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Owen Strikes Back

As I’ve stated, mostly in the form of thanks to THE LORD, I have no classes with Owen this semester. Both of my screenwriting classes this semester feature mostly the same people I was with last semester, except without Owen. The main difference: classes are now enjoyable. Except for the portfolio review class, but that’s a whole other thang…

Since school has started, I’ve taken to visiting a girl named Laurie. We had a class in the spring and kind of hit it off. She works in the screenwriting center, so I’ve taken it upon myself to wander in there before my class and flirt with her for awhile while also pandering to her boss so he’ll give me a job. This was rarely my initial intention — the idea was to have dinners with Maria before the portfolio review class, so we could bitch. She dropped the class but is still downtown on Thursdays, so we’d been planning on dinner for awhile, but we never actually did for one reason or another.

So I’ve been hanging out with Laurie, who digs on the Stanbeef. It disappoints me that I went the whole summer without calling her. Not that she was any different than anyone else, but I guess I undervalued the fact that she and I are attracted to one another. I’m kind of retarded, but more on this point later.

Last night, same ol’ shit. I was planning to hang with Maria; it was set, so I left a little early so I’d have 20 minutes or so to talk with Laurie before Maria got out of her class. About three minutes after getting there, a sheepish freshman wandered in, complaining that some copies of Ghost World (one of the scripts studied in script analysis, which apparently is now a mandatory freshman class; this is a good thing) are missing.

Laurie and I went to make the copies together. Because she’s in charge, she has to throw everyone out and lock the door when she leaves. So the sheepish freshman stood in the “homework lounge” (a small area directly outside the center with couches and tables — I’ve never, ever seen anyone do homework there) waiting for us. Over the summer, they installed little, swinging doors to block people out of the offices. They aren’t locked, and they’re so small that even if they were locked, somebody could just lift their legs and step over, but they actually keep the freshman out, which is the goal.

Upperclassmen have no respect for the swinging doors.

So Laurie and I went back to the copy room, made the copies, and as we turned back down the hall toward the center, Laurie saw Owen hunched next to the center’s door. It was closed, but not actually locked, because we were just going around the corner for five seconds.

“OWEN!” Laurie shouted. “What the hell are you doing?”

Owen froze, clutching the door handle, like a deer caught in headlights. Then, he looked sheepishly up at Laurie and me. He let go of the door, which was only open a tad, and it shut quietly.

“You know better than that,” Laurie admonished. Her motherly tone amused me. “When the door’s closed, you don’t go inside. How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Sorry,” Owen muttered.

Laurie gave the copies to the freshman, who thanked her and ran away quickly.

We all went inside the center, Owen and I exchanging greetings after not having seen each other all summer.

Owen presented me with a business card with his name, e-mail address, and website URL. “There’s nothing on the website yet,” he explained, “but drop me a line sometime.” Sadly, my schadenfreude instincts kicked in the first time he ever mentioned the site, shortly before the end of the spring semester. I’d memorized his site URL, his DeviantArt URL, and his LiveJournal URL. I checked them periodically over the summer, hoping to be amused by him. Unfortunately, Owen is true to his word: there’s almost no content on any of his sites.

“What do you want, Owen?” Laurie snapped. He was interrupting our flirt time.

Owen explained he needed to get a script for one of his classes. It could be any random script, so he forced me to choose it. I suggested Breaking Away, because I figured it’d be the type of script Owen would hate. I snickered when he agreed to go with it. Laurie demanded his student ID; he handed her a driver’s license.

“This isn’t your student ID,” she grunted.

“I left it at home. Can’t you just type in my ID number?” he asked.

“I have to scan the card in order to get into the system,” Laurie replied.

“Well,” Owen said, changing the subject rapidly, “I can’t find my ID, but check out my new license. It has an updated picture and everything.” He handed her the license, along with his state ID (a worthless card for anyone older than 16; it looks just like a license, except without the information pertaining to driving ability). Laurie stared at the pictures unadmiringly before handing it back to him.

“Wow,” she said unenthusiastically.

“I needed to get them so I can vote,” he said. I hoped to God he wasn’t going to launch into another Bush tirade. I’m not a Bush fan, but Owen has a habit of going waaaaaay overboard. Fortunately, he didn’t, because he stumbled on his student ID amid the other rubble in his pocket. Laurie scanned it quickly, shoved the script in his hands, and we hoped that’d be the end of it.

But no. He stayed.

Much like a tornado, when Owen hangs around, you mostly just want to huddle, shivering, with the nearest person and weep gently, praying it will all be over soon. Laurie and I exchanged that desperate, wishing-we-could-huddle-right-in-front-of-him look before turning our attention to ignoring him. Mildly aroused at that point thanks to our exchanged glance, I suddenly found my cup of tea fascinating. I stared at it blankly to avoid eye contact with Owen.

Laurie, meanwhile, became entranced with the Internet. We sat in silence, Owen staring at us without anything to say. Generally, Owen is not a conversation starter; his problem is that, when anybody says anything at any point in time ever, he will jump on it and twist it into a conversation about Emma Peel or something. Either that, or he’ll say completely in(s)ane things that make everyone silent once again.

We knew the only way to defeat him was to not give him any fuel whatsoever. He asked me a few questions about classes, about the summer, et cetera, which I either answered with monosyllabic statements or with jokes. Without leaving any wiggle room for follow up questions, most of his attempts at starting a long conversation died. Briefly, I felt sorry for him. I wondered if it was a chicken-egg thing; is he so tactless and obnoxious because his social skills remain undeveloped because nobody wants to talk to him, or does nobody want to talk him because he’s always been, and always will be, a social retard?

Laurie decided the silent treatment wasn’t quite effective, so she dropped the j-bomb: “Don’t get your hopes up,” she said to me, “but the boss was talking about possibly needing a fifth person. I’m gonna drop your name if he decides that’s what he needs, so be ready.”

