Shared
By Jay Cameron
It wasn't my fault. It wasn't!
My mother is to blame. My mother made me share everything I had as a child. I had to share everything as a teen. I got a new toy at Christmas. I seldom got to play with it. That's the burden of the older brother.
My little brother, Tommy wanted my toys more than his own. My mother thought he was so cute; she took his side. A little bit is okay, but in her case, this sharing thing went on till the day I left home to begin my real life.
There are words that still make my skin crawl. "Buster don't be mean to your little brother." My name isn't Buster, it's Stanley. Stanley Thompson raised the son of a single mom. Stuck with sharing my life with an obnoxious younger brother I learned to despise.
It wouldn't be until years later, I learned my father, or the man I thought was my father, was just one of my mother's many boyfriends. But that's a story for another day.
The best way to get away from both my mom and my younger brother was to play sports. There were practices and workouts. There were scrimmages, and pickup games. I knew my mother would be busy with her favorite son. So, as I grew older, I disappeared into my own world of running bases in baseball and chasing down wide receivers on opposing football teams, taking sharp elbows to the gut and giving them back in pickup games of basketball. I knew I would never see my mom sitting in the stands. I was right. She never saw me play.
Girls, in those early years, were the furthest thing from my mind. I couldn't afford to let anything get in my way. I, however, was more than just mildly interested in the fairer sex. My first prom night came, and without the money and the proper attire, I was a non-attender, thanks to my younger brother. I sat hidden and out of sight of prying eyes, watching the lights flashing, and wondering what was going on inside those walls. I knew it was just a pity party for one, but it would affect me and my future in many ways.
Finally, when college came calling, the work and sweat paid off. I received a full ride scholarship to an out of state University. There, I shared the bench with another bunch of football hopefuls, until I got my chance to show my skills. To be totally honest, I don't think I did a bad job, but I had languished too long on the bench and on special teams to give the pro scouts enough film. Some athletes grind on and on, but I was a realist. I never thought I was good enough to get into the NFL anyway.
Normally, your dad, your uncle, or some long lost member of your family would be there to push you to your peak level of success, but my father had taken all the abuse he could handle. Unfortunately for me, he didn't let the door hit him in the ass when my mom erased him from of my life. I wanted so bad to go with him, but that was not to be. When I discovered he wasn't my real father, it was a major kick in the gut. Looking back on it now, I was sort of proud of the way I handled the revelation and all that went with it.
Four years of study, girls, football, and more study. It all paid off with a paid internship. Not much pay, but enough that with a weekend and evening delivery job I could share an off-campus apartment with a friend.
Then, there was grad school. Twenty-two years old, a graduate student, walking toward the bedroom of an apartment I shared with my best friend, Tony Lucca. In my hands I carried three cans of Milwaukee's finest. When I turned the corner to enter the bedroom, I witnessed my best friend with his arms around my date from the night before. They were kissing. Not just a friendly kiss, but a tongue down her throat kiss...a kiss I had shared with her only minutes before.
Here it was all over again... I was sharing my date with my roommate. Sadly, it wasn't the first time we tag-teamed our dates. It was like nothing had changed; I was still the kid that shared his toys. This time I was sharing my adult toys.
After grad school I found myself working still further away from the home where I grew up. It seemed as though I was finally far enough away from the dark memories of my youth. I could find some semblance of pride in myself, and most of all, peace.
I was working as an engineer for a mining company in Arizona. Everything was turning out the way I thought it should. My life was going great. I never had a problem getting dates, and I had several. It was just a matter of time. I would have the perfect wife, in the perfect house, in the perfect neighborhood. We would have the perfect number of children, and of course a dog named Max. The only problem I could see was finding this perfect woman that might share my perfect dream.
All of this perfection was turning out to be a bit of a problem. I didn't have a nine to five job. I would travel from one site to the next. There were the mines, the smelters, the refineries, and they all required attention. I didn't have trouble addressing any of the day-to-day stuff, but it was the private, personal, me stuff that was being left unattended.
Wherever I traveled, I would meet a candidate for the Mrs. Thompson Trophy (or wedding ring). But I never had time to work on sealing the deal.
Finally, while on a two month stay at our New York office, I happened to meet and date a Scandinavian blonde named Amy. I was pleased on our fourth date to see for myself that she was one hundred per cent blonde... all the way to her toes.
Every day I tried to breathe in her golden hair, her perfume, her sweet voice and her mesmerizing blue eyes. She had been introduced to me as Amy Hazelton from near Fargo, North Dakota. It seems we had something in common. She was running from the lengthy cold winters, and I was searching for someone to keep me warm on those cold/dry air-conditioned nights in the desert of Arizona.
Amy and I saw each other every day. After a month we decided it would be better if I moved my suitcase into her apartment, so we didn't have to waste time trying to meet some place. I knew we would have to end our brief encounter, but I didn't want to face the facts. It would end up being just another fling that would come to an end like all the other flings I've had in my life.
The day finally came. I left the office early on that Friday, so I could prepare for my final evening with Amy. My mind rehearsed again and again the things I wanted to say. They sounded fine in my mind, but I knew few thoughts, if any, would find my lips as spoken words. During these minutes of doubt, I could see the return flight ticket sticking out of the pocket of my jacket, hanging next to the door.
What do you do? When you have searched and searched for the right woman to fill your life, and you're faced with the possibility of never seeing her again.... What do you do?
