HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT THE TIME I HUNG OUT WITH A SEX OFFENDER AT HIS PLACE?...ALONE?

Some anecdotes really can't be made up. This one, really, truly, honestly, isn't. 

 

I first met Gabriel in a community college novel-writing class. He reminded me of Zachary Quinto's character in Heroes, Sylar, the same obscure eyes and confident demeanor. He introduced himself as a retired firefighter, said he'd woken up after a motorcycle accident, and began writing to get through his recovery. It was my first time taking a creative writing course and was quickly intimidated by the way he spoke of his craft. Gabriel described his novel as an apocalyptic battle between angels and demons, based in a Terminator-like dystopian society, with a sprinkle of Romeo and Juliet for taste. I remember being fascinated when he shared how his editor wanted changes done in a specific scene or shared an opinion on his antagonist's character development. Meanwhile, I was still trying to decide what names to use for my characters. But as the semester progressed, I forgot about Gabriel and his crazy-intricate storyline and focused on trying to build one of my own.

 

I didn't have a class with Gabriel again until British Literature with Professor Bing. One day he walked in wearing a hoodie with the initials for 'NYU' and shared he'd just gotten into New York University. But he decided to defer a year because it was such a consequential decision and wanted to consider his elderly parents, who would be living on their own. I was awed that he'd gotten into an ivy league university ahead of others of us, who were barely at the beginning stages of our application process. Admittingly, part of me was a little jealous that he'd managed to get into my dream school. I fantasized about walking the streets of New York City as a student at NYU, with my AirPods on and listening to Tonight by Lykke Li.  

 

It was also in British Lit, where Gabriel handed me and others, his Council Member business card, naturally, so we could study together at some point. Maybe it was because I was so focused on transferring and trying to absorb Milton that I didn't give much thought to him again. I never studied with Gabriel for Brit Lit. I was too busy meeting with counselors and trying to figure out where to apply. NYU was my fantasy school, but as an out-of-state student, it didn't make sense financially. Instead, I settled on the UCs, including Berkeley, though, mostly for amusement. 

 

I found out the weekend of my birthday that I had succeeded in fooling the admissions office of Berkeley, landing a spot for the fall and I was still in shock when I walked into class the following Tuesday. But it quickly evaporated when I learned four other students, including Gabriel, had also gotten into Berkeley. The others getting admitted didn't lessen my excitement but made me wonder if I was as qualified as them. 

 

There was another moment of intrigue from my peers, concerning Gabriel, that morning. Two students talked among themselves before one shook his head and turned to ask, "Hey Gabe, isn't true that you're married?"

 

Gabriel, who'd just taken off his backpack and was getting out his textbook, looked over, "Yeah, but she lives in Japan."

 

"Why?" asked the other student, genuinely curious. 

 

Gabriel shrugged his shoulders, pulling down on the muscles of his mouth, "She likes it there, and I like living here."

 

After, Gabriel sat down quietly, opened his copy of Norton Anthology English Literature Edition, and waited for the lecture. If he was bothered by their intrusive question, he didn't show it. You might be asking yourself, how does someone who claims not to have paid attention to what Gabriel was doing, remember so much? The only explanation I can give is, I suffer from selective memory. It's a debilitating condition I've endured since I was a child and has made for some awkward situations. But, I digress. 

 

The summer before my first semester at Berkeley, I joined a Facebook group for transfer students. Around that same time, Gabriel made a group chat for those of us who were transferring together. We were all excited about the prestige of our new university. We exchanged ideas about starting a writing club, or a literary journal, just something of our own to manifest into existence. On the same group chat, Gabriel asked if anyone would be willing to drive with him up to Berkeley, as he'd already found a place to rent and needed help moving his things. I'll never understand to this day why I offered to go with him. In retrospect, I guess a road trip up to see my would-be school seemed appealing at the time. I gave no thought about how I barely knew Gabriel outside of school and would be spending the night in his apartment alone. I didn't end up going. Gabriel found a close friend to go with him, and I went to Cancun instead. I ate fish tacos in Cozumel, danced with a mariachi band on a boat, swam with a sea turtle in Tulum, and took a humid road trip to Chichen-Itza's old decrepit pyramids. 

