"I Don't Know You Anymore"

Author note: I would like to thank Darren Hayes of Savage Garden for writing the beautiful lyrics to the song "I Don't Know You Anymore" that was the inspiration for this story. All characters in this story are my own, but some of the situations were encountered from the following song

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"I Don't Know You Anymore"- D. Hayes/D. Jones

I would like to visit you for a while
Get away and out of this city
Maybe I shouldn't have called but someone had to be the first to break
We can go sit on your back porch
Relax
Talk about anything
It don't matter
I'll be courageous if you can pretend you've forgiven me

Because I don't know you anymore
I don't recognize this place
The picture frames have changed and so has your name
We don't talk much anymore
We keep running from the pain
But what I wouldn't give to see your face again

I know I let you down
Again and again
I know I never really treated you right
I've paid the price
I'm still paying for it every day

So maybe I shouldn't have called
Was it too soon to tell?
Oh what the hell
It doesn't really matter
How do you redefine something that never really had a name?
Has your opinion changed?

Because I don't know you anymore
I don't recognize this place
The picture frames have changed and so has your name
We don't talk much anymore
We keep running from the pain
But what I wouldn't give to see your face again

I see your face; I see your face

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            This is my story. My name, Darlene. My quest, to say what I need to get out. I must apologize for being so, what's the word, expository, about the beginning of this tale. Honestly though, how can one begin to tell things that they've had bottled up for years? I've never been one for what my 8th grade English teacher called "proper prose". I'm sure that there is a right way to tell a story, but I believe that expression shouldn't have rules. It just wouldn't be valuable anymore; it would be flat, like cardboard. However you really are supposed to tell a story, I don't care. This is my way.

            I guess I should start at the beginning; that's the common sense part of the "proper prose".  I was fourteen years old, four years younger than I am now, and I was starting high school. I started that year off with a good amount of friends. Of all my friends, though, there was one who intrigued me. You see, I love guys, but not the way a normal teenage girl does. I have an infatuation with the way a man sees the world; it's very different from a woman. Guys aren't as vicious as girls are and I always favored having guy friends for the reasons similar to that. You don't have to worry so much with egos, clothes, and moodiness. Don't get me wrong, I love all my girl friends, it's just something special about having guy friends.

 Anyway, back to this guy, Noah. He was just the most interesting guy. He wasn't extremely good looking, but he wasn't ugly either. He has sandy colored hair that he always wore combed back and parted to the side in one of those old fashioned hairdos you never see anymore. He was tall and very skinny with long arms and legs and very long fingers that always were strumming a guitar or pushing the valves of a melophone or French horn. His voice was very low and when he sang, which he never did in public, you couldn't help but stop and listen. But I think the most intriguing thing about him though, was his eyes. You see, he had a very plain face, a slender mouth that hardly smiled and a somewhat large nose that wouldn't have been so large had it not been protruding. His eyes though, the eyes were what made his face have life. His dark, deep, chocolate brown eyes that were set above that nose, under two sandy eye brows, and  encompassed by long, somewhat feminine eyelashes. His eyes lit up his face, they told stories, they were the entrance to a soul that was trapped inside this lanky body; a soul that was only released through a guitar chord, a French horn piece, or a rich vocal note. That man was beautiful to me the second I caught a glimpse into those eyes; he fascinated me. I wanted to know him, and I soon got my chance.

I really got to know him in August before my freshman year; it was at Band Camp. It was really a fortunate accident. I play the tenor saxophone, and, as I said before, he plays the melophone (an upright French horn for marching). It was very unlikely that we would be spending too much time together because woodwind and brass players are separated throughout most of the day, except for in drill. Drill is the pictures that a marching band makes on the field and how many steps they have to get there. It is a somewhat complicated combination of sidelines, yard lines, hash marks, and steps. When a marching band has drill written for them, the featured instruments are usually placed toward the front of the field. Strangely enough the music that year had a reoccurring tenor, alto saxophone and melophone theme, so those sections were always near each other on the field. As incredible coincidence would also have it, my drill spot was right next to Noah's for a good two-thirds of the show. I got to learn a lot about and from him in those two weeks of band camp. We started to develop a pretty good friendship that blossomed from a mutual love for Rolling Stones music. He opened up to me and as we talked and shared our interests, those warm brown eyes glowed and glowed. He was starting to become one of the most interesting, innocent, and beautiful people I knew.

We continued throughout the marching band season this way, with long conversations on the way to competitions, debates about other bands, and too many inside jokes to count. He was my best friend; no one ever understood me the way he did, ever. October came and went this way; the season was almost over.

Chapter Championships came on one crisp, November day. The band held the normal, pre-performance rituals and began to have the usual pep-talk. The discussion included the success of the season, the performance to come, and the mutual determination to give 110 percent for Championships. We were just about to finish the talk when something quite unusual happened; Noah raised his hand and asked to speak. The reason I say this is unusual is because he hates to talk to large crowds. I was quite anxious and curious to know what he was going to say.