She glanced at Owen briefly, and I realized that this, in addition to being potentially good news for me, was her way of saying to Owen, “Neener-neener, I actually like this guy, and you’re scum to me. Go away.”

Owen understood. “Hey, if Stan doesn’t work out, don’t hesitate to mention my name,” he said to her.

“Oh, I’ll be sure,” she said, rolling her eyes toward me.

I joked, “Hey, maybe I should print out a copy of my resume —”

“— which you won’t need —”

“— so he’ll be really impressed with my string of two-month-long jobs.”

“I have five copies of my resume with me,” Owen offered, apparently under the delusional impression that merely having his resume meant he’d get the job.

“You’ll need all five,” I told him. “I hear he makes lots of notes.”

Owen’s face fell. Honestly, I feel mean taking advantage of gullibility like that, but I simply cannot help it.

“He’s just joking,” Laurie explained, and suddenly we were saved. Two other employees showed up for active duty, which meant Laurie could leave the center. Almost immediately after explaining to the others what needed to be done over the course of the evening, she said, “Come on, let’s go to Jewel.”

I enjoy assertive women, and I have the scars to prove it.

“All right,” I said. We got up and ran for the door. To our dismay, Owen followed us.

Laurie and I exchanged “goddammit” glances as we headed toward the stairwell.

“What the fuck, Stan?!” I heard from down the hall. Bear in mind, this could be anyone, friend or foe, so I wasn’t sure who it’d be. It, of course, turned out to be Maria, and I suddenly thanked the heavens. She’d gotten out of class early.

Maria, so you know, is like the Owen antidote. We all can’t stand Owen, but we try to keep it to ourselves and put up with it, for the most part. Not a great strategy, but much easier to deal with. Maria, however, openly disdains Owen. She was assigned to be his first reader in the spring semester, when he was so unnecessarily hostile, and because of that hostility, she ripped his shit apart. It was fucking brilliant; I know this because I helped her write some of the feedback.

“I just tried calling you,” she said. “You didn’t answer.”

Yes, despite my new phone, I still can’t get a goddamn signal when I’m on the third floor of the film building. It drives me nuts.

“So are we doing pizza or what?” she asked.

Shit. I had the plans solidified, so I didn’t want to renege. Plus, I knew Maria had some sort of warding spell that would save us from Owen. At the same rate, though, I wanted my personal time with Laurie. I was planning to tell Laurie about my dinner plans, but Owen showed up and I didn’t want to get into it. Maybe I should’ve, since the mention of Maria would have made him run away, screaming.

All of a sudden, the whole evening was a fucking catastrophe.

And then Owen headed for the stairwell; thank God, one problem solved. But then there was me, Maria, and Laurie.

“I’m gonna go with Maria,” I said. “We already had plans to get pizza. Hey, you wanna come with us?”

Typically, I wouldn’t invite somebody else along, but Laurie’s special and destroys any mental rules of etiquette I may have.

“No, I was gonna go get a salad at Jewel,” she said. “I don’t want any greasy-ass pizza.”

Touché. I feel like a jackass now, but I forgot to mention the pizza place we go up to is really a pizza-salad joint. I guess they thought out the health-conscious people and decided to offer a little of both. It didn’t really enter my head, though, because Maria and I were planning to hang out and shoot the shit at the pizza place, and I knew Laurie wouldn’t be able to stay. At the same rate, we all could have gotten it to go and shot the shit in the center. It would eliminate the personal time aspect of it, but she’d still be there.

Essentially, I both over- and underthought the situation and ended up botching the whole thing. Status quo.

I thought I might be sabotaging myself, which is not an unusual occurrence with me, particularly after my hilarious string of disastrous relationships.

In the first book of Stephen King’s Dark Tower series, there’s an illustration of the gunslinger after the massacre of Tull, with a long trail of bodies leading up to him, standing there with his guns out. Whenever I think about the last four years in terms of my romantic relationships, that image flashes through my mind. I don’t think it’s coincidental.

I’ve had a (and excuse the gunslinger pun here; I should be shot — oh fuck, there’s another one — for this) habit of being a bit gunshy with women lately. My habit of choosing women who seem normal and then turn out to be holy shit crazy is the probable cause. Laurie, on the surface, seems like a really pleasant, normal person. That’s how it starts. I take her out to dinner, and suddenly she’s a fucking nutjob.

Now, this is not me saying all women are crazy; I’m not one of those retarded misogynists who has a couple of bad relationships and decides all women are crazy. It just happens that, in my particular position, I have actually dated mostly insane people. The Ex, of whom I often spoke Way Back When, did do some crazy shit toward the end, but I think it was more immaturity than insanity. Still, dinnerware exploding over one’s head tends to scar emotionally.

And those are just the women I’m willing to besmirch on this blog. If those are the ones I talk about, imagine the horror of the few I haven’t mentioned.

So yes, I’m afraid of going further. I want to, and I don’t. I think that she might be the one not-completely-insane person who digs on the Stanbeef. I just don’t want her to turn out to be a knife- (or plate-)wielding maniac, and it’s holding me back. Perhaps Owen was a harbinger of what’s to come; his arrival may be saying to me, “Dude, back off Laurie. She’s bad news. Run. RUN!”

But here’s the problem with me, generally: that type of thing intrigues me more than it scares me away.

Tags: asshole, classic, Dark Tower, drop a hint, Fall 2004 semester, foes, friends, gullible, Jewel, Laurie, LiveJournal, Maria, Owen, pizza, resumes, Stephen King, The Ex, women

Posted by Stan on October 22, 2004 2:12 PM  | Permalink  | Print-Friendly  | Classic Issues, School Rants | Digg It