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THE YEAR OF LIVING
DANGEROUSLY
CHAPTER TWO:
THE EPIC LOSING
STREAK
Written by Rick
Archer
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1964-1968
HIGH SCHOOL HELL
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The
Epic Losing Streak is the reason I
became a dance instructor. It is also the
reason for my Year of Living Dangerously. My problems started in high school
(4 years),
continued through college (4 years), then during one
year break before starting graduate school.
After graduate school
(1 year), the problems continued during my Lost Years
(4 years). Patricia was important because she
represented my best chance to escape this 14-year
curse, 1964-1978.
What went wrong?
I was the victim of some extremely bad luck
early in my Freshman year in high school. I was a reasonably attractive young
man until the day I suffered a very serious
attack of acne. The
problem was so acute it took a year and a half
of tetracycline to get rid of it. Then came
the worst news of all. My face was riddled
with acne scars. My father took one look and
agreed to pay for a skin-planing operation.
That improved the situation by 50%, but I was still
hideous. My father reluctantly agreed to a
second operation. Like before, the operation
was moderately successful. However there was
still damage, so I begged for a third operation.
No such luck. My face was within 20% of its
original condition and my father said close enough.
So that is where things would stay for the rest of my
life.
Since St.
John's parents were blessed with attractive children, my school was the Land of
the Beautiful. No
surprise there. One might say SJS girls were bred for
beauty. Since people with wealth, status and education are given a
wide choice of marital partners, 'Good
Looks' are an inevitable part of the package. St. John's students
had flawless
complexions. If necessary, any student but me would had have made an
immediate visit to see the dermatologist. But my mother waited
four days. By that time, the infection was too serious to be
controlled. Due to my pock-marked face,
where was I going to find the courage to ask one of
these flawless girls out for a date? I felt
like such an underdog around these exceptional young women
that I dared not risk what little self-esteem I had left.
I graduated from St. John's without a single date in
high school.
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My feelings of
inadequacy around the talented young ladies of St.
John's became the root cause of my
Epic Losing Streak.
The girls of St. John's were special, the best of the best.
Born to Houston's wealthiest families, these privileged
young ladies were society's exquisite jewels.
Bright, trim, confident, poised, polished to perfection,
these ladies were the consensus winners of the genetic
lottery, future Grace Kellys in the
making.
Sad to say, I was not even able to make a friend with a St.
John's girl, much less ask one of them for a date.
Maybe if one of the girls had made the first move, but
forget that. They did not talk to me, so I did not
talk to them. Instead I admired them from afar.
Well, not from afar. After all, they were five feet
away. But you know what I mean. Look, but don't
touch. Good grief,
whatever made me think I was capable of attracting women the
caliber of these SJS girls? My self-image of
mediocrity was shaped by their complete lack of
interest. Stung by the stigma of feeling like the
ugliest boy in school, I decided these young ladies were too far out of my
league to even try.
Have you ever heard the term
"kick the can down the road"? Throughout my four years of
high school, I assumed I could start fresh in college.
Unfortunately I struck out repeatedly. A nearby woman's college
named Goucher was one notch below the famed Seven Sisters. And,
like Radcliff and Bryn Mawr, Goucher was home to young ladies from
wealthy families. In other words, they were cut from the same
cloth as the SJS girls. So what went wrong this time? The Dating Game
requires certain skills best acquired in high school. The ability
to talk to girls about things they are interested in. The ability
to listen to things that are important to them. The ability to
compliment and flatter. The ability to make them laugh, show
respect and read their moods. The ability to know how
to relate to women, to be their friend first, then see what develops.
Did I possess these skills?
Of course not. Who did I have to teach me the rules and nuances?
No one. I was the only child of a
woman who had grown up an ugly duckling. My mother was as clueless
to the subtleties of the Dating Game as Sadie Hawkins, the homeliest
girl in Dogpatch. In other words, given my lack of training
at home and non-existent experience at SJS, once I reached college
my skill level around women was more or less the equivalent of a high school
freshman. I had to learn the hard way that I was too far behind in
maturity to have any chance with the polished, sophisticated college
girls at Goucher.
