The Sad, Strange Saga of Jill Smiley and Friends: Part 2
Part 1 here.

Regular college was treating me well. I enjoyed living in the dorms with my own private room, and I was still close enough to visit my friends in Seattle and play Goldeneye every weekend. I was in a film program at The Evergreen State College, a liberal arts college of note primarily for being boasting Matt Groening, creator of The Simpsons, as an alumni. More recently it has become well known in my home for lacking the prestige to secure me gainful employment in New York City. ("You went where?")

At the time, though, I was enjoying myself. I had lost nearly 40 pounds and figured pretty girls were right around the corner. I briefly dated a girl who worked in the gym on campus. I think her name was Whitney. She terrified me. After hanging out twice she began showing up uninvited at my dorm. I knew things were bad when once, while driving late at night, she told me she found it safer to drive over the large yellow line in the middle of the road. Driving in the middle of the road in darkness through a wooded area isn't my idea of a good time, so eventually I did what any man would:

I enlisted my friend Alison to help me break up with her by email.

I wish I'd kept a copy. It was a cowardly, desperate act, but considering I'd spent the previous two weeks pretending I wasn't home as she called over and over again, I felt like I made the right choice. When I was younger I had joked that I wanted to be stalked, but if stalking was like this, but worse, I decided I wanted no part in such an activity.

After Whitney there was not a lot of action. Things slowed down, and I got into a routine that involved peanut butter cereals and Nintendo 64 Tetris. Then, one day, much like I had two years prior, I suddenly decided I wanted a date.

My past failure with Devon had taught me very little. I once again selected a girl I hardly knew from class. I remember her name, but I also remember shame, so I will give her a nice new name: Angelina. Angelina was a bit of an odd duck, but she seemed nice enough. She was skinny and blond and I hadn't, to this point, dated a skinny and blond girl. I decided this was reason enough to misuse our class call sheet for the purpose of asking her out.

I worked myself up. I picked up the phone and dialed. Once again, that Goddamned Lloyd Dobler was my insperation.

This time I was on the phone. This time it would be different.

Ring ring.

"Hello?" a female voice on the other end of the phone asked.

"Hi, is Angelina there?"

"Who is this?"

"Scott," I said. That's me. I'm Scott.

Silence on the other end. "Who?"

"Scott."

Another pause. Then: "Jesus?"

Perhaps the connection was bad, perhaps I was unclear or mumbling, or perhaps God hates me. Whatever it was, the woman yelled, "Angelina, JESUS is on the phone!"

There was some movement and laughter on the other end of the phone and then I heard Angelina's voice. "JESUS?"

"No," I said, "It's not Jesus. It's Scott, from class!"

"Jesus?!??!?!?!" she asked again.

"Scott!"

"Who?" She asked.

At least she knew who Jesus was.

"I'm in your class," I managed, "I'm the blond guy." I could have been more descriptive, but that usually does it. I am very blond.

"Oh," she said. "How did you get my number?"

"The class call sheet," I said.

"Why did you say you were Jesus to my roommate?"

"I didn't, I said I was Scott!" I stammered.

I didn't like how this conversation was going. I hadn't even gotten a chance to be charming and funny and winning because of this Jesus debacle. And in what universe does SCOTT sound like JESUS?

I could hear laughter in the background. "It's not Jesus!" she yelled at her friend. "Why are you calling?" she asked.

Despite what could be interpreted as a sign from Jesus Christ himself to end this before it spiraled further out of control, I continued. "I was just wondering if you, you know, wanted to go out sometime?"

In retrospect, I should have elaborated more, explained it was no big deal and put her at ease. But the fact is I was on a foolish mission, and no dancing around it was going to save me.

She didn't say anything at first, besides, if I recall, a contemplative, "Oh." Then she waited, because it's more fun for everyone that way.

I don't know if she could have picked more memorable or sad words.

"Is it OK....if I say no?"

I can still hear every pause bouncing around in my head. I think I heard her stifling a small laugh at the end.

There was so much pity. And she ASKED me, as if I could say, "No, it's not OK. You must go on a date with me. Let's go to the Olive Garden. They have unlimited bread sticks."

Also, there was trepidation in her voice. Was she afraid of me? Maybe she thought I would snap if she did not put her rejection in a way that wasn't clear and gentle and go on a blond rampage.

It was as humiliated as I had ever been. I could picture her, holding the phone a foot from her face, wincing. Not a pleasant image.

"Oh, yeah," I said, laughing, like I called up skinny blond girls all the time and asked them on non-destination specific dates. I don't recall everything I said, but I remember my mission changed immediatly from asking a girl out to not seeming like a creepy dude who calls up strangers pretending to be Jesus and then ask them out. I bumbled on for a few moments and got the hell off the phone.

The funny thing is, when I hung up the phone I felt OK. There was nothing ambiguous about the situation. I had made a fool of myself, but at least I knew where I stood. That was something.

I was grasping at straws, sure, but sometimes it's nice to find one and hold on tight. And then turn up the stereo and wallow.

I had asked out Devon out at the end of the semester, which ended up working out well. When she wholly rejected me and made me feel worthless at least I never had to see her again. This time I had to see Angelina, and not only that, I had to screen my work in front of her, fear her telling everyone what an idiot I was, and generally be within 50 feet of her judging eyes for several months. I swear to God sometimes I'd see her looking at me with a pitying smirk.

I don't know if she ever told anyone in class about the Jesus phone call. I wouldn't have to wait long for public humiliation, though, because Jill Smiley was coming. And this time I wouldn't be alone in my shame. Everyone I knew would be there with me.

It's a good thing I was dressed as Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

CONTINUED IN THE FOLLOWING EDITION.