Stockholm Syndrome

1


Denise came back home in January or February, I think. I don’t remember the exact date, but it was winter, Ohio winter, cold, unforgiving, barren. This was fitting.
Denise came home with her tail between her legs. I had heard her story a thousand times and each time she told it, she barely changed a word or phrase. Her story never evolved in to something more fantastic, as almost every verbal account of any story does.
Denise, she was abject sorrow incarnate.
It seemed as though Denise needed to tell the story over and over, it was always more soliloquy than monologue, she was telling the story for herself to sift through the pieces; A crime scene detective, sort of, seeing if she had overlooked anything.
When Denise came back home, and by ‘home’ I simply mean where her family was, I include my self in that ilk, it was the first time I had seen her in a year or so. I hated that the circumstance was what it was, but deep down I was glad to see her again.
Denise and I became friends because of our surroundings. This was years and years ago. We both worked at McDonald’s through high school and in a place like that, you’re surrounded mostly by idiots. I was not an idiot, neither was she. We worked together often, and after awhile we were friends. In any other setting I’m sure we never would have become friends but it was almost as if we were each other’s only source of hope in such a hopeless vacuum.
Inside of McDonald’s Denise was cold and cynical. She was the type of person who, if you were to take one look at her, you became immediately cognizant of your flaws; her eyes said, “I see things wrong with you.”
Outside of work, Denise was good company, but I never let my guard down. Mostly, she was honest, and that was refreshing. People tend not to surround themselves with other people who tell the truth. People tend to surround themselves with people who agree with them, who back them up, who offer moral support. Denise wasn’t this person, she was an island. It was clear that she didn’t need other people, but she didn’t necessarily mind other people being around from time to time.
Work was funny on the days that she was there and unbearable on the days that she wasn’t.
I remember When Denise’s dad died. I think it was just after she graduated high school, that fall, during her first semester at college. I remember seeing her at work a few days after it happened, she didn’t want to take time off, she needed to stay distracted, to immerse herself. I remember she was sitting in the break-room reading the paper, smoking a cigarette. She looked angry. I told her I heard what had happened, I told her I was sorry and asked if there was anything I could do. She pointed to crumpled Styrofoam coffee cup and said, “Wanna get me a refill?” It was so nonchalant, such a breezy response. I paused for a minute and walked away.
Things academic come so easy to people like Denise but that semester, she failed all of her classes and dropped out of school. This was concession of defeat; the weight of the circumstance was too much for anyone. Denise wouldn’t allow that though. I remember her saying, “Yeah, I dropped out. Who wants to be an English Major anyway? What would I ever do with a degree in English?”
I remember when Denise first told me that she was in love with Nicole.
After a few years working at McDonald’s, Denise was promoted to manager. Nothing really changed because most of the crew, myself included, listened to her any way.
There was a manager named Ed who worked with us. Ed was an idiot, but calling him an idiot was more an endearment than an insult. Ed was an easy-going guy in a vulgar kind of way, he avoided responsibility, a 26-year-old teenager, essentially. He had a fiancé but loved to talk about his womanizing conquests; There were always rumors about him sleeping around with all the 16 and 17-year-old girls we worked with. He never denied any of them. In fact, if you were to ask Ed if these awful rumors were true, he would just smile and throw up his hand for a high five. On one particular occasion, he invited Denise to his apartment for drinks. Denise and I were working a closing shift together that night, she wanted to go but certainly not alone so she invited me. I think I was 17 at the time. We closed down the store and we drove together to Ed’s apartment. We sat around for a couple hours drinking Mad Dog 20/20, it was the first time I ever got drunk. Though he was the host, Ed went to sleep first so Denise and I left.
During the car ride home Denise said, “You know Dave, I’m drunk enough that I don’t think there is anything I wouldn’t tell you right now. What do you wanna know?”
This was quite out of character for her. I said, “Tell me everything.”
She lit a cigarette. We were at a red light. She kind of looked down and nodded to her self, “Well, I’m in love with Nicole.” Then she laughed.
I shrugged, I said, “I guess I kind of knew that. What are you going to do?”
She started laughing harder, the light turned green.
Denise, she was complicated. It seemed like she always answered in question form. When we first met, she had long hair that she wore down. At work they made us wear baseball caps with the McDonald’s logo on the front. Denise wore hers with the bill way, way down so that you could barely see her eyes. She wore glasses with lenses that had just a slight tint. She smoked constantly. She once told me she smoked three packs of cigarettes everyday, “Sometimes more, sometimes less.”
She spoke the way a dagger stabs. In a journal entry, I once likened the people around me in terms of a meal, the main course, the side dishes, the utensils, dessert, and so on. In that journal entry I likened Denise to the beverage. Cold. Refreshing. Washes away the bullshit. Essential.
I remember when Denise first told me she was in love Nicole and I wondered how Denise could be in love with any thing. The way I see it, there is no spiritual side to love, no soul mates, no destiny. Love is lust in a bad disguise, love is what happens when a person seeks out another so that the two may pair up and feel appreciated and pretty. In some way, I think I saw Denise as ‘above’ all that. Love is what happens when two people are attracted to each other and can stand each other. I didn’t think Denise could be attracted to or could stand anyone. I suppose that it was then I began to believe there is someone for everyone. I suppose I tried to hold on to that belief as long as I could.
I remember when Denise came back home that winter, and by ‘home’ I simply mean the place where her old room was, I told her it wasn’t the end of the world and that things would be okay. She didn’t believe me, neither did I. I threw at her every cliché I could think of because I didn’t know what else to do. Seeing Denise defeated, and for the first time vulnerable, made me feel weaker. Those of us who knew her, that is, I guess, me and her family, all felt like we were part of this defeat.