 

With a new bronzed look, I eagerly left everything behind at the end of august to start my first semester at Berkeley. By the way, trying to fit everything into two suitcases for an entire semester is impossible. Three of us who'd transferred from the same community college ended up in the same Shakespeare class, one of them, Gabriel. With a lecture hall of over a hundred students, it was nice having familiar faces. The three of us made plans multiple times to study together, exchange notes, and help each other with our essays, but we never met up. It wasn't until the end of the semester when we were all scrambling to write our final papers that I finally followed through on plans to study with Gabriel. Our other classmate\\\\\

 couldn't make it.

 

Gabriel and I exchanged ideas on what we planned to write about, we complained about our GSI's, and the difference between community college and the rigorous expectations of Berkeley. In between our discussion about the foils in A Midsummer Night's Dream, and the oh-so-obvious instances of anti-Semitism in The Merchant of Venice. He shared how he'd met a woman from Arizona, and spent the majority of Thanksgiving break together. I didn't ask about the wedding picture on his fridge, or if he still had a wife in Japan. When we finished, Gabriel gave me a ride back to my apartment, and it was the last time I saw him that fall. However, we managed to keep in touch through periodic messages during winter break. He enthusiastically announced he'd began reading for the spring semester to get ahead. Meanwhile, I was pulling all-nighters, getting sucked into the rabbit hole of BTS- I just wanted to know their names.

 

Once the spring semester began, by complete coincidence, Gabriel and I had another class together. It was an English department film class. If I'm totally honest, I mostly signed up for it because of what the professor scored on a website and the course description said we'd be watching films instead of reading. Gabriel was already sitting down in the class when I walked into Wheeler Hall and up the massive stairs to the third floor. He shared how excited he was about the course, and how he'd emailed the professor, asking him to be his mentor. Gabriel spoke a lot, it was too early in the morning, and I tried paying attention while wishing I'd stopped to buy a Capuccino at Bear Cafe. If I had, then perhaps I would have figured out there was something awry. When the professor began lecturing, I started to yawn. When I got back to my apartment, I dropped the class, opting to take Studies in World Literature in English: Orphans, Feral Children, Runaways—Strange Childhood in World Literature by Professor Saha, a study with a fourteen-page final at the end of the semester.

 

Gabriel texted me the following class to ask if I was okay because I hadn't shown up. He was concerned I'd missed an important lecture and kindly offered me his lecture notes. I responded with the truth, the course Gabriel was so excited about couldn't keep me awake. He never messaged me after that, and for a long time, I wondered if my brutal honesty hurt his feelings.

 

I found out the truth, later on, in the summer back at home. My roommate stayed to complete her minor, and I woke up to a flood of Instagram messages from her.

 

"Oh my god! You're never going to believe this!"

 ...

"Gabriel's a sex offender!" 

...

"Wait, didn't you go to his apartment?"

...

"WERE YOU ALONE WITH HIM?"

 

She later explained Gabriel had gotten into a Facebook argument with her friend who'd googled him and found an arrest record from the early 2010s. The arrest record and details of his case made it on Facebook and was public for everyone to see he was a registered sex offender. After, Gabriel suspended his Facebook account and went dark. During that time, I worked at a retail store for the summer and told my manager the story. She was horrified at first but then asked what was worse: that I was naive enough to put myself in that situation, or that he hadn't made a pass at me at his apartment?

 

 I saw him a few times on campus afterward, and I was sure he saw me too, but never made an effort to approach me again. The last time I noticed Gabriel was the day of our department graduation. It was a cold, rainy day and he was standing by himself, looking at the screen of his phone. As we all waited for the ceremony to begin, I thought back to each time I'd hung out with him. Gabriel always went out of his way to help in some shape or form, offered sound advice, regularly paid for expensive meals, and shared his notes. But he was also always alone. It was as if he was trying to compensate for something.

 

Moreover, the name he used wasn't real. To escape his past, Gabriel had used five different aliases. His crime was unforgivable; still, I couldn't help feeling regretful toward him. A neurotic part of me wanted to explain I hadn't dropped the class because he was a sex offender and that I didn't know about it until afterward. More so, I pitied him and wondered how many times he'd made friends only to have them find out the truth. 

 

For a while, I considered walking over to explain myself. But, as the thought crossed my mind, the drizzling intensified, and I ran under the shield of a pavilion with some friends. Soon after, melancholic music began to play, we rushed into a line, and the nervous whispering erupted between us. With dark azure stoles around our necks, we made our way down a ramp, sat in puddles of watered seats, and waited our turn to cross the finish line across the Greek Theatre stage.