This is a resubmission of a story I published a few years ago with a long preface. Almost immediately the preface inspired some caustic reactions so—being reluctant to offend—I deleted the preface and resubmitted it. This resulted in a few orphaned comments that referred to the now-absent preface. Herewith the story with the preface restored. Also deleted is a neologism, a portmanteau that I (mistakenly) thought would help describe the protagonist's character but garnered its own detractors, plus I tidied up a few awkward passages. Otherwise it's the same story, so please don't waste your time (or other readers' time) by lamenting the repetition.
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Preface
If you dislike reading windy authors' intros, you'd best skip straight to the story. If you dislike stories with no sex, no confrontations, and virtually no dialogue, you'd best skip to the next story.
This was an experiment. I didn't want to write yet another story about a saintly, long suffering, six-foot-four ex-Seal whose parents were killed in an automobile crash and whose stupefyingly dumb wife with enormous bazooms was zapped by the Martian Slut Ray. Before I finished writing, though, I was visualizing the acerbic comments it would inspire, and had second thoughts.
But wait! Weren't we all taught that there's no such thing as a failed experiment? Disapproval, however unpleasant, can still be a learning experience. (Does that last sentence remind anyone else of an article of the UCMJ that begins "Penetration, however slight..."?) For example, when I wrote my first story, I wanted to control where the pages broke, so I submitted it in ~3800-word chunks on successive days.
I reaped a firestorm of outrage. When I wrote a brief essay trying to explain why the mindless algorithm that Lit uses to break pages sets my hair on fire, I thought I'd hit a walk-off homer when I cited the instance of a final page that consisted entirely of the two words "The End". Well little did I know. A well-known writer set me straight, commenting that my reasoning was "an irrational rationale, if that is possible. It is poppycock." In case I didn't understand just how wrong I was, the writer concluded by calling my concern about page breaks "your bizarre fetish."
That bruised my ego a bit, but didn't hurt nearly as bad as another writer whom I greatly admire, and whose talent I envy, ordered me in a comment on the story itself about my short pages "Don't do it again. I'm sure you have a rationale, you should forget having it." Wow. Gut shot and bleeding out. So now I let Lit break my pages and try not to wince at some of the robot's choices. Apparently the algorithm blindly starts a new page about every 3750 words (14,500 characters? 120K bytes? Who knows?).
I don't want unwarranted praise—although I'd gladly accept any kind words the donor considered warranted; but instead of comments about the length of my submissions, I'd rather hear about the weaknesses in my plotting, characterization, or dialogue. But I can do lap dog as well as the next guy, I just don't have to like it.
Many thanks to Bebop3 for beta reading. He helped a lot.
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HE COULD HAVE been the poster boy for the world's Nice Guys. Neither his parents nor anyone else had to teach him to be polite or respectful. He was saying please and thank you before he knew how to speak in sentences. In elementary and middle school he was giving up his seat for a woman or old man, holding doors open for those following him, even opening them for those with arms full or otherwise unable to open it.
High-school years found him offering to help others with heavy or time-consuming jobs, doing household chores without being asked, running errands when he was old enough to drive. He always let someone with just a few items go ahead of him in the checkout line, returned shopping carts to the proper spot (sometimes even gathering up one or more left helter-skelter in parking places or traffic lanes), stopped for pedestrians whether in a crosswalk or not, motioned go ahead to drivers waiting to turn left or enter traffic.
In general, he considered others' needs as important as his own—he was a natural empath. His empathy didn't do much for his social life, unfortunately, especially since to boot he was also very shy, making him the ultimate introvert.
High school isn't the ideal place for introverts—let alone empaths—to attract admirers, or even friends. There were a few others in the school, but their very shyness and reluctance to make others uncomfortable kept them from reaching out. As a result, he had no real friends and no dates.
College was different. Oh, there were the usual good-looking, smooth-talking guys and receptive coeds, but more than a few empaths, too. Almost all of them were in their late teens or older, and some had actually managed to overcome their shyness a bit and make an overture when they recognized someone similarly limited. He saw this, realized it was a good thing, and began to experience occasional companionship with young woman.
About half-way through spring semester his sophomore year, a girl in his Calc II class asked if he could give her some help. This puzzled him, because she didn't seem to be having any trouble, but since she opened the conversation they set a time later that day to meet in the library.
Patti was easily the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her dark, almost black hair in a long page boy was all the more striking against her pale complexion. He almost lost himself in her brown eyes the first time she curved her lips and scrunched her eyebrows into what seemed like a melancholy smile, but proved to be simply her expression of affection or understanding. Initially he was almost painfully uncomfortable around her, but her gentle smiles and occasional touches of his hand or arm eventually put him somewhat at ease.
Her grasp of the material was easily the equal of his, and their supposed tutoring sessions quickly morphed into mutual study sessions. As he grew more confident with her, their relationship also changed; a month after their first library meeting, she wondered if he wanted to ask her out on a date. His heart beating so loud he just knew she could hear it, he said did.
He soon discovered the joys of mutual attraction, marked by hugs, then tentative kisses, then more passionate expressions of affection. He thought he had died and gone to heaven the first time she invited him to first base; soon they were seeing each other every night. Before he had advanced around the infield, she invited him to a party at a friend's apartment. He didn't know any of the dozen or so people at the party.
Not long after that night he again thought he had died, but never mind heaven.
Her friend was Roger, the son of one of her father's workmates. One of Roger's roommates was Bill, who was older (24) and going to school on the GI Bill (he'd spent four years in the Air Force). Neither Roger nor Bill would ever be mistaken for an empath: they were opinionated, cynical, and dominated conversations. They always seemed to be laughing about something or at someone, and soon many of the others were laughing, too.
He never noticed that Patti was laughing as least as much as anyone else. When he suggested at 11:00 that they go, Patti's face fell and she asked if they could stay longer, because she was having so much fun. Even when he reminded her of their upcoming finals, she insisted they stay until midnight, and spent much of the next hour talking and laughing with Bill. They did leave at midnight, but the ride back to her dorm was uncomfortably quiet.
He asked Patti in class Monday what she wanted to do that evening; she looked down at her desktop for a moment, then said she wasn't feeling well and thought she should stay in her room. Every night for the next week she offered some reason not to see him, most of which sounded flimsy. Sunday night he learned just how flimsy.
As he stood to pay after eating a late supper sitting at the bar at Burgers & Brews, he saw Patti and Bill snogging in a booth. Just as he was going out the door, he looked back and saw Patti staring at him with a stricken look. He quickly left and jogged back to his dorm.
The next week in class, Patti came up to him and asked if they could go somewhere to talk. When he asked what about, she said she wanted to explain about Sunday night. He said there was nothing to explain, that Bill's a man, he's just a boy, and she made her choice. She protested, but feebly, and didn't call him back when he walked away. She tried to talk to him a couple of times after that, but he would simply nod pleasantly and move on.