A Case of Jeff
Non-Fiction by Aaron Chan
Illustration by Brit Bachman
I remember that time you told me you said
“Love is touching souls”
Surely you touched mine
‘Cause part of you pours out of me
In these lines from time to time
— Joni Mitchell, “A Case of You”
I first met Jeff for four minutes.
On a cold December night, I was at a gay/ lesbian speed dating event hosted by the Vancouver Public Library. I was here primarily to find someone who could help me get over my ex, and I always wanted to try speed dating because it seemed both fun and funny. A few mildly interesting dates in, the blonde guy who I first saw sitting by himself before the night started, avoiding everyone’s glances, now sat in front of me. He was wearing a wool sweater, and his hair was so blonde, it was almost white. With his day-old scruff and dark eyes, he resembled William Powell in My Man Godfrey—as the Forgotten Man (homeless man), not the well-groomed butler he turns into later in the film.
“Hi!” I chimed, offering a casual smile.
“Hi,” he flatly replied.
Everyone had been given pseudonyms that were related to LGBT characters or authors; his nametag read Dudley something. I was Ennis Del Mar. When I explained that Ennis was played by Jake Gyllenhaal in Brokeback Mountain, and died in the end, Dudley promptly corrected me.
“That was Heath Ledger. Jake Gyllenhaal played Jack Twist. Ennis was the one who lives,” he lectured unenthusiastically.
“Oh. Oh yeah, right.”
At this special speed dating event, termed “Read Dating,” singles were encouraged to bring their favourite book, movie, or CD as a conversation starter instead of awkwardly staring at each other in uncomfortable silence. So I asked him about the CD he had brought; he was the only one I met that night who brought a CD. He told me a bit about the artist, who was British, and I told him a bit about my DVD, The Apartment, my favourite movie. As I talked with him, his blue-grey eyes bore into me, seemingly attentive, while the rest of his face registered indifference, as if I was reading the dictionary aloud in a monotone.
Just four minutes, I told myself. Finally, they called for us to move on. We exchanged rather curt goodbyes, and Dudley got up to leave. As the next guy sat down in front of me and started talking, Dudley, instead of moving on, stood a few feet away, scribbling something on his sheet for a little too long. Obviously, he had written more than a simple Y or N next to my name. I didn’t care though, since I thought I would never see him again.
I never learned what it was he wrote about me. A few days later, my friend Brian sent me a message on Facebook, asking if I had gone to Read Dating; attached to the message was a picture of his friend, who also went. I recognized him instantly.
Yeah, of course I remember him, I replied.
His name is Jeff, Brian told me. Jeff.
A couple weeks later, Brian invited me to a non- sexual dip in the hot tub in his apartment (emphasis on non-sexual, seriously) and invited a couple of friends too. Not only had the recent reconciliation with my ex failed, but I also had found out he was seeing someone who was halfway around the world. For days and days, I moped and sobbed at home, or I moped and secretly sobbed at work, so Brian’s invitation seemed like a good excuse to do something besides mope and sob. He said I knew both his friends who were coming: Michael, who I had previously met, and a blonde guy who was “also quiet and introverted.”
Still completely oblivious, I imagined Brian rolling his eyes as he texted, It’s Jeff.
What?! This is going to be so awkward! I scream-texted him.
It’s only awkward if you make it awkward, he responded.
Perhaps it was the hot water but surprisingly, conversation was easy. I sat across the Jacuzzi from Jeff, and I learned he was a few years older and was a social worker, but had a Masters in music. We talked about how he knew Brian and Michael, and about what happened after Read Dating. No one had contacted him after that night, he confessed. When I asked if he wanted to know what I thought of him when we met that night, he said sure.
“I thought you were completely disinterested in everything I had to say.” Jeff’s laughter echoed throughout the room.
“People think I’m a snob when I meet them. I just . . . don’t know what to say. And I don’t like it.” He looked away, staring down at the bubbling water for several seconds. We sat there in comfortable, compatible silence, me watching him stare off at nothing.
That’s when I recognized it: he was thinking, thoughts likely racing in his head like the firing of synapses. I had never seen anyone else do the same thing, the same way, besides myself.
The four of us went to get some food at a near- empty restaurant on Davie Street. While they chattered on about people and events which I had no idea about, at times, Jeff blurted out a few things, added bits and pieces to the story, then relapsed into silence, gazing off again. Suddenly, a spark went off in my brain, and my eyes darted around the table. I glanced wide-eyed at Brian who was busy telling a story about his last trip, and then at Michael, who was listening and smiling.
Why can’t they see what I’m seeing?
I can understand people fairly well right off the bat. I can see their layers. Most people are uninteresting to me because they lay their thoughts, their character out so easily, so openly. They show their cards without hesitation. Those who I find interesting or cool I want to get to know quickly and be around them a lot.
It was in that moment that I realized Jeff was different. I could see the layers behind him, but I didn’t know what they were. Clearly, he was someone who I knew wasn’t saying everything on his mind. He was someone I wanted to get to know slowly, purposefully. Deeply.
