An Imagined Encounter, The Universe vs. Melissa

I sit, staring at the bar. At nothing.

I’m hearing what she’s saying. But in my mind, Annabel and I are no longer at Pomperii Pizza. It’s not a Friday, I didn’t just get my 5^th tattoo.

We’re in a small, dated courtroom. The air is stale, the furniture outdated.  There’s a stenographer wearing trendy, cat-eyed glasses.

The jury, made up of various, faceless people, all watching me. I nervously smooth my hands on my favorite pressed, high-waisted pinstriped pants. The judge slowly rotates her gavel, then slams it down.

Or maybe it was a clink of glasses from behind the bar. Either way, we’re no longer two friends drinking our way through two bottles of wine. On this night, Annabel has unintentionally taken the role of lawyer, the Universe vs. Melissa.

To prosecute against me giving up on my love life.

“On this day, Friday, May 20^th, 2016 at 8 PM, I call the court to order,” says the fictitious judge.

“Ms. Jones, your opening statements,” she says, now taking the form of our  bartender, who is occasionally catching wind of our conversation.

“Thank you, your honor,” I imagine Annabel saying confidently, standing up and walking into the center of the courtroom.

“Ms. Randall claims to have spent the last ten years on a fruitless quest for true love. But I will argue – and prove – that she has actually been on a ten year quest of self discovery. We’d like the jury to rule in our favor, thus forcing Ms. Randall to not give up on relationships and continue to date after a brief sabbatical.”

She nods curtly, and has a seat.

But actually takes a bit of her pizza.

“Ms. Randall,” the judge gestures to the center of the room.

I stand up bit hastily.

I actually put my phone down at Annabel’s request, and start talking.

“Your honor, myself, the defendant has wasted ten years being with the wrong person. She/me has consistently proven she is not capable of selecting an appropriate life partner. She has repeatedly ignored universal signs and looked past red flags. It’s my request that the jury, and you your honor, give her/me permission to give up on love completely.”

I imagine that somewhere in the courtroom’s audience, there’s an audible gasp. I turn around, and there’s Annabel’s boyfriend Will, chuckling.

“This is entertaining,” he says.

But he actually just drops off deep fried cheesecake bites.

“Alright,” the Judge says, as I sit, and Will disappears back into the kitchen. “Ms. Randall, you may call your first witness.”

“Thank you, Judge,” I say. “I’d like to call one of my oldest friends, Nicolle Guinan to the stand.”

Nikki, my best friend from high school, is sworn in.

“Ms. Guinan, how long have you known me?” I ask.

“For over ten years,” she replies.

“Yes and Ms. Guinan –how many of those ten years was I in a relationship?”

I imagine Nikki narrowing her eyes.

“How should I count the time that you spent texting your ex-boyfriend when we were driving home for Thanksgiving this year?”

She looks at the judge somewhat defiantly.

“I told her not to.”

“Your honor, the witness is getting hostile,” I interrupt.

“Answer the question, Ms. Guinan,” I imagine the bartender saying.

“For almost the entire ten years,” she replies.

“But your honor,” she adds quickly. “I never liked one of them and I told her that from the beginning.”

“Next question,” I say sternly, biting my lip.

“Ms. Guinan, how many relationships were there? Let’s count the pointless infatuation I had last year with a man-child, even though it didn’t go anywhere.”

“There were four,” she answers.

“Right – and Ms. Guinan, did you think I would end up with any of those guys? You know, if we’re being honest here.

She looks at me sadly.

“Missy, please.”

The judge instructs her to answer.

“No,” she admits. “I didn’t.”

I have no more questions.

“I have no questions for the witness either, your honor.” Annabel says firmly.

“I’d like to call my first witness, your honor. I call Melissa’s supervisor and mentor John to the stand.”

John is sworn in.

“John, how long have you known Ms. Randall?” Annabel asks curtly.

“About a year,” I imagine John saying, drinking out of the bright yellow mug that I bought him, that says Dang! on it.

“I see. Now John – I understand that the agency that Melissa is employed at recently underwent comprehensive reviews. Is that correct?”

He nods.

“Your honor, I’d like to submit a copy of Melissa’s comprehensive review into evidence.”

“I’ll allow it,” says the Judge.

“John, can you read the highlighted quote on the second page?” Annabel politely asks.

“Sure, “ he says, adjusting his glasses.

“I have never seen Melissa back down from a challenge,” he reads.

