admit, he was pulling my heart strings. He picked up again after a moment. "But there was nothing we could do. The disease had already spread by the time we caught it.
"Before Mom died, Dad aged remarkably well. There's a picture I have of him at my tenth birthday. He was seventy, but could've passed for fifty-five. Not afterwards. It like he aged 30 years in those months. He retired, left his company to my half-brother Larry, a guy who already had a wife, a son, and a mistress of his own." He spat the word "mistress."
"Most people assumed Dad was my grandfather on the rare occassions we went out in public together. He took an interest in my schoolwork, but not much else.
"Until high school, that is. I complained that I didn't have many friends, and girls were only interested in me because of our money. So the old shyster taught me how to make them care about the rest of me.
"The old man didn't hold me back, except for two rules: My grades had to stay up, and I had to stay clean. Apparently my older half-sister had OD'ed on cocain when she was 19 and barely survived.
"I wasn't so good at math, which I thought the old man'd put on a pedestal. He told me he didn't care if I never laid eyes on the stock market--he had one son following in his footsteps and wanted the other to make some of his own. The old man insisted I take accounting, though; he said there was no point in having money if I didn't know how to hang onto it.
"He said I could go to college anywhere I liked, but he wanted me to apply to the Ivy League. He said that as long as I could get into one of them, he'd give me a 30% share in his will. That was worth about 2.4 million at this point--it was motivation enough. Harvard and Yale rejected me, but I got into Columbia.
"What I'm trying to show you, Mark, is why I'm like this. Before the old man put power in my hands, I was nobody. But when I'm in control...well, you've seen the results. You'd have a hard time finding a girl I can't get with or a guy I can't befriend on this campus."
"I know one." I said. Chandler told a good, consistent story, but there was one little flaw he hadn't noticed.
"You still don't believe me?" Chandler raved in disbelief. "How long until you have to go to class? I have pictures on my computer of me and the old man--"
"Isn't Photoshop great?" I spat, rising from my seat.
"Okay, what makes you sure I'm not telling the truth?" he demaned, visibly angry for the first time since I'd known him.
"When I came to your room last night, you had a FAFSA statement sitting on your dresser. FAFSA is need-based. If you're worth 2.4 million dollars, FAFSA won't give you a dime.
"Oh, and don't bother following me out. We both understand the dynamics of that situation, am I right?"
With that, I walked out of McKinley's and the life of Byron Chandler.
Originally posted on January 15th, 2005
posted by Andrew Michael at 11:08 AM
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