the joe head theory

bug·gin·out {bug gen owt} v. | L bug-, craze + gin, to run | 1 occasional human response to situation where people be houndin', always surroundin', pulsin', just like a migraine poundin' 2 to soar off to another world, deep in your mind


   Reasoned responses are kinda my thing.
   If one can be faulted for meticulously weighing the pros and cons of nearly every decision one makes, I am apt for some pretty serious fault reception. I'm not one of those people who analyzes every conversation or social situation they were engaged in, so as to determine "how I did," or "what they must think of me." No way. Screw that.
   Rather, I simply don't do things that I haven't thought about the ramifications of. Correspondingly, I hardly ever look back on things that I've done in the past and ask myself, "what were you thinking." As a result, my day-to-day life will never be confused with that of an Evil Kenevil, or, say, a Sean Puffy Combs. Sure, I miss out on the Grand Canyon motorcycle leaps, the whole "Jennifer Lopez is my girlfriend thing," and the Lincoln Navigator equipped with voice-activated, hidden compartments handy for storing a 9 mm. and "traces" of coke in the off chance that I get into a gunfight at Club NY and need to get rid of the evidence. But, on the whole, my approach to daily life has been fairly good to me.
   In my 25 years on this earth, I can recall only one situation where I simply "lost it." Looking back on the series of events I am about to describe to you, I have indeed said to myself, "what were you thinking." In fact, I also thought, for a minute or two, that I may not be such a nice person. At least I did before today. Here's why:
  
   We all know high school can be a trying time for young men and women. The peer pressure, the cliques, the cafeteria food, and the damn fire alarms are enough to make even the most courageous kid cower.
   Friends help make things a bit easier. Actually, I need to clarify. Normal friends make things easier. Smart-ass friends only serve to take what was previously the equivalent of Atari's "Pitfall," and turn it into Playstation's "Tomb Raider III." While "Tomb Raider III" is much more fun than "Pitfall," it is also a great deal easier to get all confused and end up plummetting into a pit of prickly branches, only to be eaten alive by big bears, and stuff.
   Well, I was the "Tomb Raider III" of high school friends. I would always keep things interesting, but you could bet that at some point my childish antics would make your life much more complicated than it had to be. I was never mean or hurtful, just goofy.
   As it turns out, the one thing that an 18 year-old kid doesn't need when trying to advance on a female member of the species is a "goofy" friend. Just ask my high school buddy, whom we'll call "Jason."
   "Jason" was a fairly shy individual, but for some reason confided with me and some other mates at our lunch table that he had the hots for this young lady we'll call "Carol"--a freshman whom none of us, including "Jason," had ever spoken to. This was a mistake of epic proportions in the "he-said-she-said" world of high school gossip, but those privy to the secret were not complaining. With this information, I had a world of opportunity at my fingertips. I decided to go conservative, and posited to "Jason" that I could approach "Carol" and let her know of his affection, so as to test the proverbial waters. I never thought he'd go for it, but he did.
   "Go talk to her now," he said. "She's up there in the lunch line. See, right there."
   What happened next has haunted me since the eleventh grade. My actions subsequent to these simple instructions were unconscioinable, odious, and largely unexplainable prior to today.
   I approached "Carol" fully intending to do exactly what "Jason" had asked me to do. But, as "Jason" and all my other cronies at the lunch table watched in clenched-fist, high school anticipation, I did the unthinkable.
   I mouthed the whole conversation.
   For some reason, I stood there next to "Carol" and lip-synched a conversation. I did the smiling, the little laugh, the hand movements, the whole nine. And, the kids back at the lunch table didn't have a clue.
   "She digs you," I said as I returned to the table.
   Reflecting on this moment years later, I saw myself as the epitome of evil, the son of Satan. "What was I thinking? Had I gone mad? Was I possessed?" I simply had no rational explanation.
   "She wants you to call her later tonight," I continued.
   "Really," my pal asked, full of anticipation.
   "Yeah. She digs you man. Call her."
   By this time, I was well aware of the terrible injustice I was doing to "Jason," but I just kept the ball rolling. Some say that he should've known it was a hoax when I told him that I forgot her number, and that he should just "look it up in the phone book." But I take full responsibility for my actions.
   Of course, when "Jason" phoned "Carol" that night, and explained that his "friend" Matthew talked to her at lunch, her response was not what young "Jason" was looking for.
   "Who?"
   "What's your name again?"
   "What grade are you in?"
   "Matthew who?"
  
   It turns out that "Jason," at the age of 18, was keen on forgiveness--able to look past egregious wrongdoings with the greatest of ease. In fact, I don't even remember him being pissed at me. The next day, we were back to trading lunches, Public Enemy vinyl, and sports knowledge.
   I think he pretty much forgot all about the situation, but I never have.
   In the nine years since I pulled this stunt, I kept in touch with "Jason." Although we went to different colleges, and currently live over 500 miles apart, we remain close friends: When I was in law school he sent me mix tapes; When he married another close friend of mine--we'll call her "Christine"--whom he started dating only months after "the incident" with "Carol," I was in the wedding party; When "Jason" and "Christine" talk about the possibility of children, they genuinely discuss allowing me to provide a middle name for the second or third kid--we're still negotiating the details; And, when, just yesterday, I emailed "Jason" and asked him to order me a hard-to-find CD over the internet, because I don't have a friggin' credit card, the order was placed within minutes.
   I see "Jason," on average, two times per year, and make it a point to apologize for my stupid trick each and every time. While I am groveling, "Jason's" lovely wife is usually at his side laughing about the whole episode. But, until I sat down to write about it, I really never put two and two together.
   It seems so obvious now.
   Maybe, just maybe, "Jason" was not angry back then because he had already realized, even if only subconsciously, that which I have just now, all these years later, grasped: That, via my immature prank, I may have been at least somewhat responsible for what turned out to be a glorious relationship, and, by all accounts, a very happy marriage. I don't mean to assert that but for my "irrational" tomfoolery "Jason" and "Carol" would've fallen in love, been married, and lived happily-ever-after. But, it isn't all that unreasonable to suggest that if I hadn't ruined "Jason's" shot at "Carol," the two of them would've dated for a few months and "Christine" would've gone out with someone else, and so on and so on, with the golden opportunity eventually passing.
   We seldom realize the full importance of seemingly inconsequential occurrences and events. The brief glance, the unexpected "thank you," the impromptu decision not to get on the plane--these are what make the world go 'round.
   Now, I'm not saying I was sent by G/god or anything like that. But fate works in mysterious ways. I now believe that my lone "brain cramp" experience was not a "brain cramp" at all.
   It was all part of the plan.
   So, as it turns out, I am not the son of Satan. In fact, if anything, I'm closer to the exact opposite.
   I expect no thanks for the role that I have played in helping to bring together two great friends. But, if "Jason" wanted to return the favor by, say, setting into motion a series of events that would culminate in my marriage to Jennifer Lopez, you won't hear me complaining.

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