No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

I’m going to tell you a story.

Here’s the first part, as I wrote it years ago:

Americana.

Fifty-two.

She’s his dream.
Her unbelievably long legs,
shallow-sea blue eyes,
luscious lips. . .
yes, she is his dream;
tonight,
he will have her again.

He was the first
to feel her inside;
she’d been saving herself
for whoever she married,
but he’d changed that.
Besides,
no matter how much he dreamed,
they could never marry.
The age difference
was far too great,
and the administration frowned
(a big pink-slipped frown)
on security guards
being intimate with students.
Plus,
his wife might object.

She jumps when she sees him
patrolling the campus,
and usually runs away. . .
she’s so shy.
He had to help her
overcome her shyness
when they were first together.
He’d had to take control
and give her
what she knew
she wanted,
but would never, never,
let herself have.
That first time had been so good,
so hot,
that her sweaty, struggling,
beautiful body
had been all he could want,
could think of, could dream about.
He’d called her last night,
to let her know
he’d be working tonight
and that he’d come by her dorm
so that they
could be together again.
He remembered
the quiver of joy in her voice;
soon, he’d have
his longtime dream again.

Near midnight,
the campus is dead,
so he gudies the patrol car
towards her dorm.
There she is,
his dream woman,
standing outside,
looking as beautiful. . .
wait.
She’s talking to someone.
Who is that?
That’s, oh,
that’s what’s-his-name.
Psych student,
just like she is.
Are they friends?
Are they. . .more?
He drives by
with just a nod and wave;
he smiles a little
when she jumps.
But that other guy. . .
What’s that look
on his prettyboy face?
He drives on, undaunted.
He can come back later.

Two hours later,
he comes back.
She isn’t outside,
but something in his mind
makes him drive around the building
just to be sure
that what’s-his-name is gone.
Looks pretty clear. . .
hold on,
what’s that?
Someone’s under her window,
hidden in the shadows. . .
Wait, he thinks,
that’s. . .I know him.
That guy is well-known
to campus security;
hell, that guy
works for them sometimes.
That guy jokes sometimes
that he’s better armed
than the security people;
he’s sometimes seen walking
carrying a real katana.
Beats hell out of a Mag-Lite.
But what’s he doing there?
Does he know. . .
Oh shit.
Does that guy know
about him and his lover?
That guy would make trouble.
That guy knows
the administration well.
It can’t be. . .
but what if it is?

He drives on,
not knowing what to do.
Finally, it becomes clear:
he has to give her up.
He has to let his dream go,
and hope his secret love
is not made public.
He feels fear,
but tries to hide it
as he does his job.

By the end of the semester,
she is gone,
transferred to another school.
He is gone as well,
on to another town,
another job.
He works, eats, sleeps,
lives with his wife,
and moves on
from that hidden dream.
Not one single time
does he think of himself
as a rapist.

©PCB 2001

So, now the second part.

After I found out what had been going on (the young lady in question didn’t tell me why she wanted me there at the time), I felt, well, pretty damn good about being able to help her and keep that bastard away from her.  I felt good about that for a while. . .

. . .until I told my mother.

She admonished me for getting involved, for putting myself at risk, for not just minding my own business and getting involved in other people’s problems.  It was stupid and dangerous of me, she said, and I shouldn’t do anything like that ever again, I should always just stay out of other people’s problems and not get involved like that.

Despite being poor, unfavorably compared to other students by her, and my being largely unhappy growing up, I had never, until that moment, been actually ashamed of my mother.  But right then, I was.  I wondered how we could even be related, the differences between us felt so great.  I resolved then and there to never tell her again of any good deeds that I did, and I’ve kept that promise so far.

I do wonder sometimes what it for my mother to ever tell me that she is proud of me. . .other than making six figures, which isn’t likely anytime soon.  The things I am proudest of about myself, that I am generous and giving and helpful whenever and whereever I can be, are the very things that she, by her strong reaction that night, has insured she will never know about.

And she’ll never know the real me.

SK