I snapped out of it when they asked me if I wanted to go to a New Year’s party at another friend’s house. I told them I wasn’t much into parties.
“It’ll be fun,” they all said. I looked at Jeff and told them I might go.
The music was shitty and too loud. Red cups of various alcoholic beverages were everywhere. People were shouting and screaming while playing drunken beer pong. Much different from my board-games-and-juice parties I hosted at home.
Earlier that night, when Jeff was trying to help his friend, who was going through some troubles, this friend made a hurtful, nasty comment about him. Now after midnight, Jeff was getting ready to go home. As I followed him up the carpeted stairs, he suddenly stopped. His back still to me, Jeff made a choking sound and then burst into tears. I tried my best to calm and comfort him and decided it would be best to take him home, which was only a few blocks away.
A small group of friends from the party, including me, stayed with Jeff inside the dark of his little laneway house while he stopped and started crying. Repeatedly, he mumbled, “I was just trying to help him . . .” When Jeff more or less calmed down, the friends left. I asked Jeff if he wanted me to stay, and he said that it would be nice if I did.
I slept on the bed (not in the bed) next to him as he drifted off. Late/early in the night, I woke up freezing as I had no blanket or covers. Beside me, Jeff shuffled, awake.
“Jeff? I’m really cold. Do you mind if I come under the covers?”
“No.”
That was all the answer I needed. I stripped down to my boxers and climbed into the warmth of the bed. We put our arms around each other, and it immediately felt right.
“You can touch me,” Jeff mumbled. My arm across his chest, I touched his side with my hand.
“I am touching you,” I replied. He chuckled, and moved my hand lower.
Swallowing, I said softly, “I don’t want this to be something you’ll regret.”
I’m glad to have met you, Aaron, he texted me when we parted the morning after.
That first week of the new year, I saw Jeff almost every day. I told Brian excitedly that I wasn’t used to seeing someone so much, but that it felt good. The only thing was that I wasn’t sure where things were between me and Jeff. Brian bluntly clarified, “You’re seeing each other.” I let the words roll around in my head, and smiled to myself.
When I was with Jeff, it always felt so comfortable, so right to be with someone who I felt understood me in a way no one else did, like our mutual pleasure of silence. And in turn, I felt like I understood him, and recognized how special he was when no one else seemed to. Most nights, I just held him while we lay on the couch or in/on his bed, our arms and legs woven in and out of each other. Sometimes he put on a record from his vinyl collection, or the TV was on. I touched his skin, running my fingers along his lightly hairy arms, his chest, even his palms, as if my hands were erasers, healing over the scars. Eyes closed, smiling at my touch, he just talked while I listened, only adding my thoughts if he asked. Sex didn’t happen much, and it was always me getting in his pants. Although I wished to be touched too, I never said a word about it.
This is about Jeff, not about me. I’m here to listen and help. I’ll tell him about me when the time is right, when he asks, I told myself. He’s gone through a difficult experience.
He makes the moves. I follow.
One night, after watching a movie together, we went for a walk down at the waterfront. It was oddly but pleasantly quiet; virtually no one was around, and we joked that it was like a zombie apocalypse had occurred in Vancouver. After strolling and talking a bit, Jeff stopped walking and put his hands on my arms.
“Aaron, you’re giving me so much medicine!”
He explained how, during a spiritual workshop he attended some years back, medicine didn’t have to be physical—it was anything that could help you feel better. With that, he gave me a big hug and thanked me for being in his life.
“You know, you give me medicine too. Maybe not in the same way, but you do,” I told him. He smiled, but never asked further. I never told him about how the simple act of being with him was the one and only activity, it seemed, that kept the constant barrage of negative thoughts of my ex and the past at bay, far away. I didn’t tell him how, when a friend asked me how I was feeling about the issues with my ex, I responded, “Who?” With Jeff, I was always in the present, and with Jeff, the present was always good.
For once in my life, the present was simply good.
Our Greatest Hits:
1) “I have something for you.” Jeff handed me a wallet-sized Polaroid. He was sitting in a chair, smiling, and he looked younger, despite the photo having been taken only a few days before. I grinned and thanked him for the picture, put it in my wallet, and would show it to my friends after and gush about how special he was.
“I have a surprise for you too, actually.” From my bag, I pulled out a package of Hershey’s Hugs.
“Since I can’t always be there to hug you, you can have a chocolate and imagine me hugging you.”
2) Wilfred was on TV one night. Jeff said Elijah Wood was cute, while I argued that he was merely decent. I informed him that he, Jeff, was way handsomer than Elijah. When I got home that night, I posted a comment on Jeff’s facebook profile picture:
Elijah Wood has nothing on this handsome stud.
3) While driving me home one night, Jeff suddenly interrupted me.
“Aaron, can I hold your hand?”
“Of course! Of course. You don’t need to ask.” He took my hand and drove me one-handedly back home while I suppressed the funny feeling in me.
4) After finishing class at nearly 10 p.m. one night, I took the bus, then ran twenty blocks straight, with my backpack on, to Jeff’s house. I was panting slightly and very warm upon arrival. Jeff noted, “Aww, you ran to see me!” and chuckled.
