A Man Called Peter

I was telling someone not too long ago that I don't really have "a type". Meaning, there is not one "type" of guy that I tend to latch myself onto. I've probably mentioned this in many conversations because it has been true of me for a long time. I could produce a list of preferences describing what I think is my ideal match...we've all done it either mentally or literally...but I don't really buy into the list thing anymore. I used to hunt for the list, but anytime I've met someone who actually aligned with it, he's turned out to be FAR from what I thought I wanted. The characteristics of human beings are too complicated to be checked off like grocery items on a Post-It. ketchup...check. luncheon meat...check. tampons...check. nice sense of humor and interest in gardening...check/check. It just doesn't work.

Many authors of fiction will create characters by combining interesting tidbits from various people they've known in real life. I thought it might be fun to do this. Because almost every guy I've been ivolved with has been so very different from all the others (execpt for two that I dated about 2 years apart from each other who, eerily, were identical in almost every way.....a revelation that somehow didn't occur to me until way after the fact), it would take too long to describe them all. Not that anyone would be interested in reading that crap, anyway. Instead, I've pulled out some facts and a few opinions about these people and skillfully weaved them together to present to you a man I'll call "Peter". (I choose this name not only for it's obvious maleness, but because it's the only tolerable name I can come up with that I can't in any way associate with someone I know.)

Peter wasn't as attractive as some of the guys who had been in my life. I was attracted to him, of course, but it certainly wasn't his appearance that initially drew me to him. He stood (and still does, I imagine) about 6 feet, 8 inches tall. Curly blonde hair. His mother was Mexican, his father Philipino. Brown eyes. Actually, only one of his eyes was real. The other one was prosthetic due to an incident in his early childhood. He and his twin brother were jumping on bunk beds sometime in the early 70's when he fell and gashed his eye on the corner of the dresser. You couldn't tell that one of the eyes was a fake unless he told you so. Must have been some mighty esspensive fiberglass.

He was 12 years older than me at the time, which would make him 38 now. (Which also makes me much older than I care to be.) In those extra years of experience, he had done quite a bit on the way to careerdom. In his early 20's, he had been the lead singer of a heavy metal band. I can't recall the name of the band now, but I remember looking at their website. Somewhere along the way he grew a distaste for heavy metal and decided he rolled more comfortably with the likes of The Ramones and The Clash. He now has a small recording studio in Dallas where he mostly records his own music; none of which sounds anything like the aforementioned bands. (He once wrote a song about me and sung it in front of a large group of people. ) He worked as an orderly in a nursing home at some point long before I knew him, and it struck me as a redeeming quality that he would be willing to work in such conditions. Now I mostly think it kinda creepy. After that he went on to case work with the Department of Child Welfare, selling shoes, bank management, teaching math, advertising for pharmacueticals, and finally, real estate. Real Estate proved itself to be most lucrative, so that's where he stayed.

Peter had been married for a short while until his wifey flipped out, left him and their two kids, and fled to Canada. He has sole custody of their little boy and seemed to be one of the most amazing fathers I had ever met. I wasn't ready for motherhood, though....

Aside from his musical talents, Peter had a Jackassonian interest in "stunt work". He owned several cars...one of them being a 20 year old piece of crap he referred to as a "jeep". He and his friends would film themselves flipping this thing down enbankments and over fallen trees. He would climb on top of rooves just to jump off of them. Many bones were broken in many asinine ways. He almost killed himself in a motorcycle accident...twice. None of these activities would or could blow my skirt up (so to speak), by the way. They all occurred prior to me.

Peter's not a bad guy. In fact, he's what most people would refer to as "a good guy". He's friendly. He likes kids to the degree that he would actually address them in public when most people are only acknowledging parents. I always like that about people. He wasn't particularly intrested in getting to know my friends, though. I would always go out with his buddies, but he never put forth the same effort. He was selfish that way. He was selfish in lots of ways.

I've often compared Peter to The Fonz. He had an almost celebrity status at our small college. Everyone knew who he was. All the girls thought he was superdreamy and all the guys pretended to not think he was the cat's pajamas, even though they all knew he was. Unlike The Fonze, however, he didn't attain his Cool Status because of his way with the ladies or even through an elitist arrogance. He was just cool because he was....well, cool. If someone was cool by popular vote, I tended to ignore them just on principle. But we ended up sitting next to each other on a plane to Boston and spend the following week in Loopyville (...near Boston...) keeping each other warm and shopping for vintage clothing. We found several pairs of polyester pajamas...all of which we believed to have been previously owned by cats.

The first conversation we ever had was preceeded by a belching contest after eating pizza. We spent a great deal of our time together for the next 4 months in pants-wetting laughter. Eventually we ran out of things to laugh about, I guess. Or maybe we just got tired of doing so much laundry. Either way, it was a shame that things fizzled out because he was one of the few guys I've known that really tried to GET me. He dug deep; got knee deep into my soul. Peter remembered everything I ever told him, and he used all of those intricities to paint a more accurate picture of myself than even I could have painted.

On the other hand, I always felt that he used me. He used all the things I told him to label me as something I wasn't. He never let ME in and kept me away with the barriers he set. He had tiny feet. He was immature. He had no ambition. He smoked. He embarassed me in public. He didn't respect me. He had many aggressive opinions about things he knew nothing about. He had a skanky female roomate that he was probably banging during our relationship since he ended up with her soon after we split. He was unreliable. His unintelligence made him boring as Hell. He cried when I left. His hygeine could have been better. He was a borderline stalker. He belittled me. He was unimaginative. Even though we laughed together, he wasn't the slightest bit funny. And worst of all.....he hated kitties. I could've just listed that one first and been done with it.