"This first year has been amazing you guys," he started in his slow, quiet, but passionate voice. He looked down at his long, slender hands. "I just want to tell you that…that no other organization in this school could show so much unity, passion, determination, and love than this one does. Not only for its sport…but for each other as well. This is more than…more than a team; this is a family. And I know I really suck at these motivational speech type things…but I just really want to say…thank you…for being my other family…"

And as if we were in a cheesy movie, the entire band moved in for a group hug. I was the closest one to Noah as that moment and he bent down and whispered in my ear, "What did you think?" Following that cheesy movie pattern I replied, "It was wonderful."

We came in second at Chapter Championships that year; however, that is not where this story ends. I wish it were. After marching band season, Noah and I began to drift apart, mostly due to the fact that we weren't with each other every waking moment anymore. Don't get me wrong, I mean, we still hung out, just not as much. The more time we spent together, the more I realized that I was starting to like him as more than a friend. That never happened to me before, I was the girl that most guys regarded as a sister or "one of the guys", not as girlfriend material. It really has nothing to do with looks, I mean, I'm not a supermodel, but I definitely wouldn't consider myself the epitome of ugliness either. No, it had to do with personality. You see, I don't go out of my way, like some girls do to make a guy find them attractive. I wear what I like, I wear the amount of make-up that makes me comfortable, and I act the way I feel. That's just me. I am me and I guess that intimidated some guys and it made others over-comfortable with me.  Noah and I were like that from the beginning, sibling-like, but as the year went on and spring vacation approached the more I realized that I was actually falling for him. I don't want to say "love" because I don't want you to get the wrong impression. Of course I loved him; most people do love their friends. You know what, I do want to say "love", as much as I want to deny the way I felt, that is what it was, love. I was scared. Those were two things I've never been in my life, scared or in love. I ignored the fear though. You see, I have the philosophy that if you want something, you go for it. Life's too short. So, I did it. I asked Noah out the day before break.

Now, I would also like to tell you that the story ends here and we all lived happily ever after, but that would make the title of this story seem kind of pointless now, wouldn't it? If you haven't guessed by now, he said no, and a certain discomfort followed us into the holidays. I ruined a great friendship. I knew it as soon as I asked him, as soon as the light in his eyes that illuminated his face started to fade. That was the day the ball began to roll downhill, and there was no stopping it. Now, I will say that I made a horrible mistake, but the point of this story is not to discourage girls to stop following their hearts, nor is it to encourage girls to be glamour queens instead of who they really are, just to catch guys. If you've gotten that impression, I encourage you to stop reading now. There is more to this story than that.

When we returned from break, things were ocward between Noah and me. We still were friends, but it was different, his eyes didn't have that same shine. Now, it was just a dim light. I was desperately beating myself up, telling myself that I should have never asked him out. I don't regret though, well I try not to, so I started to act like nothing ever happened. It worked too, for awhile. Then, she came. Her name was Leonie, she was a junior and he fell in love with her the minute he saw her. How do I know? Well, besides the fact that he told me, I noticed that his eyes began to sparkle when he saw her. They didn't glow, like when I first met him, no, they sparkled. He started to spend less time with me and more time with her, and it hurt. You probably have guessed that I went out of my way to stay friends with him, but you're wrong. That is the mistake, I did nothing. I let him go.  

The years passed and we talked every now and then, but things were never as they were that first year. At the end of senior year, he showed up at my graduation party and that was the last time I saw him, until five months ago.

 Five months ago, I received a phone call while I was studying for my archaeology exam. My roommate answered it (I go to college in New York and I live in a dorm) and she said it was some guy named Noah. I picked it up and said hello. "Hi, um, Darlene? Is that you?" Wow, nothing about his voice changed. "Yeah, it's me." I said coolly. "What's up?"

"Well…" he started, speaking in a way I hadn't heard since he addressed the band at that first Chapter Championship, "I was looking at my old marching band programs…and I was thinking about how…we don't really, you know, talk like we…we used to. Do you think you might want to come…?" He stopped as if to re-evaluate what he was saying, although it seemed like he was doing so the entire time. "…to come over and have a cup of tea this weekend and talk…" There was a small silence. Of course I wanted too. I missed him terribly, but you see I didn't want him to know that. Why? I still don't understand, and I probably never will.

"Yes," I said confidentially. "Of course I do." We worked out the details and agreed to meet that Saturday, April 21. I hung up with him and I suddenly felt both giddy like a little girl and scared at the same time. It was a very weird feeling that I still don't think I have described to you accurately.

The rest of the week passed and Saturday came. I was nervous as I took that familiar train ride back home. The New Jersey Transit was full of interesting people who I would have normally been very interested to observe, but that day I was absorbed in my own thoughts. I stared out the window at the melting snow, thinking about the unusually long and lonely winter that just passed. I thought about Noah, about his eyes. I always found myself thinking of those eyes, the way they were when I first met him. Even though we were no longer as close as we used to be, those eyes were a source of comfort for me. They made me remember the innocence that existed in the world, because that is what they were to me. Innocent and pure. The entire train ride was spent thinking about those eyes, that year when we were close, and pretty much this entire story up to the train ride itself.