I didn’t know what to say, so I just smiled back.
5) While sitting across from each other on his couch, Jeff strummed his guitar and played a few songs. My favourite was his cover of Joni Mitchell’s “A Case of You,” which was also his favourite to play. He always played with his eyes closed, as if denying there was an audience. His voice was soft, breathy. I was so used to serenading guys on the piano myself that it was only then that I knew how it felt to receive a song. Enraptured, I listened and watched in awe. When he was done, I promptly leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
“How did I know you were going to do that?” he said with a smile.
6) Once, while intertwined in each other’s arms, Jeff asked me, “If you died today, what would be your greatest accomplishment?” I told him about the time I potentially saved someone’s life: he was a friend on myspace, and had posted a public mes- sage saying he had taken some pills and apologized to his family about his death. After about half an hour of freaking out and mad-calling, I hung up with the authorities in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, where my online “friend” lived, and a few days later, saw that he had logged in to myspace and was alive. I don’t know if he was saved because of me or not.
“Wow. And I was gonna say my greatest accomplishment was getting a Masters.”
I didn’t tell him I had been waiting a very long time for someone to save me, and that I might have found him.
7) Jeff lay on the couch with his t-shirt halfway up his torso, and his dick, hard, out of his undone jeans. I sat back and watched him, and the words came easily in my head: You are so beautiful. If this were a photograph, I could live in it forever.
But instead of saying these words aloud, I swallowed them.
8) The night he gave me a kiss—a real kiss—before I left his place. I immediately texted Brian and told him. I tried to casually mention it to Jeff later in a text. He told me he usually kissed people goodbye.
9) My arms, under his shirt, were pressing him close to me. Sitting on the floor leaning against the couch where I was seated, Jeff reached up and stroked my hair. As we sat in silence, I thought about this guy—this goddamn special guy—who chose to spend his time with me, day after day. Me. No boyfriend had done that for me. And I wasn’t even his boyfriend.
I couldn’t help it: the thought made me tear up. When I sniffled, Jeff craned his neck around and looked up with inquiring eyes, but said nothing. So I said nothing.
Hey, Jeff! How’re you?
To be honest, not that well. I think I need to take a break from texting for a bit.
Okay. I’m sorry if I overwhelmed you with my texts. If there’s anything I can do, let me know. I’ll leave it up to you when you want to start talking again.
Brian said I pestered Jeff with my texts, even though I tried my best to hold off. As we began to lose touch, the thoughts of my ex came back, stronger and more frequent than before. When I saw my ex around school, I had difficulty breathing and my heart rate spiked—minor anxiety attacks. I didn’t feel like doing anything most of the time and I got sick often, which I attributed to my poor mental health. I discovered my comment on Jeff’s profile picture was gone. He backed out of meeting my friends. Once, when seeing him, I felt he want- ed me to leave, so I got dressed. When he came back from the bathroom, he told me, “You can stay over if you want—” then stopped when he saw me ready to go.
When I touched him, I didn’t know if he wanted me to. His layers shrouded him once again.
I feel so screwed up, Aaron. I don’t know if I want cuddles or hook-ups or what.
You’re not screwed up. These things take time to figure out. If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.
The last time we were together, we watched The Apartment, the movie I brought to Read Dating months ago. During the film, I kept glancing at Jeff, and felt scared that I wanted to touch him but couldn’t. At the end of the film, Shirley MacLaine realizes how sweet and caring Jack Lemmon has been to her the whole time, and sprints through the streets to see him on New Year’s Day. After Jack professes his love for her, she playfully teases him to “Shut up and deal” the cards to their game, ending the film on a sweet note.
Jeff exclaimed, “Wow, harsh. What a bitch.” I looked over at him in silence.
While on vacation in Hong Kong, I somehow found myself listening to Adele’s cover of Bob Dylan’s “Make You Feel My Love.” It was one of those songs that hit me in the gut, that was meant for my situation with Jeff. After listening to it on repeat for days, I vowed to learn the song and sing it to Jeff. I was going to show him how I felt.
There were times when I teared up just rehearsing the song at home. One night, at work, I was cashing out of my till. I took my phone from my bag, which I used as a calculator, and saw that Jeff had responded to my message (Hey Jefferson Air- plane. How’re you?) I had sent him earlier that day. I put the till on the cash-out table, and opened the message.
Jeff said he needed to be honest: he was in a relationship now, with someone across the border. He said he didn’t think it was a good idea for the two of us to hang out together anymore; he hoped I was well, and that I would understand.
I put the phone down on the table and stared at it until the screen went black. I simply sat there and stared at nothing for several minutes, aware of every breath I was taking, feeling the heat rise in my face. As my vision got blurrier and blurrier, I noticed the dents and cracks on the table. The table, which must have been new at one point, had been used day after day, carelessly banged, kicked, and pounded on. Beaten.
Then the tears rolled effortlessly down my face, dissolving all the thoughts and words I would never say to Jeff.
I will always feel like our time together amount- ed to a moment of sitting at a table on a cold winter’s night. I will always feel like four minutes was all we had. »