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1968-1972
THE LAND WITHOUT
WOMEN
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Okay, so I got my
feelings hurt by repeated rejections from girls who were out
of my league at Goucher. Tough break. So why not
try talking to girls who were closer to my social standing
and lack of experience?
Hey, that's a great idea! Only one problem.
Where do I find women like these?
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A
normal college campus has boys and
girls who coexist side by side. Not so
at my college. Johns Hopkins was
a men's school. Johns Hopkins was the Land Without Women.
On a day to day basis, I was hard-pressed to
even see a girl to look at, much less chat
with.
While it is true there were women to be
found at other Baltimore campuses, what was
missing were effortless opportunities to
make friends with girls who shared classes
and activities. At Hopkins there was
no chance to exchange smiles with pretty
girls you passed on the way to the dorm or
whom you sat close to in the library.
Salesmen refer to 'Cold Calls' as the
toughest part of their business. If a
boy wanted to meet girls,
Hopkins
forced him to leave campus and approach women
who were complete strangers. This
created a stressful situation very similar
to picking up girls in bars. You don't
know a thing about the woman other than you
are attracted to her. But is she
attracted to you? Furthermore, how do
you strike up a conversation when you
have no idea what you have in common?
Some boys might have the skill to go up to women
they don't know, but not me. Having
never 'picked up' a girl in my life,
I had virtually no experience at creating small
talk with a young lady who was a stranger.
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After my problems
at Goucher, I threw in the towel for the next two years.
However I did make a few sporadic attempts
in my Senior year. Still fearful of rejection, I dated
a couple girls who were college freshman and a couple others who
were still in high school. I did better with the high
school girls. No surprise there. High school was about
the level of my dating skills. The upshot is that my
social skills remained mediocre
throughout college. After high school I was four years
behind my peers. Now I was eight years behind my
peers. I was getting very lonely. And very
frustrated. When was this drought going to end?
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Things improved
after graduation. I took a year off after college.
During this time I dated a nurse named Arlene. To this
day, I have a lot of regret towards her. I wish I
could have been a better person. I was not mean or
cruel. There were no other women, but I did ignore her
a lot. If given a choice between a night of basketball
or Arlene, basketball usually won. I only saw Arlene
when I felt like it. There was nothing wrong with
Arlene. She was pretty, kind, educated, and loyal.
Plus she liked me. That in itself made her special.
The reason I kept her at arm's length was my determination
to stay unattached when I began graduate school.
We went together
for nine months. Considering no other relationship
lasted past one month for 14 years, Arlene deserves a medal
of some sort. Definitely a Purple Heart.
However, Arlene's patience had its limits. One
day Arlene decided to break up with me. She had an odd
way of doing it. First she chewed me out. After
yelling at me for 30 minutes, she came over and gave me a
hug. Then we made love, a rather odd turn of events
considering her opening statement. Later when I asked
why she changed her mind, Arlene burst into tears.
"Rick,
you
aggravate me no end, but I care about you so much. I can't
bear to give up on you knowing that someday you could turn
into a really wonderful person. You are such an
insensitive jerk most of the time, but I swear to God you have all the
potential to become a really decent guy."
Ouch! That
one hit the mark. Arlene was right.
I had my good side and my bad side. Deep down I was a
decent human being who liked kids, loved animals and wanted to make the
world a better place. My good side wanted to go to
graduate school and become a
therapist. I wanted to help people tackle their problems. However, my prickly side pushed people
away. Arlene tried her hardest
to penetrate that thick shell around me, but I wouldn't let her in. What was wrong
with me? Here was a good woman who adored me, but I
barely gave her the time of day. I really
liked Arlene, I wasn't in
love.
