People Are People

November 3, 2003

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, when I was a scrawny undergrad with a dandelion frizz of hair, I used to be best friends with a guy and a girl. We were inseperable, and gallivanted about the city at all hours. I remember sitting on an abandoned bridge pylon and talking about everything from literature and faked male orgasms to the Sisters of Mercy and questionable hygiene. We played hide and seek in graveyards after midnight and began scads of ill-fated "artistic" projects, like constructing a bead curtain from chicken bones.

But somehow, something changed. Both people began disappearing slowly, but ever so surely, from my life. They would ask me questions, then walk away while I was answering them. They began perceiving slights where none were offered. One intentionally ditched me at the Farmers' Market.

Perhaps the weirdest example happened some time after I had moved to another city. I phoned up one of these old friends, not having heard from him in about a year. When he answered the phone, he was very excited to hear from me, and asked why I hadn't been over to visit. When I reminded him that I lived a hundred miles away, he clued in. After our conversation, which went very well, I didn't get to see him again for about a year. And then, when I saw him, he acted like I was his absolute worst enemy, storming out of the room giving me glowering looks shortly after I arrived. I discovered he raved to people about how much he disliked me.

It was a surreal experience. This guy had been the best man at my wedding, and now, without any sort of explanation, he had no apparent use for me.

Admittedly, I knew he was a fickle sort of person from the beginning, but I guess I'd never expected him to turn on me.

Another year or so later, with no interaction between, I bumped into him on the street, and he was as friendly as ever.

What makes people like this tick? There are many more of my friends and one-time friends who have treated me similarly, to various degrees. I realize that people change, but what makes them vacillate like a wacked-out pendulum? Are they mentally unbalanced, or is it something else? Am I the one who's vacillating and am just not aware of it? I don't think so, but I'm beginning to doubt my own sanity, sometimes.

The first time I ever really noted this sort of thing happening was when I was in grade five. I was living in a KOA Campground in Knutsford, BC. You might be surprised at how many people live in campgrounds year-round. People don't necessarily live there very long, but their campers, tents, and RVs are their permanent homes. Senta was a girl who moved in just before school started. She was my age, but seemed much more grown-up. She was very interested in boys and makeup, and her favourite singer was Joan Jett. We used to go to a fort we'd built in the woods and sing "I Love Rock n' Roll," and other rockin' tunes. Once, a gymnastics group camped in our campground, and Senta bragged about how she slept in a tent with all of the older boys and "did stuff." I was mystified. I couldn't imagine what sort of stuff she could have been doing, although, from her tone of voice, I guessed it probably involved nudity and wasn't very nice.

I'd never had many friends, but Senta was one of them. I always thought it was strange that she didn't attend school. I guess her father didn't think it was necessary.

One day, I came home from school and I saw a strange sight. Senta's father was driving around the campground in his pickup truck way too quickly. He was crashing into garbage cans, knocking them over into the lanes. Bill, an elderly resident, was driving his 3-wheeler, and Senta's father almost ran him down. I held my breath in fear for Bill, but he managed to speed between some trees. I'm still pretty sure Senta's father was trying to run him over.

My parents told me he was drunk, and to keep away from him.

The next day, I saw Senta at one of our usual hangouts: a picnic table near the ballfield. I ran over to see her, and she turned her back to me. "Go away," she said.

I thought she was kidding, and laughed. "Why?"

"I don't like you anymore."

I sat on the picnic table beside her and tried to talk to her, but she kept telling me she hated me. Finally, she said something about "I suppose you thought my Dad was pretty funny."

"No, not at all," I answered, surprised. "I was worried." The truth is, I hadn't considered her father at all, when I saw her. I was only thinking of Senta and all the fun things we might do.

She smiled a wan smile, and my heart jumped. She had forgiven me for whatever slight I'd given her!

But then she walked away. When I tried to follow her, she started screaming and swearing at me.

From that day onward, she would spit, curse, and throw things at me.

It took me years to clue in to her behaviour.

Maybe it will take me more years to clue in to my other erstwhile friends'.

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Onward to Montreal Memories....