Some people never change. Some people make it seem like they’ve changed, but it’s actually a disguise that they horrifyingly switch out of when they think they’re alone.
The other day, I met the latter. It was not pretty.
He was an old acquaintance from my high school. Back when we first knew each other, my favourite conversations were the ones where we never spoke a word. Avoiding conversations in the first place always made my day extra special. He was one of those crypto bros who tried to sell me Pierre Poilievre’s NFT every time we met. I expected our relationship to continue with our anti-social ways after we graduated, but when I saw him at SFU, his usual RBF had been replaced by a smile so jolly that I almost didn’t recognize him. I tried to run — but he caught me first.
We actually had the most uplifting conversation about how he’s enjoying school and having fun with friends. I was really impressed. How refreshing to see someone who went through an emotional maturation — to see the transformation of someone who used to say phrases like “what’s good my broski,” and now says, “Can’t we just talk about the political and economic state of the world?”
After catching up, and talking about the importance of a feminist reading of Ibsen’s A Doll’s House, then about how much we hate Poilievre (shocker! He’s changed!), we said our goodbyes in the parking lot. We even made plans for karaoke Friday night. As I gave him an endearing wave, he hopped into the front seat of his car, letting out a sigh. While I walked away, I heard an unusual screeching sound.
I turned around and saw a transformation that made a lot more sense than whatever emotional transformation he would have had to make to have gotten so cheerful and intellectual since high school. I thought he must have just read a self-help book or something, but the reality was much worse. Eat, Pray, Love was more like Starve, Curse, Hate for this guy.
In the privacy of his car, he screamed and held onto his head in pain. He peeled a suddenly-apparent mask (wtf?) off of his face, and his joyous grin morphed back into a scowl that I knew all too well. He punched the steering wheel so hard that it shook the car and a printed selfie of him with Elon Musk flew out of his sun visor. I hid behind a car so I could see what the hell was happening. He gazed upon the photo and it seemed to help ease the discomfort that escaping from his disguise must have caused him.
“GOD, MOM — what am I going to wear tomorrow now that all of my band shirts are dirty?? How about my The Clash shirt . . . NO MOM. I need real music, like Radiohead or Death Grips . . . You know what? Just forget it. You suck, Barbara!” he screamed into the phone, his voice shaking the ground beneath me.
I watched, disappointedly, with the realization that our short time getting along was all a façade. Maybe he adopted this persona to hit on the radical left baddies here (spoiler alert: he found one), or perhaps he’s just having a pre-quarter-life identity crisis? I guess I’ll be singing “Reunited” all by myself for karaoke this Friday. Or who knows, maybe he’ll change back?
