Two can play at this game, O.J.
November 20, 2006I’m no acquitted double-murderer. I’m no 11,236-yard career rusher. What I am, however, is capable of a If I Did It like retrospective.
For those that don’t already know, the rest of the world discovered last week that O.J. Simpson wrote a book in which an entire chapter was devoted to how he would have killed his ex-wife and her lover had he actually been the guy that killed the ex-wife and lover.
Say for speculation’s sake that Simpson actually didn’t kill anyone. And please don’t tell me he didn’t. Don’t be dumb.
Anyway, let’s just say he didn’t do what it is he actually did. Why oh why on earth would he ever write anything even hinting he did? And if for some reason he had a burning desire to write, and if that desire involved a double murder, why not be classy about it and write it in the context of a Nancy Drew mystery? What are you thinking O.J. Simpson?
I’ll tell you what he’s thinking. He’s a media (attention seeker) that’s been hidden from view too long. He’s sick. A (bag used for rinsing female bits). Can I say (bag used for rinsing female bits) in this fine publication? Actually, the answer is no. The editors made me use euphemisms.
So now that we’ve established that — as if it hadn’t all ready been established by now — I’d like to contemplate a bit on the what-ifs in my own life. Below is an excerpt of my book, my pièce de résistance called If I Didn’t. If I had written such a book, it might go something like this:
It’s after noon. I’m not wearing pants. I’m staring at a blank page, and I want a beer. I read the exploits of all the others, and I hate them more now than I ever have before.
Hate. It’s the only thing I know how to do. It puts me in a hole. I could chart the ups and downs, the ebb and flow: it always comes back to where we’re standing right now. Right here where we’re standing.
I live a life built for poetry. It’s just too bad I am no poet. Can’t stand it or those who write it. Too much importance in too few words. Words are cheap. They’re supposed to be used and forgotten.
Even my sister conspires against recovery. She was to visit me today — something I was really looking forward to. But a pus throat and a doctor’s appointment holds her in Williamsburg. She says she will come tomorrow, but I know she will never come. That’s what happens with my sister and I. We say things we don’t mean.
Which I guess is something I’m accused of doing. OK, I’m guilty. Forgive me.
And we all know that forgiveness never truly comes, it doesn’t fall — because when we think it does, it’s never complete. That’s the way life is, you see? We forgive, but we never really do. And it mounts up until we can forgive no more. And those that trespass after the ones forgiven, those folks are the unlucky ones. How can you forgive a mosquito when you’ve already been bitten by a crocodile?
The answer is you don’t. And you lose.
Like the time I first found love warm and fond and in no mood to roll in the summer grass. Fifteen, we were 15 years old, and flooded with all the worry and the sweaty hands that is high school love. I wonder sometimes what things would be like now had I just shut up and kissed the girl.
I wonder about that sometimes and about how things would be different today. Would I take bigger risks? Would I climb taller trees? Would I watch as much late night television? But she moved and then I moved, and we’ll never know.
I wonder, too, about the schools I went to and how I had a knack for never doing my homework. My insubordination wasn’t caused by an inner need to buck at authority or anything like that. No. It was a simple matter of intellectual honesty. Busy work is for children. I’m not a child. If you want to teach, teach. Let’s start a thoughtful discourse. Otherwise, don’t waste my time.
I was proud, I am proud of that stance. So? I don’t go to Harvard, so what? If going to Harvard meant being an academic drone for four or more years, then you can take your Harvard and eat it. I don’t need that.
But what if I did eat it? What would life be like now if I cared about GPA? What if I didn’t clown around in the back of my statistics classes? Would my appreciation for mathematics be any different? You know, I failed statistics once in high school, once at one college and have dropped it once at VCU. And since it also happens to be a required course for my desired degree, I’m going to have to give it one more go. At least one more go. Maybe two.
But what if my relationship with statistics was amicable? Would I still be a 23, almost 24-year-old academic? How about a doctor? Would I be a non-Croatian version of Dr. Kovac on ER? What about a Dr. Kevorkian? How about that?
Who knows how these things would have moved the outcome of my life? But I don’t care, really, because I’ve got better things to do with my time. I have no regrets, just a few what-ifs. That’s what I have here in my pocket.
But maybe O.J.’s trying to say the same thing. He’s saying that there are no regrets, maybe, and that he’s proud of his handiwork. And now that we know, he’s telling us that we have better things to do with our time.
I think he might be right.
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