Jan. 3rd, 2012 05:22 pm
The return of Tuppers
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muckefuckAmong the names on this year's Hogmanay guest list, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
monshu was surprised to see that of Tuppers. Since he spent all of last year ignoring us he's become a "nonperson" in the Old Man's eyes. Initially, my motives were completely mercenary: at the time we created the eVite, he still held three library books I'd procured for him as a favour for his birthday. Little did I know at the time it would be over a year before I'd lay eyes on them (or him) again.
He was invited last year as well but had the convenient excuse of being out of the country. I traded some friendly texts with him after 2011 had conquered GMT but they never led to the chummy stateside reunion I might've hoped for and, as I had enough grief then from other quarters, I chose to cut my losses. I figured fate would eventually bring us together on the streets of Andersonville sometime over the summer, giving me an opportunity to finally reclaim my employer's property. But that never happened and I went back to harassing him desultorily by text, letting him know a couple times when I was within striking distance of his apartment in the hopes of being invited over.
Eventually, that did happen. It was the weekend right before Christmas and I was on my way to Gethsemane for a tree. Our terse negotiations yielded no clue what sort of reception I'd get and I was prepared for anything from having the books tossed to me out an upper story to a highball and a proposition. I could see that bearing no expectations and no grudges was working to my advantage as he stood around with his arms folded looking a bit ill at ease as we guardedly made chitchat. Then he jumped at the chance to piggyback onto my errand and be drawn out of his apartment to obtain some holiday decorations for himself.
The three slim volumes, two in Russian, were stacked on the dining room table, which I was surveying as he got himself ready. Next to them was a giftwrapped parcel which I didn't imagine was intended for me despite the presence of an envelope with my name laid atop it. (Surely he must know other D-----s!) But he came back into the room and handed it to me with strict instructions not to open it until Christmas as he went on about the channukiah he'd seen at a resale shop which he thought would go perfect with his decor.
Clearly he felt no need to explain what had motivated him to break off contact fourteen months earlier and I felt no need to ask him. Later, when I couldn't resist showing him a hilariously abusive old text from him I'd never deleted from my phone, he pleaded with me not to bring up "all that again". The prospect seemed so genuinely discomfitting to him that I felt a twinge of pity. As with le Rogaton, it may be narcissism which motivates his decisions, but it's fear which keeps him from revisiting them honestly--and, as a consequence, learning what he could from them.
All in all, it was a pleasant hour and, as we bantered and caught up, it reminded me why, for a two month period two years ago, I felt I'd found a new best buddy. But I could see more clearly than ever the self-centredness which I'd always noticed in him but discounted and the necessity of maintaining a healthy distance. Back when we thought he'd become a regular feature of our lives, I explained tomonshu why I thought it best to file him in the same "difficult but rewarding" category where I've kept Despina, Toschina, and others. Regardless of what line of work they're in, they're all performing artists, with all the unapproachability and unreliability that connotes.
The day before Hogmanay, I could stand the suspense no longer and unwrapped my present, since I could tell it was a fat hardcover book and I was thirty pages from the end of my O'Hara novel. In response to my e-mail thanking him for the Pasternak, he reiterated that he was "looking forward" to seeing us on New Year's Day. But naturally neither of us were in the least surprised when he failed to show at the appointed hour. Someday when he again feels the need of an indulgent but educated audience, he may call me up again and we'll have another pleasant afternoon. Or he may not. Either way, it's much the same. There's nothing I require of him any longer and he knows it.
monshu was surprised to see that of Tuppers. Since he spent all of last year ignoring us he's become a "nonperson" in the Old Man's eyes. Initially, my motives were completely mercenary: at the time we created the eVite, he still held three library books I'd procured for him as a favour for his birthday. Little did I know at the time it would be over a year before I'd lay eyes on them (or him) again.He was invited last year as well but had the convenient excuse of being out of the country. I traded some friendly texts with him after 2011 had conquered GMT but they never led to the chummy stateside reunion I might've hoped for and, as I had enough grief then from other quarters, I chose to cut my losses. I figured fate would eventually bring us together on the streets of Andersonville sometime over the summer, giving me an opportunity to finally reclaim my employer's property. But that never happened and I went back to harassing him desultorily by text, letting him know a couple times when I was within striking distance of his apartment in the hopes of being invited over.
Eventually, that did happen. It was the weekend right before Christmas and I was on my way to Gethsemane for a tree. Our terse negotiations yielded no clue what sort of reception I'd get and I was prepared for anything from having the books tossed to me out an upper story to a highball and a proposition. I could see that bearing no expectations and no grudges was working to my advantage as he stood around with his arms folded looking a bit ill at ease as we guardedly made chitchat. Then he jumped at the chance to piggyback onto my errand and be drawn out of his apartment to obtain some holiday decorations for himself.
The three slim volumes, two in Russian, were stacked on the dining room table, which I was surveying as he got himself ready. Next to them was a giftwrapped parcel which I didn't imagine was intended for me despite the presence of an envelope with my name laid atop it. (Surely he must know other D-----s!) But he came back into the room and handed it to me with strict instructions not to open it until Christmas as he went on about the channukiah he'd seen at a resale shop which he thought would go perfect with his decor.
Clearly he felt no need to explain what had motivated him to break off contact fourteen months earlier and I felt no need to ask him. Later, when I couldn't resist showing him a hilariously abusive old text from him I'd never deleted from my phone, he pleaded with me not to bring up "all that again". The prospect seemed so genuinely discomfitting to him that I felt a twinge of pity. As with le Rogaton, it may be narcissism which motivates his decisions, but it's fear which keeps him from revisiting them honestly--and, as a consequence, learning what he could from them.
All in all, it was a pleasant hour and, as we bantered and caught up, it reminded me why, for a two month period two years ago, I felt I'd found a new best buddy. But I could see more clearly than ever the self-centredness which I'd always noticed in him but discounted and the necessity of maintaining a healthy distance. Back when we thought he'd become a regular feature of our lives, I explained to
monshu why I thought it best to file him in the same "difficult but rewarding" category where I've kept Despina, Toschina, and others. Regardless of what line of work they're in, they're all performing artists, with all the unapproachability and unreliability that connotes.The day before Hogmanay, I could stand the suspense no longer and unwrapped my present, since I could tell it was a fat hardcover book and I was thirty pages from the end of my O'Hara novel. In response to my e-mail thanking him for the Pasternak, he reiterated that he was "looking forward" to seeing us on New Year's Day. But naturally neither of us were in the least surprised when he failed to show at the appointed hour. Someday when he again feels the need of an indulgent but educated audience, he may call me up again and we'll have another pleasant afternoon. Or he may not. Either way, it's much the same. There's nothing I require of him any longer and he knows it.
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