January 29, 2010 - Building Bridges

This is my home-game entry for The Real LJ Idol. I am not competing this season but invite you to read the many fine submissions here and the other home-game entries here. Topic number 12 is a revisitation of Throwback Week, with several available topics. It's also Intersection Week, meaning we're supposed to work with another contestant, each choosing a different topic, with the entries linking as much or as little as you like. I paired up with another home-game player.

I chose the theme "Who's That Trip-Trapping Over My LiveJournal?"

Start by reading my partner's entry at her blog. I don't have the exact link yet; I'll update when I do.

Once upon a time there was a blog. It was an ordinary blog, filled with personal musings and pop cultural references. What made it special was that it belonged to Peter Billings. Or at least, it was special to him.

Really, though, this isn't the blog's story, so much as it is the story of what the blog brought him. Or rather, who.

Peter Billings was a happy man. In the 15 years since he'd graduated from high school, he'd earned an MBA and secured a position as the chief administrator of the Bridges Addiction Treatment Center, a one-stop solution for alcoholics, drug addicts, sex addicts, and those with other addictive behaviors.

Where others saw business memos, state certifications and statistics, Peter found poetry. There was beauty, he explained to his wife, in the way simple steps could lead to redemption. Everything was interconnected, he was sure, and his role in the process enriched his life.

Peter was a happy man, humming a happy tune as he sipped his morning cup of cocoa and checked his e-mail. When he saw the name on the next message, though, he nearly did a spit take. Miranda Trolle, his childhood nemesis.

As if looking into a magic mirror, he spun back 25 years. Miranda had been a perfect porcelain doll, using her beauty as a club against her classmates, plucking treats out of their docile hands. Had he not intervened that day, standing up to her and informing a teacher about her thievery, she would have continued plundering the schoolyard.

He began to read: "Dear Peter," she began formally, "I noticed you have ignored the comment I left on your blog." She had left one the week before, but he'd been preparing paperwork for an audit and had not replied to any comments.

He continued reading: "I know I wasn't always that nice to you and your brother and sister." This, of course, was an understatement of fantastic proportions. Far from being cured of her selfish behavior after the playground comeuppance, Miranda had simply found other, more subtle ways to plague her classmates. Peter recalled the day that his sister had come home, crying, because she had found a note in her locker making fun of her second-hand clothes. Though unsigned, the distinctive colored-in dot over the "I's" had left him no doubt Miranda was the culprit.

Years later, dazed by the hazy fog of puberty, his brother had pined for Miranda briefly, carrying her books for her and doing her bidding to bask in her presence. Predictably, Miranda had pulverized his naive heart, as she did to many other victims. Peter had not missed her when, after graduation, she'd enrolled in Faraway University.

Sipping his cocoa, which now tasted bitter, he read on: "You and many of our classmates might have seen me as a spoiled princess." More like a monster, he thought. "And I suppose I was, although I didn't realize it at the time. I thought I was destined for greatness: I married the Faraway College quarterback, Alphonso Prince, and I was cast in some regional theater and independent films. At the time, I felt I was living out my 'happily ever after.' That was, of course, before I learned Al was cheating on me with a dozen women. That was before a botched liposuction procedure left me with an excruciating abdominal scar. That was before I sought solace in pain medication. You can guess the rest."

Sadly, Peter could. Similar stories crossed his desk every day: people who lived seemingly charmed lives that fell apart because of circumstance combined with addiction. Despite himself, he began to feel sorry for her.

"I'm writing to you," she said, "because you are my last resort. My marriage is over; my career is in shambles. I can't get through a day without being medicated, and even that no longer helps. When I ran into your brother last week, he told me what you're doing with Bridges. I need your help."

Peter sat back slowly, thoughts whirling in his brainpan. What would his sister think? His brother? Why should he help someone who had been such a beast to them all? But he thought, too, about that magical tapestry of life, how strands weave together in ways we cannot predict.

Finally, he typed, "If you are sincere about starting on a new path, we can help you. Come to Bridges and we'll talk."

And so, with Peter's support, Miranda enrolled in the program in Bridges, determined to rediscover her "happily ever after." And Peter got to see something he never thought he'd see: Miranda Trolle, converted from playground bully to a humble soul striving to make things right.

We borrowed imagery from the classic children's tale, "The Billy Goats Gruff," which is the origin of the line "who's that trip-trapping over my bridge?" You can find a retelling of the story here.