When the train reached the Metro Park in Ismuth, I took a cab to Noah's house. When I arrived, there was a note for me on the front door. I opened it up and it said:

Darlene,

I went to get the tea.  Make yourself at home. The key is behind the flower pot.

- Noah

So I stuck my hand behind the flower pot on the front stoop and sure enough, amidst all the cobwebs was a little silver key. I stuck it into the keyhole and turned the knob. The warmth of the house and the smell of Noah's mother's cookies welcomed me when I opened the door. I looked around as I shut the door behind me. Nothing seemed to change too much. I found my eyes wandering over all over the furniture until something different caught my eye. I walked over to the coffee table to see an odd shaped picture frame containing a picture of Leonie and Noah at the beach. That picture had never been there before and neither had that frame. Something else used to be there, I knew because that frame wouldn't have caught my eye if it was always there. Then it hit me. A picture of Noah and I in our marching band uniforms used to be there in the frame I bought him for Christmas that year. It was a silver frame with little black eighth notes all around it. So he got rid of it. My heart sank. I remember how much he loved that picture. We took it at the Thanksgiving football game. I sighed. Suddenly the door squeaked and I jumped not because I was scared, but because I had been so lost in my train of thought that the sound startled me. "Don't worry," said a low smooth voice. "it's only me."

            I turned around to see Noah as I had always known him. His hair still combed the way it used to go, his nose still protruding in that funny way that it did, and his eyelashes still as gentle and feminine as they had always been. As I was standing there looking at him, my eyes, as if out of routine, looked up to his eyes. I think it was the first time that we ever thoroughly stared at each others eyes. His eyes were still that deep, chocolate brown, but instead of seeing the glow that enthralled me or the sparkle that Leonie gave him, I saw nothing. I saw emptiness. Those eyes, that were always the windows to the man within, were nothing but mirrors that did nothing but reflect my own blazing blue eyes back.

 I broke the silence, "So, how are things?" He stared at me, and then snapped out of his little trance. "Oh I'm sorry." he said quickly. "Let's go out on the back porch and talk. I set up the stuff for tea out there and it is more comfortable." I picked up my purse and followed him out.

We went out the French doors in the living room to the screen porch. The porch was decorated in a Victorian style with white wicker furniture. On the wicker table was a silver tea service set with a plate of his mother's cookies and Leonie's famous cream cheese and jelly mini sandwiches. We sat down and Noah opened a brown paper bag and pulled out an assortment of teas and set them out in front of me choosing an Earl Gray tea bag for himself. I looked them over and picked a Prince of Wales tea bag and began to pour water from the silver tea pot. "So, how are things?" I said again.

"All right." He said as he unwrapped his tea bag and placed it into the cup of steaming water.  He started to play with his tea bag, lifting it up and down. The aromatic fumes filled the air. "Leonie and I are thinking about getting an apartment closer to William Paterson."

"Oh, she's going there too?" I asked taking my spoon and removing the tea bag from the cup. The hot tea from the bag burned my fingers as I placed it in a napkin.

"Yeah, she transferred there in the fall. They have a better psychology program than Stockton." He took a long sip of his tea. "So, what's new with you?"

"Nothing new. Doing the college thing. Still marching."

"How's Fordham's band? I heard you guys were good."

"Yeah. We are pretty good." I fiddled with my spoon. "So…"

"So." He picked up his tea to escape his turn to speak. He looked at me as he silently drank his tea and I drank mine. The silence was as thick as the fragrant smoke of the tea that filled the room. It was so thick you could cut  it with a knife.

That's how the conversation continued; interrupted by long periods of "um's", "so's", and deafening silences. When we were talking I realized that I didn't know who he was. Not anymore. His lifestyle, outlook, and interests changed. It was like talking to a person I never met before who just looked like a really good friend. It made me sad. The entire time I was there, sitting on his back porch, talking, sipping tea, I couldn't help but feel sad.

Now, here I am five months later. I still haven't moved on. Everytime I try, I see something that reminds me of him, of how he used to be. I know I shouldn't live in the past, but I guess that's what love does to people, especially lost love. What is the moral of this story? I want to say it is to hold on and don't give up without a fight. Perhaps if I had followed this advice a long time ago, this story would be different. Maybe.  All I know is that time hurts, but I know that I will eventually be able to move on. However, I know I will never forget him and his eyes. As hard as I try they will always be there, the part of my mind that reminds me of the impact one human life can have on another. What can I say? But perhaps, take this piece of narrative, and learn all you can, if anything, from it.  It may not be a great masterpiece or "proper prose", but it is a story nonetheless.  From narratives we can learn life hardest lessons; I know I have learned some just from writing one.*

Darlene Josephine Mankon

 September 15, 2003, 9:45 p.m.

Fordham University: Lincoln Center Campus

New York, New York