Blood Sugar(15)

I assumed because of his talent that Roman was a theater major. Yale had one of the best theater departments in the county. But he informed me acting was only a hobby. I was impressed. It takes a special kind of person to be so good at something that is only considered a hobby. Roman explained he was focused on law school, Yale Law School to be specific, and was double majoring in sociology and history, plus taking pre-law classes. He spoke about “famous” lawyers like other guys talk about rock stars and quarterbacks. Roman idolized litigators, followed trials, and rooted for outcomes not based on the crime or the victim or the accused, but based on who was trying the case.

He was the firstborn of four boys and was given his mother’s maiden name. She came from a wealthy family that made millions in textiles during the turn of the twentieth century. His father was a self-made man from Cleveland who went to Yale undergrad and was now the CEO of a large commercial real estate firm. His parents met in line at a taxi stand outside one of the nicer New Haven hotels. He was an undergrad at Yale, and would often sit in the fancy hotel lobby imagining the day when he had the money to sleep in one of the rooms. She was just starting her final year at boarding school in Andover and had just had high tea with a girlfriend. She dropped her glove. He picked it up. Five years later Roman Ramsey Miller was born. He grew up in a mansion in New Canaan, Connecticut.

As I learned about Roman and his family, I remembered something my mother once told me. The upper class could do what they wanted because they were so rich, and the lower class could do what they wanted because no one cared about them. It was only the middle class that was expected to follow societal rules, and I was solidly middle class. Roman was one of the many people I met who seemed to prove my mother’s theory correct. Rules didn’t apply to him at all, including his take on the law. Roman believed guilt or innocence was irrelevant; it always came down to the lawyers. It was a game, and the attorney who could manipulate the facts best was the attorney who would and should win. And he yearned to be that attorney. After briefly seeing him onstage performing Shakespeare, I had no doubt he would achieve his goals. He could most certainly captivate a courtroom, get the jury or judge on his side, and win his case regardless of right or wrong. And I believed he would sleep just fine at night, regardless of the “truth.”

Aside from Ameena, Roman became my closest friend. We were inseparable. Equally intense and extroverted but somehow complementing each other instead of competing and getting in the other’s way. I would go to the campus gym with him and slowly walk up and down on the StairMaster as he sculpted his masterpiece of a body. I would call out obscene challenges because I knew he was stubborn enough to try them. “Do twenty pull-ups!” “Throw another ninety pounds on the squat rack!” “Run a mile in four minutes and thirty seconds!” His high school track days (I had called it when I first saw his legs in those tights) made this request not totally outlandish, and he came in with an impressive four minutes and forty-five seconds, but he still beat himself up over that additional fifteen seconds of perceived failure.

In his quiet moments, Roman would memorize Trivial Pursuit questions and answers and look over lists of high-point Scrabble words in case a game was to ever pop up. He felt he could manage life the way my mother felt I could avoid getting HIV. I had control. I didn’t have to ever contract the disease, extenuating circumstances aside, if I took certain measures and precautions. Condoms always, always, always. Like I relied on the incredible protection of a thin piece of latex, Roman lived life with his own shield. He believed that if the information existed in the world, why not know it? Why not memorize the answers when they are in front of you, therefore controlling the outcome of the question? Why leave life to chance? Roman wanted to learn everything that was available to him because he believed knowledge was power. And power was control. So he wouldn’t leave anything up in the air if he didn’t have to. I, however, believed knowing you don’t have all the knowledge and not caring about it was even more powerful. In a sense it was freeing. This difference between us ignited endless scintillating debates.

In that same vein, Roman wanted to be known by everyone and wanted to know everyone. I enjoyed being known by people and not knowing them back. This specifically turned our debate into an argument. While walking through campus, many people would say, “Hey, Roman. Hi, Ruby.” And Roman would come back with “Hi, Jennifer.” “Hey, Tim.” “What’s up, Dave?” “Love those tights, Alison!” I didn’t remember any of these people’s names, nor did I care what they were. They weren’t my friends. Roman was disgusted by my haughtiness. I was disgusted by his fakeness. He didn’t care about those people, so why pretend? Roman felt a comfort in the connectivity, even if it was a facade. He felt special by both being liked and seeming likable. I felt special by not needing to be liked by all, but being loved deeply by a select few.

One day, as usual, Roman was carrying my big bag full of textbooks through campus for me, because he liked the extra arm workout. When I revealed I didn’t know “Henry’s” name after he passed by, and I didn’t care to memorize it, Roman threw my bag down on the newly formed spring grass and stormed off, yelling, “Snobby bitch!”

I yelled back, “Needy douchebag!”

We didn’t talk for three days, and time seemed to slow way down. Like the seconds were filled with a thick fog. I missed him. So much so, I began to rethink my philosophy. Maybe he was right; maybe I was haughty. I would always now remember Henry’s name, but maybe I should also pay attention to Henry’s roommates’ names. Henry’s girlfriend’s name. Her best friend’s name. And on and on. Like each life seeping out endlessly. When do the names stop? The fog got so thick I became desperate to see through to the other side again. Maybe I should apologize to Roman, end the feud. Maybe I would tomorrow.