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I was happy when
Arlene was around, but told myself I wasn't ready to settle
down. In a way, I was right, but not for the reasons I
thought. I wasn't ready to settle down because I was
an emotional cripple. Did I know I was an emotional
cripple? Not exactly, but I had my suspicions.
As long as I avoided conflict, I functioned well enough.
But my constant battles with loneliness and depression over
the past eight years were a major hint that all was not
well. Fortunately I
had most people fooled. On the outside, I looked
and acted like a confident young man, but inside I had
the social maturity of a teenager. I did not have
the slightest idea how to love a woman at this stage of the
game. Let's face it, I knew next to nothing about women. How
could I? The few times I tried to date in college,
things went wrong very quickly. I would give
up and wait months, even years before trying again.
That explains why Arlene was my first honest to goodness
girlfriend. Unfortunately, my inexperience showed. With Arlene, I was cocky and arrogant one day, moody and
depressed the next. Lacking sensitivity towards her feelings,
all I thought about was what I wanted. Why Arlene
cared for me is one of life's great mysteries. When I
left, I am sure I broke Arlene's heart. Tough break.
I want to be free and it's all about me.
Graduate School
was my ticket to ride. I was full of optimism.
Thanks to Arlene, I had finally conquered my
fear of women. Or so I thought. Full of confidence, I was ready to play
the field for the first time in my life. You want to
know something? I had a lot of fun during my Interlude year. My first-ever girlfriend, lots of basketball, and mind-provoking experiences at the mental hospital
where I worked as an attendant.
In fact, get this. Since I
had such a wonderful year in Houston, I jumped to the conclusion that I
had finally matured and put my darkness behind me. Nonsense.
In reality, I had been lulled into a false sense of
security. By living a pressure-free
life, my emotional problems had simply gone into hibernation. Nor were there any
Supernatural events unless you want to
count the miracle of finding a girl who actually liked me.
Even my tendency towards depression went into remission,
probably because I had Arlene for company. But I didn't really need her that much, did
I?
I had a bright future.
I'll find someone new, I was sure of it.
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FALL 1973
VANESSA, THE
GIRL WHO BROKE MY HEART
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Before we
continue, I want to make a confession. I grimace when
I think back to Arlene and all the other mistakes I made
during my youth. I wish I could have been a better
man. Unfortunately, as I said, I grew up twisted and
gnarled. Fortunately, I believe I am a much better
person today. So how did I become a better person?
Thanks to what seemed like an endless series of misfortune
with women, through suffering I gained wisdom.
And
that brings us
to Graduate School, the worst year of my life (although 1979
came close). Before
it was over, I would hit my lowest point ever.
The
dominant theme in the Myth of Icarus is the danger of Pride.
Pride leads to recklessness and overconfidence.
Without humility, there is the danger of flying beyond one's
limits.
Yes, when I reached Graduate School, as
expected I did find someone new. Her name was Vanessa.
Before we were done, Vanessa would hurt me worse than any
woman I would ever meet.
And here's the
irony. Without my success with Arlene, I would have
never found the courage to accept the challenge that Vanessa
presented. You want to know something interesting?
Sometimes Fate can be a real bitch. Literally.
Vanessa taught me more about evil women than I ever
imagined.
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From the
moment I arrived at Colorado State, I was mesmerized by a tall blonde
with movie star looks. I watched from afar as she drifted through the Psychology Department.
One day I followed her down the hall and discovered she was
Dr. Fujimoto's private secretary.
Vanessa bordered on goddess. She
took my breath away.
Weak in the knees, I never said a word. Nor did I dare
approach. This woman scared me to death. That said, my eyes
tracked Vanessa's path like radar whenever I spotted her. Vanessa was 5' 8", well-curved, with long blonde hair and
piercing blue eyes.
Vanessa was definitely
a catch, the kind
of woman all men want to
chase. I decided I had no chance. Due to my many years
of female futility at St. John's and Johns Hopkins, girls
as pretty as her were way out of my league.
