For Enemies (or, Wards II)

Last week, I had a conversation with a very dear friend who told me about how he'd been startled to receive a phonecall from a person no longer in his life. The two had parted on somewhat apocalyptic terms, so my friend wondered if the person might be trying to contact him for purposes of mature adult reconciliation or, alternatively, straight-up murderin'. My friend hadn't taken the call and no voicemail was left. As time passed, it seemed to have been only a mistake of which the caller was entirely unaware--no intended confrontation, but rather a casual call meant for the person probably one alphabetical down from my friend on his contact list. My friend marveled that years after the fallout, this person still even saved his number--although, he admitted obviously he had kept his number.

I told him that I had also, in a fit of paranoia, saved an enemy's number in my phone, even now, many years after our original fallout. (Exfriend is perhaps a more accurate descriptor, but I'd applied the word with my trademarked 9th grade dramatic flair. Friend satisfyingly gasped How could someone like you have enemies?--a question I could have more legitimately offered him in turn. )

Still, I suppose by this age, even the most truly passive and mild-mannered of us have collected at least one volatile person upon whom it might be awkward to encounter unarmed in a Walmart. Any heads-up in the case of their sudden, meteor-like re-entry into our lives would be worth the cost. But there's a sacrifice. There's a kind of catharsis in deletion. It's a tricky business, holding onto that bit of the past in such a tangible way, a reminder every time you skim through your phone. Maybe it's different for people with whom personal drama is less traumatic and more enjoyable. I bet people like that don't even keep numbers.

My friend faced this quandary with his typical cheer and panache: "And that's how I got an entry entitled Abusive Bastard in my contacts!" I uneasily followed his lead--the accidental dial scenario made me squeamish with weakling sentiment, and I'd already had the problematic issue of having acquiring a new friend with that same taboo name. The differentiation seemed too profound to denotate with a simple last name initial.

I deleted her real name and thumbed in "Cow" for the enemy, but the viciousness and anger I'd dredged up to dub her thus felt stale. I was sure that wherever she was now, years later, she fell squarely into the category of those who enjoy personal drama and had moved on to bigger game, while I was stuck quivering at her mere ghost. The loss was deeply traumatic and I still think about it a lot, even if her name wasn't in my phone. I still worry, still cripple my current friendships with much better people with leftover pain and irrational, persistent insecurities. The endless internal litany: areyougoingtohurtme?areyougoingtoleaveme?--it makes me sick with rage because I'm not that person. Except that now I am, sometimes.

Alas, I'm getting into ridiculous emotional soups. On the bright side, the experience means that I doubt I'll have many more people like that in my life. I think once you have an enemy, even if there's a lot of lingering angst, you don't let it happen again. Sure, there are always going to be trouble-making people. But spite, I've found, nowadays bores me. It's easier to let go.

Still, here is a paranoid list of secrets wards I have employed against such villains:
sparrow feathers
cardinal feathers
mjolnir
all-seeing-eye
rue
witchdoll earrings marketed "to provide confusion to enemies"


"If I could see Tommy today, I would punch his arrogant face right into its fatness!"
-Josh, pacifist, on a childhood enemy