“Now John – who said that about Ms. Randall? She’s a project manager, correct?”

“Yes, she is.” He says, leaning in closer to the mic. “And as for the comment, I said it.”

“Do you believe that’s true?” she asks.

“Yes, I do.” He says, looking directly at me.

I look down.

“Now John, in the first few weeks you knew Melissa, how would you have described her?”

“Differently, I suppose.” He says. “She was dangerously close to being burnt out, emotionally spent.”

“So John, what occurred between the time you met Ms. Randall, and now, that could have changed that?”

“With more experience and organization in the department, she grew more confident in her abilities. For a few weeks she was in Europe, and I think that helped. She seemed much more relaxed when she got back,” he says.

“I see, now – during this time of transformation – did Melissa technically ever have a boyfriend?”

I slam my hands down, but it could have just been my wine glass.

“I object!” I exclaim. “Even if I didn’t have a boyfriend, it doesn’t mean I wasn’t  casually dating or hanging out guys that would have an impact on my emotional state.”

The judge considers, the waves to Annabel.

“Overruled. I’ll allow the witness to respond.”

John shakes his head and kind of shrugs.

“She brought her other ex-boyfriend to our company Christmas party, but I never really saw him after that.”

Annabel purses her lips.

“So John, is it fair to say that Ms. Randall improved over time, although she didn’t have a consistent romantic partner?”

“Yes, it is.”

“No further questions, your honor.”

I call my next witness – an old girlfriend of mine, Jaimee.

“Jaimee,” I say. “Can you describe to the court the events of November 2014, to the best of your recollection?

Jaimee, a pretty, athletic brunette nods.

“I was at home, and it was about 11 o clock,” she recollects. “I got a phone call from you that you and your boyfriend had just broken up. Since you lived together, you wanted my help to move you out of your house.”

“At 11 PM?” I ask, although I already know the answer. “On a Thursday night, a work night? On the same night of the breakup?”

“Yes,” Jaimee says, the microphone too close to her face.

“I went over to your house, and helped you pack up all your stuff. He wasn’t there, he had left before I got there. But you were determined to get everything packed up and out – we got a lot of it, then you spent the night at my house.”

“Right,” I say. “Now, Jaimee, can you describe to the court, what my emotional and physical state was in those 24 hours?”

“You were stressed.” She says. “The next day you had no appetite. I encouraged you to eat anything, just to make you feel better.”

“Wow,” I say, pacing around the courtroom, gesturing to the jury. “I must have been really surprised at such an abrupt ending to a relationship.”

“Actually no,” she says. “You weren’t surprised. You said that you always kind of knew that would happen.”

“Then you were sad for awhile,” she adds.

“Not even surprised,” I repeat for dramatic effect. “At the abrupt conclusion of a nearly two year relationship.”

I submit a copy of an email my ex wrote me post-breakup into evidence. Jaimee reads quotes, then summarizes the content.

“It basically says that he was just never sure if you’re the right one,” she reads softly.  “But he says a lot of nice things though, too.”

“Your honor,” I say, pausing. “This makes my case even stronger. Me, the defendant, has basically spent a considerable amount of her 20s trying to make relationships like this work, even when they clearly weren’t working out. In this specific case, it also impacted my career path and my geographical location, keeping me in North Carolina much longer than ever intended.”

I imagine the jury chattering, even though it’s just the other patrons at Pompierii’s.

“That’s definitely true,” murmurs my college friend Lane, who has suddenly appeared in the jury box.

We move on. I have my old roommate Kate testify to the time a guy yelled at me in a parking lot. Annabel has Kate recant what a bad match he was for me, and has her discuss how I started painting more after that. I call my Mother, and she backs up my inconsistent choice in men. Annabel calls more of our friends, my co-workers from both jobs and herself, to speak to my character and growth.

She even calls each of the exes – and asks them to give their honest testimony on who I am as a person. One calls me bossy, but says I worked really hard. The other says I’m a bit blonde at times, but talks about our adventures together. The last, and most serious relationship I’ve had, says he still won’t forgive me for how selfish I was.

But he recalls that after he found out I was going to Iceland to write, that he always knew I would do something like that.

“Your honor, I have a last minute addition to the witness list,” Annabel says.

The judge allows it.

“I’d like to call Elizabeth Gilbert to the stand.”