I had
gone four years in high school without dating, then
tacked on four more years in college with little to show other than
abject failure. As a result I knew
virtually nothing about women. I may have been arrogant
when it came to sports and academics, but I had little self-esteem when
it came to
approaching a woman of Vanessa's caliber.
Every time I saw
Vanessa, I hated myself because I was too afraid to say a word.
Two months
passed by and I still had yet to talk to the girl. It
was safer just to admire and say nothing.
Vanessa was a mystery
woman. The only thing I knew was that I trembled
whenever I saw her. Imagine my shock when Vanessa
made the first move. She
tracked me down in the hallway on the excuse that I needed to sign
something.
"By the way," Vanessa said,
"Happy Birthday yesterday."
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Surprised, I
assumed she had taken the trouble to study my record.
We got to talking. Vanessa said she was moving to
Portland, Oregon, in December. Hoping to resume her
education, she could live at home
plus the state tuition was cheaper. That is when I
told her that
"Portland Woman" was my favorite song.
Vanessa grinned
and accused me of making that up. "If I was from
Denver, you would say 'Denver Woman' is your
favorite. My mother warned me about men like you."
If I didn't know better, Vanessa was egging me on because
she was interested in me. Unwilling to back down from
her obvious dare, I sang the song.
I want to get me a Portland woman,
I don't want to be alone tonight.
I want to get me a Portland woman,
Portland women treat you right,
Portland's gonna be mine tonight.
Vanessa was tickled pink. "Rick, congratulations, this
is your lucky day. You have just won the chance to take me
to lunch."
We embarked on a whirlwind romance.
However I was mystified when
Vanessa turned distant ten days
later. I did not know it at the time, but
Vanessa was a woman with a troubled past.
In reality,
Portland had nothing to do with college. She decided
to move back to Portland as a way to leave her tarnished
reputation behind. Shortly before we met,
Vanessa had broken up with her boyfriend Kenny,
star shortstop on the baseball team.
Describing him as a handsome ladies man to whom women came
far too easily,
Vanessa had tried to pay him back by conducting a sweep of
the men in the Psychology Department. I was never
told how many, but her conquests were said to rival
General Sherman marching through Georgia.
Unfortunately, her spree backfired so badly that she
decided it was probably better just to leave town and
start over. First she gave Kenny his walking
papers, then she handed in her resignation.
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Vanessa told her boss she would
stick around for two months, then leave shortly before
the Christmas break. It was during this two month
period that Vanessa and I connected.
Unaware of her dark history, I did
not realize I was catching her on the rebound.
Ten days after our romance began,
her old boyfriend
came knocking one night. Vanessa opened the door and Kenny
turned on the charm.
What's a girl to do? Since she was leaving town in
three weeks, Vanessa decided to keep us both. Without
bothering to tell either of us what she was doing, she
gave Kenny
the large slice of the pie and I got the rest. In
order to juggle two men, Vanessa told one lie after another.
I was not completely fooled.
I suspected something was wrong, but was too fearful of
losing her to demand answers. That decision cost me
dearly.
The absolute lowest point of
my life took place shortly before Christmas 1973. A
few weeks earlier Vanessa had moved back to Portland,
theoretically to begin college in January. Lonely out
of my mind, I called Vanessa for permission to come visit
her over the holidays. Vanessa's voice was
surprisingly warm when she answered the phone. When I
realized how happy she was to hear from me, my hopes were
raised. However, when I told her I wanted to come see
her, the tone in her voice changed dramatically.
Vanessa lowered
her voice to a
whisper.
"Rick,
oh God, I
wish so much you could come see me. I miss you
terribly. But there's a huge problem. My ex-boyfriend Kenny
is here in
Portland. In fact, Kenny's here at my house right this
minute! He
showed up today unannounced! Can you believe that?
What a loser! He is so desperate I am ashamed to
admit I
even know him."