2

After I finished high school I went to college, because that’s what you do. I waded around, ankle deep in learning. At 18, one doesn’t really want to commit to anything that may affect the rest of one’s life. I was no different. I was a daydreamer the way 18-year-old children should be. I knew a lot of people who jump in to higher learning knowing exactly what they want to do. They go four years and out, never second-guessing themselves, never deviating. Mostly, those people are boring.
Me, I was a thinker, not a doer.
Sometime in my late grade school years, say sixth or seventh grade, I began to get gray hair. I was always sort of high strung. My nervous energy was a part of my identity. Of course, after a short while, so was my gray hair. To people who don’t really know you, I suppose you are defined by your physical attributes.
Me, I was Old Gray.
My network of friends, by the time my first semester of college began, was small and always shrinking. I tried hard to keep all the friends I had made while in high school. I remember all the empty graduation-day promises we made to each other. I remember the teary-eyed pacts that we’d stay friends despite anything, that this was the beginning, not the end. All those clichés. I remember believing it all.
I remember the pipe dreams I used to have when I was in high school. Visions of fame and superstardom, piles of money and so on. High school affords you this luxury because you are so confined. You make no decisions for yourself; you herd along in the hallway to your next class, you sit and listen, you respond to a bell, you eat when you’re told. You’re a business-hours prisoner, essentially. You learn to love it, and then you miss it. Some of us do, anyway.
Me, I cried on graduation day.
The funeral of my naiveté. Or at least, the wake.
In college, you have to actually pay attention and do the work. The difference is that you can skip class if you want and there are no immediate consequences. In college, I was surrounded mostly by idiots, pretentious little wanderers experiencing trite little epiphanies.
They say the children are our future. I say, not all of them.
I looked around and saw little cliques of people protesting racism; I saw irony, not altruism.

I still saw Denise every now-and-then. I called her, say, twice a month and each time I dialed, I gave it about a 1 in 10 chance than she would pick up.
Denise and Nicole had a relatively private existence together. Nicole lived with Denise in her mom’s house. Once they were an ‘established’ couple, I heard from Denise less and less. I guess that’s simply what happens. You have a network of people who fill various social needs, if you meet one person who satisfies all those needs, you start walling yourself in, or you start walling others out, depending on how you want to see it.
Me, I was happy for Denise, if I felt a friend was distancing herself, at least it was for a good cause.
They say there is somebody for everybody. I see no truth in that, people simply don the appropriate masks; temporary evolution.































3


Nicole. Hm.
I first met Nicole at McDonald’s, on my very first day. Nicole was the kind of girl that everyone was in love with. Her beautiful everything was further accented by her dreadful surroundings. Observe closely enough and you’ll see that a lot of pretty girls will have unfortunate looking friends. Standing next to each other, the pretty girl appears even prettier. Girls do this on purpose.
McDonald’s was Nicole’s ‘ugly friend’.
Behind the scenes, McDonald’s is a miserable, bitter, salty mess. The timers on the fryers screak impatiently and so do the choleric customers. A constant, terrifying cacophony of greasy franticness.
And Nicole floated above it.
Nicole never broke a sweat.
Within the confines of that pinguid plantation, Nicole was equal parts Elvis Presley and Jesus, Savior of Man.