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Fuck originally, I like my standards: I'm just Charlie Brown, the good man. My mother taught me to be polite, not steal, pay the bills, and help the little old lady across the road (no that was the Boy Scouts. Never mind). A good man, right, someone who would make Charlie Brown proud -- that was I was, until I met Sydney.
And Sydney is… I don't know, that little redheaded girl I'm always chasing, just an illusion. Or maybe she is Lucy.
I play football with Lucy, everyday in the backyard. I run up, trying to kick the football -- and what does she do? She pulls it away.
Oops...I'm your asset!
I'm not going have that whining fest again, but I will say this: that downright sucked. At some point, it all downright sucked. But, I get up off my back and kick the football again. And again she rips it away.
Oops. My father is Jack Bristow!
And again…
Oops. Sloane will kill us!
And again…
Oops. My mother killed your father!
And again…
Oops. I'm the prophesized woman!
And again…
Oops. My mother is alive!
And again…
Oops. I fucked Noah!
And again…
Oops. We have to go to Taipei!
And again…
Oops. My mother walked-in!
And again…
Oops. You have a virus!
Oops! Oops! She just keeps yanking that football away from me. And I'm talking centimeters -- millimeters -- away. She laughs at me, helps me up, and encourages me to try again.
So I do. I always do. If I hated her, I'd throw around remarks like: bitch, selfish, high maintenance, histrionic; and a few other choice words. But I'm Charlie Brown. I just stupidly smile, and welcome back into my life the woman that complicated it beyond the point of insanity. With open arms, naturally.
And we keep playing. And she keeps pulling the football away.
Then one day, I show up at the field and find Lucy left. I go back the next day, still no Lucy, no football, just a sea of ash covering the grass. Where's Lucy?
Another little girl takes her place. She lets me kick the field goal. She doesn't pull it away. We play every day for two years, but it isn't the same. I am happy, I suppose. She lets me kick the field goal. That's something.
But it isn't the same. The thrill is getting up to the football, and the anticipation, and thinking -- for a spilt second -- Lucy will actually let me kick it.
I don't want to kick the football -- I wanted Lucy to let me kick the football.
It doesn't matter because one day Lucy stands in the field, aimlessly throwing the football up in the air and catching it while she waits for me to play with her. I'm confused, but she doesn't tell me where she went and I don't ask. I don't yell at her for leaving me alone, or making me play with another. I really don't say much. I'm just happy she is back.
We fall back into our old routine: once again, I try to kick the football and once again she pulls it away.
Ha ha! I was never dead!
And once again…
Ha ha! I would have waited!
And once again…
Ha ha! I am the reason for Lauren!
And once again…
Ha ha! I am the reason your father is dead!
And once again…
Ha ha! I am the reason they nearly killed you!
And once again…
Ha ha! I am the reason you were tortured!
And once again…
Ha ha! I am the reason for it all!
I should tell all of them to go to Hell. I should go off to be the quarterback and give up my dream of being the field goal kicker. But, that's not Charlie Brown. I let Lucy blame me for all she's done, and I concur, blaming myself too. I'm just Charlie Brown, not Clark Kent. I pay Lucy a nickel and accept the advice she gives me as truth. I'm to blame.
Not Lucy, never Lucy.
So I mope, and sigh, and wait for Lucy to forgive me and let me play football with her again. Because that's all this Charlie Brown knows how to do.