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I stopped
breathing. Kenny is at Vanessa's house this very
minute?? How in the hell did that happen? I
could not even respond. I was completely paralyzed. After a long
pause, Vanessa realized I was too stunned to speak,
so she resumed.
"You have to
believe me, Rick, I did not ask Kenny to come here.
Kenny and I are through. You are the man I want.
But Kenny has always been emotionally unstable.
Unable to accept my decision to separate, he followed me all the
way to Portland. This morning he showed up unannounced on my
doorstep and my mother made me let him in. Right
now he is over there crying on the couch. I am so angry at him. Kenny had no business doing that."
Vanessa was
lying, I was sure of it. I had been suspicious for
some time, but until she told me this whopper of a tale I
had not been sure. How many times had I watched in
disbelief as Vanessa got dressed the moment we finished
making love? Where was she going? What was so
important for her to leave at this late hour? Thanks
to this preposterous lie, I realized she had left my
apartment because it was time to go see Kenny. Now
that I knew the truth, I slammed down the phone.
It was my rotten luck to fall
for the most treacherous woman I would ever meet.
I
cursed her for betraying me in such a cruel way.
I
also cursed my
inexperience with women.
My naïveté had left me wide open to the worst
heartbreak of my life.
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I made a visit
the following day to see Jackie, Vanessa's ex-girlfriend.
Jackie confirmed every single lie.
"Vanessa was
very good at this. Deceit came easily to her.
Not only were you fooled, Kenny had no idea about you
either. You never had a chance once Kenny came
back into her life. Since Kenny got got the lion's
share of her attention after he returned, Vanessa was
forced to sneak away to see you during the week."
During the second half of the
school year, I tried dating again. The results
were awful. I conversed with 50 different women
looking to replace Vanessa, but came up empty.
Other than two nasty exceptions, the women were
invariably polite. Unfortunately they just weren't
interested. Why not? In Hindsight, I was so
fearful of getting hurt again, I lacked the confidence
necessary to impress them. In the process what
little confidence I still had drained away. The
experience of having 50 women yawn in my face was so
tough to handle, it put me over the edge. It was
humiliating to learn just how little progress I had made
dealing with women.
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Vanessa was not
my only problem. I also managed to get myself thrown
out of graduate school. Theoretically parents are
supposed to teach their children
the hard facts of life. Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell
Jim and Mary. I never
received a bit of advice when it came to making friends with
girls. Nor did they bother to teach me when to keep my mouth shut.
One of the
problems of growing up a lone wolf is disrespect for rules
and authority. I probably broke more rules than any
student in the history of St. John's. In the process,
I earned the enmity of a disciplinarian known as Mr. Murphy,
Dean of the Upper School. In particular we waged a
two-year war over my preference for long hair.
Disgusted with my repeated disobedience and surly attitude,
Mr. Murphy predicted I would meet the wrong guy some day and
pay a heavy price in the process. Unfortunately, Murphy
was right. His
prediction came true in graduate school.
I was planning
to become a therapist. Considering my extensive
array of personality problems, would anyone notice?
Yes, unfortunately someone did. Dr. Fujimoto, head of
the Clinical Psychology department, took an instant dislike
to me. In particular he bristled at my bad habit of
disagreeing with him on various psychological theories.
And whenever he criticized, I invariably began to argue with
him. My understanding of graduate school politics was
roughly akin to my understanding of women. Dr. Fujimoto
did not say it to my face, but I suspect he decided I was far too emotionally
disturbed to be of any value as a therapist. To
make a long story short, Fujimoto sent me packing at the end
of the school year.
Although Vanessa
and Fujimoto took turns reducing me to rubble, it was
Vanessa who did the most damage. Not only did I lose
my trust in women, I lost trust in my ability to guard my
heart. Thanks to Vanessa, it would take four years
before I regained enough confidence to try again with a
vixen just as dangerous. If you guessed "Patricia",
take a bow.
