The Campfire Rule
HE WAS NEVER A BOY SCOUT YET HE HAD HEARD OF THE RULE.
"You know 'The Campfire Rule,' yes?" she asked.
"I do. When you set up camp, the rule is to leave the place better than how you found it, right?"
"Right. I believe in the same rule when it comes to relationships. Leave your partner better than you found them. Sort of the reverse of 'Do no harm.' So many of my boyfriends have left me worse off—emotionally, financially, spiritually—that if someone I'm with doesn't have that rule top of mind, I have to move on."
Geena was completely unique in his dating profile. Self possessed, smart, and the very definition of what had been popularized as the Manic Pixie Dream Girl. She dressed like she was a teenager in the nineties—short-shorts, band t-shirts, knit caps or a beret, multi-colored boots, and a plastic or metal ring on every finger. She smoked clove cigarettes when she wanted to seem cosmopolitan. She was irreverent and loved nothing more than getting a laugh at the dumbest dad jokes she could muster.
He was immediately drawn to her. He liked her tattoos. He liked her crooked smile. She had a type of chaos behind her eyes. His friend knew her from college and had told him she was alright. "Geena's got a good head on her shoulders, dude. You're not really her type but good luck."
"What's her type?"
"Not you. She tends toward guys in garage bands. Guys who live on the darker side of things."
"Got it."
Two days later at a local dive bar. She with a vodka cranberry, he with an IPA.
"So many of my boyfriends have left me worse off—emotionally, financially, spiritually—that if someone I'm with doesn't have that rule top of mind, I have to move on."
"OK. If we're going to observe the Campfire Rule, where are you at right now so I know what better looks like?"
She sipped her drink.
"Where I am? I don't have the patience for getting a job job but I inherited some cash a while ago so I get along with side gigs here and there. I have a pretty cushy set up for housing right now—I was getting out of a real shitshow of a relationship and a guy I met in a bar offered me a room in his house, rent-free. I suppose you could say I'm skating across the surface of things.
"I play bass in a few bands but nothing really serious. Mostly we practice and drink. Maybe we'll get a gig once in awhile."
She starting giggling. "I'm on a downward spiral, dude. I kind of hate men in general even though I spend most of my time with guys. I don't have many girlfriends and am intentionally making as little impact on the world as I possibly can.
"I'm dark. Not nihilistic so much as mostly cynical. Pessimistic. In terms of the Campfire Rule, you'd really have to be a monster to leave me worse off than I am."
He looked down at his beer. It was nearly empty so he waved over to the waitress and ordered another. "You want another?" She nodded. He ordered her a third vodka cranberry. He looked up into her eyes. Her story was a parade of warning signs.
"Wow."
"Yeah. Have I scared you off yet?"
He laughed. "Getting there."
"How about you and your campground set up?"
"I'm sort of a worker bee. My 'career' as such is a mish-mash of invariably low-paying but highly satisfying jobs. I get by, though. I was only homeless when I first came here and lived in my truck for a bit.
"I have a two-bedroom apartment. It's fine, not fancy, but gets the job done. I have not been great with long-term relationships. You could say that I'm fixated on monogamy but haven't been very successful maintaining it."
"Oh. So you're a cheater, huh?"
"No. Not that. Been married and divorced twice. The second ex-wife cheated but I can now understand why."
"You've been divorced twice?"
"Oh man. Here we go. The first marriage was out of college. We got married out of little more than not knowing what else to do. College couple and then graduation and what the fuck, right? She wanted security, stability, and the whole house and kids thing. At that time, I wasn't into that. We made it work for a decade or so, but finally those differences split us up.
"The second marriage was work-related. I produced, she directed. When I decided to stop producing what she directed, we grew apart, and she found someone else—for a year.
"The last thing—not marriage but a lot like it—was with a beautiful, intelligent woman who loved to fuck me but didn't like me much. Four years of that wreaks havoc on the self esteem, let me tell ya. At this point, I've figured out that while I'm sort of addicted to a monogamous partnership, I don't choose partners very well. Nothing wrong with the women. Nothing like that. They're always wonderful ladies. Just not a good fit and the strain of that doesn't bode well."
Their drinks came and the waitress nabbed their empties.
"Are you interested in ordering some food today?"
"No. Thank you."
"So, you're saying your picker is busted."
He laughed. "Yup. Pretty much."
"You think you'll get married again?"
"Probably. When it comes to marriage, I'm the Don Quixote of eligible bachelors."
"Don Quixote?"
"Dreaming the impossible dream. Tilting at every windmill. Seeking my Dulcinea. Categorically insane."
"I'm no windmill, buddy."
"I'm getting that sense."
✶
IN THE END, DESPITE THE OBVIOUS RED FLAGS, HE DID PICK HER. Without regard to his many red flags, she picked him.
They set up camp. She had never been a wife and struggled with the basic conventions. Given she was almost pathologically unconventional, this proved challenging. He had practice at the husband detail so he did it better than he had before. Far from perfect, their campfire was well maintained, comfortable, and the envy of most other couples.
What Geena hadn't told him and what he never suspected was that she wasn't in love with him. Not like a wife loves a husband or a lover craves the object of her lust. It was a crack in their wedded bliss that just sat there and no matter how hard she tried to ignore it, tripped her up time and time again.
This crack prevented both from growing in the union. She continued to insist on dressing like she did when was seventeen, he continued to bristle at her suggestions that he floss. She, like George Constanza in Seinfeld, did everything to avoid a steady job, he threw himself into the industry in front of him rather than paying attention and noticing the crack. The two seemed like they were occupying the same camp but were roommates who slept in the same bed, travelers with separate destinations walking the same path.
For five years Geena kept her end of the bargain. She pretended to be the wife he wanted. Then one day, the strain of the duplicity became too much for the Manic Pixie Dream Girl. She added a third level of pretend out of boredom, out of the very dark nihilism she had enjoyed five years earlier, out of opportunity. Intense self indulgence is rarely very different from intense self destruction. It’s just a slower version of it. Unless you’re in Vegas and then the two are roughly equivalent.
✶
AS SHE PACKED HER THINGS UP IN TUBS, each overflowing with stuff she had accumulated from even before their time in camp, she stopped and said, "I guess I blew it with the Campfire Rule, huh?"
He couldn't look her in the eye but nodded. "Yup. Pretty much."
She continued to mash things in the tubs.
"How bad have I left you?"
"A lot worse, I'd say. But I'll get over it. Eventually. I didn't really do a bang up job with your campfire, either."
"How's that?"
"When we met, you were living off your inherited money, living in a place that wasn't yours for free, and had no real job to speak of. You're moving your stuff to an apartment that isn't yours that you live in rent-free, living off the money from that same inheritance, with no adult job history. You weren't a full on misandrist and you're still sort of a Hallmark card version of a man-hater. You were on a downward spiral and now you resume that direction.
"It's as if our entire time together had a zero sum impact on you. That living with me, traveling with me, had no effect. As if I was no one of any genuine value in your life. In terms of the Campfire Rule, I seem to have left you exactly as I found you."
"So no harm done. You know, except for the harm I've done you."
"Yeah. There's still that."
"I told you I was no windmill."
"No. No windmill. You weren't Dulcinea, either. You were an actual giant and I lost the battle, I suppose."
"Did it feel like a battle?"
"Not always. Not mostly. I still feel like I've been bludgeoned but the bruising will turn purple, then yellow, then fade. I'll take care of my own campfire, Geena. You’re off the hook."
