He was the firstborn of four boys and was given his mother’s maiden name. She came from a wealthy family that made millions in textiles during the turn of the twentieth century. His father was a self-made man from Cleveland who went to Yale undergrad and was now the CEO of a large commercial real estate firm. His parents met in line at a taxi stand outside one of the nicer New Haven hotels. He was an undergrad at Yale, and would often sit in the fancy hotel lobby imagining the day when he had the money to sleep in one of the rooms. She was just starting her final year at boarding school in Andover and had just had high tea with a girlfriend. She dropped her glove. He picked it up. Five years later Roman Ramsey Miller was born. He grew up in a mansion in New Canaan, Connecticut.
As I learned about Roman and his family, I remembered something my mother once told me. The upper class could do what they wanted because they were so rich, and the lower class could do what they wanted because no one cared about them. It was only the middle class that was expected to follow societal rules, and I was solidly middle class. Roman was one of the many people I met who seemed to prove my mother’s theory correct. Rules didn’t apply to him at all, including his take on the law. Roman believed guilt or innocence was irrelevant; it always came down to the lawyers. It was a game, and the attorney who could manipulate the facts best was the attorney who would and should win. And he yearned to be that attorney. After briefly seeing him onstage performing Shakespeare, I had no doubt he would achieve his goals. He could most certainly captivate a courtroom, get the jury or judge on his side, and win his case regardless of right or wrong. And I believed he would sleep just fine at night, regardless of the “truth.”
Aside from Ameena, Roman became my closest friend. We were inseparable. Equally intense and extroverted but somehow complementing each other instead of competing and getting in the other’s way. I would go to the campus gym with him and slowly walk up and down on the StairMaster as he sculpted his masterpiece of a body. I would call out obscene challenges because I knew he was stubborn enough to try them. “Do twenty pull-ups!” “Throw another ninety pounds on the squat rack!” “Run a mile in four minutes and thirty seconds!” His high school track days (I had called it when I first saw his legs in those tights) made this request not totally outlandish, and he came in with an impressive four minutes and forty-five seconds, but he still beat himself up over that additional fifteen seconds of perceived failure.
In his quiet moments, Roman would memorize Trivial Pursuit questions and answers and look over lists of high-point Scrabble words in case a game was to ever pop up. He felt he could manage life the way my mother felt I could avoid getting HIV. I had control. I didn’t have to ever contract the disease, extenuating circumstances aside, if I took certain measures and precautions. Condoms always, always, always. Like I relied on the incredible protection of a thin piece of latex, Roman lived life with his own shield. He believed that if the information existed in the world, why not know it? Why not memorize the answers when they are in front of you, therefore controlling the outcome of the question? Why leave life to chance? Roman wanted to learn everything that was available to him because he believed knowledge was power. And power was control. So he wouldn’t leave anything up in the air if he didn’t have to. I, however, believed knowing you don’t have all the knowledge and not caring about it was even more powerful. In a sense it was freeing. This difference between us ignited endless scintillating debates.
In that same vein, Roman wanted to be known by everyone and wanted to know everyone. I enjoyed being known by people and not knowing them back. This specifically turned our debate into an argument. While walking through campus, many people would say, “Hey, Roman. Hi, Ruby.” And Roman would come back with “Hi, Jennifer.” “Hey, Tim.” “What’s up, Dave?” “Love those tights, Alison!” I didn’t remember any of these people’s names, nor did I care what they were. They weren’t my friends. Roman was disgusted by my haughtiness. I was disgusted by his fakeness. He didn’t care about those people, so why pretend? Roman felt a comfort in the connectivity, even if it was a facade. He felt special by both being liked and seeming likable. I felt special by not needing to be liked by all, but being loved deeply by a select few.
One day, as usual, Roman was carrying my big bag full of textbooks through campus for me, because he liked the extra arm workout. When I revealed I didn’t know “Henry’s” name after he passed by, and I didn’t care to memorize it, Roman threw my bag down on the newly formed spring grass and stormed off, yelling, “Snobby bitch!”
I yelled back, “Needy douchebag!”
We didn’t talk for three days, and time seemed to slow way down. Like the seconds were filled with a thick fog. I missed him. So much so, I began to rethink my philosophy. Maybe he was right; maybe I was haughty. I would always now remember Henry’s name, but maybe I should also pay attention to Henry’s roommates’ names. Henry’s girlfriend’s name. Her best friend’s name. And on and on. Like each life seeping out endlessly. When do the names stop? The fog got so thick I became desperate to see through to the other side again. Maybe I should apologize to Roman, end the feud. Maybe I would tomorrow.
Later, in Abnormal Psych class, I grabbed my enormous textbook. It fell open to a specific page with a thud. There was a note in the spine. “I’m a fan. Want to meet for coffee sometime? Find me. Roman Miller.” The page was about narcissists. Nice touch. When did he get that note into my textbook? And how the hell did he pull it off without me knowing? It was frightening how resourceful he was sometimes. I was smiling so big that when the professor asked if there was anything I would like to share with the class, I said, “I just got my best friend back.”
I found Roman in the quad, surrounded by a gaggle of girls.
“You’re right. I can be a haughty bitch. I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re right. I’m a needy douche for sure.”
We hugged, and that was that. We never fought again.
I immersed myself in my classes and books and syllabi, but I sometimes jonesed for my clubbing days on South Beach. Roman often joined me as I attempted to find some exciting nightlife in New Haven and, when I gave up on that, hopped on a train to New York City. He would throw my ID, fake ID, and cash and dorm key into his pocket so I didn’t have to carry anything and ruin the line of my skintight clubbing pants. And we would go dancing. Playing wingman for the other. Roman pretty much landed every girl he set his eyes on. And he helped me get the attention of guys I was eyeing by showering me with attention himself. He was always the most decorative peacock in any room, and if he took notice of me, other men would too. We had our systems down pat.
If free nights were spent dancing together, free days were spent in courtrooms. Roman loved going to watch trials, state and federal. It was like he was going to see a matinee. He would get to the courthouse, see who was “playing,” and sit quietly in the back row, observing and learning. During important testimony he watched the jurors’ faces like some romantics watch the face of the groom when the bride first steps onto the aisle. He wanted to see if he could tell the moment they believed or didn’t believe. The moment they decided, regardless of the facts, if the person was guilty or innocent.