low fidelity

One of the very last real conversations the AW and I had was in the hot tub, where we each answered the following throw-it-out-there question: what guy/girl did you mistreat most?

Her answer was her first husband, who she'd cheated on and left, who on her way out she'd unjustifiably vilified as having a "frightening temper." I'd long smelled bullshit there, and I was impressed by the rare display of self-awareness on her part. Little did I know she was preparing to similarly smear me a few months later. Ah well. Just so long as she and the "Us" magazines are gone.

When I'd posed the question, I was focused on her answer and not mine. When it came my turn to reciprocate, I had nothing. Not that I haven't done my share of uncool things toward girlfriends, but I would be damned if I could think of a case where it wasn't in response to something worse. "Honestly, I think I'm a pretty good boyfriend," I said, knowing it was weak. "A lousy enemy, but a good boyfriend."

I pressed on in my memory, past the carnage of my adult years, past even high school. I landed in eighth grade. "This is going to seem stupid, but in terms of mistreating the undeserving, I think this is my worst offense." I then told the story of Shelly. She was a friend and a complete doll. I had a huge crush on her; a lot of guys did. And in the manner of an attractive girl just starting to discover her powers, she enjoyed the attention. She actually—gasp!—talked to these other guys. Enjoyed their attentions, even! My eighth grade brain could not process how the object of my affections could behave in such a reprehensible manner. What. A. Filthy. Whore. She must be punished, or at least made to pay attention to me.

So in the manner of boys that age (and some women in their 30s), I froze her out. You know the drill. I wouldn't make eye contact, she would make an attempt at sane human interaction, I would pretend she wasn't there, she would weep, repeat. This went on for months. Ice and tears, ice and tears. Every time I made her cry, I felt warm tinglies inside. She sent the kid who sat between us as her intermediary. "What's the deal?" Tim would ask.

"She knows," I'd growl self-righteously, having no actual answer.

We went on to high school, and I moved on to other unrequited crushes and learned to cope with competition. But I never did speak to Shelly again. Too awkward.

"That's pathetic," the AW said, quite rightly, as we climbed out of the hot tub. "Why did you even bring up this topic if you didn't have a good story?"

Fair question. Perhaps because it would lead to a better story?

Recounting my mistreatment of Shelly made me curious as to whatever happened to her. Information on the Internet was spare, but after a few hours of searching I found my first breakthrough: a genealogy record. Oh no. Look at that. Holy crap. Her mom died right when I was freezing her out? Jesus. I am less than a human being. I am a contemptible pig.

What a few minutes earlier had seemed like inconsequential teen drama suddenly had some gravity to it. I was already feeling down on my eighth-grade self when the bombshell surfaced. She was married. To our intermediary, Tim.

Karma has one long-ass reach.