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By the way, there is an
interesting side aspect to the story of Vanessa.
The man I shared an office with at Colorado State had
two albums that he played over and over again while we
studied together. I didn't mind, I liked the
music. In particular, there were two songs I liked
the best. "Portland Woman" was one, "Take
it Easy" by the Eagles was the other. Both
songs were about men struggling to find a girlfriend.
I liked these songs so much that one night I went to the
trouble of typing out the lyrics and memorizing them.
Why did I do that? These songs gave me hope.
Maybe I too could find a Portland Woman. Imagine
my shock when I actually found one!
Here is what I find curious.
As a rule, song lyrics escape me. I might remember
a phrase, but never the complete song. As a
result, when I met Vanessa, I only knew the complete
lyrics to two songs. Out of millions of songs, it
was very strange that 'Portland Woman'
opened the door to Vanessa. An Accident? Or
Fate? Considering Vanessa's impact on my life, I
believe it was Fate.
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COLORADO STATE |
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Serious |
Coincidence |
1973 |
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Portland Woman song coincidence leads to Rick's disastrous relationship
with Vanessa. |
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Suspicious |
Cosmic Blindness |
1973 |
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Rick's inability to shut up in Dr. Fujimoto's class gets him thrown out
of graduate school at Colorado State |
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The combination
of Vanessa's treachery and Fujimoto's scathing criticism was
more than I could handle. With my self-esteem hovering
at zero, a terrible memory from High School Hell came rushing
back. It was 1964, age 14, freshman year. My face was covered ear to ear with
dozens of angry red pustules. I was so hideous I felt
like a leper. Indeed, people took one look at my acne-covered
face
and gasped. Then they reflexively stepped aside lest
they catch whatever disease I had. One day as I walked
the halls, three boys stopped to stare. The ringleader
laughed derisively.
"Hey, everybody,
look who's here, it's the Clearasil boy himself! Hey,
Archer, did anyone ever tell you are one hell of a Creepy
Loser
Kid?!"
I was so vulnerable that the boy's taunt was drilled deep
into my subconscious. A negative mental image is like
a permanent scar. Once a negative
thought is
implanted at a time when we are too fragile to challenge it,
that memory has a bad habit of sticking around no matter how
hard we try to get rid of it
Here I was,
1974, 10 years later. I had just been thrown out of
graduate school. On my drive back to Houston, no matter how hard I tried, I
could not shake that awful memory out of my mind.
Thanks to Vanessa, all my fears
of inadequacy had come back to haunt me. As well
they should! I was the young man whose girlfriend
had cheated on him. His professor had
tossed him from Graduate School due to a flawed personality.
If that doesn't scream "Creepy Loser Kid",
adult-version, then what does?
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Here is the
craziest part of my situation. If I could just cleanse
these demons from my mind,
I believed I had the talent to hang
with my St. John's archetype of the perfect woman. I was just as smart and just as
athletic as any St. John's boy. If not for the acne, I
would have been just as good-looking. Although the
young men at St. John's had money and social grace, what they really had was
confidence. If I could just find some way to get some
confidence, maybe I could turn this drifting ship around.
Even
after what Vanessa had done to me, deep down
I believed I could compete for women who were the equal
of
my gorgeous St. John's classmates.
More than
anything else in the world, I wanted to prove to myself that I was
just as talented as my
privileged high school classmates of yesteryear. My
goal was to become attractive to a woman equivalent
to the St. John's girls I had grown up with. But
how was I going to get that kind of confidence?
Confidence
comes from success, but I was totally defeated after
Colorado State. By the time I left the place, I was too
afraid to even approach a girl, much less strike up a
conversation. And so we have reached the critical point
in our story. It is July 1974. With the Epic Losing Streak
standing at ten years, I have hit Rock Bottom upon my return
to Houston. Haunted by a crippling mental image
with no hope in sight, what was I going to do?
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