The courtroom gasps as my hero, writer Elizabeth Gilbert, has a seat at the witness stand. Two members of the jury, who have turned into my co-worker Gwynne, and my friend Rachel, exchange shocked looks. The room is abuzz.

“Order, order.” The Judge pounds her gavel.

Annabel submits a final piece of evidence – my personal copies of Big Magic and Eat, Pray, Love.

“Ms. Gilbert, you wrote Big Magic, correct?”

“Yes, yes I did.” I imagine her saying, her soft voice echoing as she leans in closer to the mic.

“Where did Ms. Randall obtain this copy of your book?”

“She was at my reading in Asheville last fall,” Liz says. “She bought a signed copy from the bookstore that hosted it.”

“Can you read to what’s underlined, on the page with the yellow post it note sticking out?”

“Fear hates an uncertain outcome,” Liz reads. “This is nothing to be ashamed of. It is, however, something to be dealt with.”

“I see,” Annabel says. “Now, Ms. Gilbert, can you read the highlighted quote from Eat, Pray, Love?”

“Sure,” Liz says, adjusting her black rimmed glasses. “Happiness is the result of personal effort. You have to participate relentlessly.”

“I see. Now, Ms. Gilbert you know a little bit about love, right?” Annabel asks.

“Yes,” Elizabeth says, leaning in. “I was in two failed relationships before I met my now husband. And I’ve have countless infatuations in my lifetime. It helped me produce some of my best work.”

“I see, and Ms. Gilbert, based on the fact that Ms. Randall read your books, drove almost four hours to see you read in Asheville, and is also flying across the country to Los Angeles in a week to take a workshop with you…”

Dramatic pause.

“Would you assume that Ms. Randall admires you?”

“Yes, I would assume so.” Liz says.  “Or maybe she just really likes to travel,” I imagine her laughing.

Annabel smiles, then continues.

“Based on what you know about your personal experiences with love and heartbreak, Ms. Gilbert, do you have any assumptions on why Ms. Randall has decided to give up?”

Liz collects her thoughts for a moment. The room is silent – imaginary, and at Pomperii, as Annabel and I actually just sipping wine and thinking about the conversation.

“I think she’s just scared,” Liz admits. “I think she’s tired of getting her heart broken. But I also think she knows, deep down, that she doesn’t really want a relationship if it’s not the right one.”

“I don’t think she really believes she’s done.”

Annabel thanks her, and Liz is dismissed. We give our closing statements, fueled with passion and fire, before the jury goes to determine their verdict.  But of course, there isn’t one.

In reality, my evening with Annabel ended up with me crying in the bathroom of The Social. She picked me up and drove me home. I awoke the next day, with my new, delicate tattoo and serious raccoon eyes.

I brought Morrie to the dog park. As he frolicked in the dirt, with his favorite stuffed otter, I thought a lot about my declarative statement from the night before.

“I’m done,” I had said firmly. “I don’t want to have any hope whatsoever. It’s too dangerous for someone like me.”

I reviewed the imaginary testimony in my head. I thought about all of the men I’ve dated, and how/why each of those relationships ended. There wasn’t a consistent pattern to any of the breakups, only that they followed a good chunk of time that I was happy

They just didn’t work out. I was tired of it just not working out. In those moments, I wanted consist kindness and respect, something I could depend on.

So I just wanted to count on me.

(and Morrie.)

“Well…” Annabel sighed, finishing her last gulp of wine. “I’ll just have to hope enough for the both of us.”

During that evening, the unimagined one, Annabel also forced me to admit that my most recent romantic interest was nothing like I expected. He was my opposite in a lot of ways, and we didn’t have a ton in common.

“You still really really liked him,” she argued.  “He was really nice to you and treated you well for awhile.”

“Melissa,” she said, staring at me with her steely blue eyes. “You get hit in the balls, hard.”

I raised my eyebrows, and she motioned that she wasn’t done.

“But you always get back up and try again. It’s one of the best things about you.”

Despite the silliness of this post, I’ve decided that’s the thing I’ll choose to believe. Despite disappointment, if I’m going to choose one consistent thing about my life… it’ll be the ability to recover from serious ball crushing.

The ability to go on with my life, to cultivate happiness within myself while caring for Morrie. But to hold out hope that despite some bad experiences, that things can always start to look up.  That’s the verdict that I’ll support – that everything happens for a reason, and anything can happen because of it.

And I’ll probably write more posts like this.

This was fun.