I lasted three and a half weeks. That
isn’t bad. Then I took a cosmic licking and the marshmallow center of my hard
candy shell came out like a pop star in Provincetown on the 4th of
July.
Like a vengeance, in other words.
And also not much of a surprise.
I don’t think I’ll get into much detail
about the cosmic licking. Let’s just say that filing for divorce after a year
and a half of chasing paperwork takes an anti-climactic five seconds to do,
costs $120 you probably should’ve thought about ahead of time, and elicits
unwelcome congratulations from everyone you tell, even when you’re only telling
by way of an explanation as to why you’re not your usual eat-a-peach, the-world’s-my-oyster
self.
Well, not from everyone you tell. It doesn't elicit any response at all from some
people – Some People whom you decided not
to tell but accidentally included anyway on the “I just finally, officially
filed for divorce” text message that was supposed to only go to out-of-staters. You deserved that deafening silence, though. Because you hadn’t
told Some People anything else about the divorce (or the marriage, or
much of anything else about your past, for that matter) up to this point, anyway, so you
can’t blame them if they don’t know what to say. Come to think of it, they probably deserve credit for at least not offering knee-jerk, cliché congratulations.
Also?
Sigmund would probably say that slip was no accident, after all. But what does
he know about texting, anyway? He’s been dead since, like, rotary dialing was cutting
edge.
And then the bank —
Let's see. How can I put
this so you’ll understand how frustrating these past few months have been, without
getting into the sordid details of how our quail-size nest-egg got all scrambled...?
Aha!
A. Bank of America is an elephant.
A. Bank of America is an elephant.
B. Everyone who works for them is blind.
I
wanted to carry that analogy a little farther. There’s a joke in there about
climbing trees and ropes and walls, I know there is. Plus something about dung
beetles, I’m sure. But I promised myself I’d post this before I went to bed,
and I can’t reach either of them from where I’m sitting at the moment. Not that
anyone would notice if I didn’t. But still. I meant what I said, and I said
what I meant. And, well, you know…
So that happened, and then what else?
Oh, yeah.
By way of distraction, I went out with a
couple friends that night. To the biker bar in Arundel where I work. And found
out that the guy who asked me for my number last week – the guy who was
supposed to at least distract me from the damn Kid for a while – is actually
already dating someone else.
So I shot him, lit myself a cigarette
from the smoking barrel of my gun, pushed through the double-swinging saloon doors and
strode off in my cowboy boots into the night.
No, no. I'm joking, of course. I don't really wear cowboy boots, sillies. I wear Fryes.
Really, I lasted two whole more days after that.
Two twitchy, weepy, five-(then-six-then-seven)-pounds-overweight days, over which I developed a nasty habit of sending increasingly-crazy-sounding text messages to Some People who still
Did Not Respond until finally I cracked and called him.
Them, I mean. Some People. You know: Them.
They didn’t answer, and that’s when I cracked. Skittered
downstairs for the spare pack in the freezer, grabbed the big fireplace lighter
off the counter by the candles, ran out to the front step and smoked before I
had a chance to change my mind.
Six cigarettes. Right in a row.
Onetwothreefourfivesix just like that.
And then?
Some People called.
I don’t think I’ll get into much detail
about the conversation. Except to say that it was very wet, satisfyingly productive, and it cured the crazy nasty habit for a while.
Just like the cough I had to put up with all over again for the next few days.
Just like the cough I had to put up with all over again for the next few days.