Never that Lucky

Ethan Fleisher

This hellhole town just couldn’t keep up with you.

I’d been there for sixteen years, and the other two years I can’t even remember. They’re lost somewhere in the womb and the cradle, the storybooks and blissful ignorance.

Of course, I’ve always been a worrier… I remember watching a show, some shitty documentary that counted down the estimated years and months until this doomsday piece of rock from space smashes into Arizona. Holy hell, I was petrified for weeks. Every night I’d tell God what a good boy I was, and how much I deserved to go to Heaven. When you’re little and scared, you think that God will listen to you, knowing that you’re only praying out of fear of death and devastation, and forgive you. Now it’s all I can do to believe He’s even there.

And I’d worry about my parents.

They’d yell and scream, and I’d just lock myself in my room and bawl. I’d listen to them endlessly argue about money, friends, my brother and I… anything that they could use as tinder to really get the flames going. I’d pull my hair out in chunks, and beat my head against the wall until the room got blurry and I’d pass out on the floor, staring at a spinning ceiling. I’d always wake up in my bed, though. Mommy or Daddy always seemed to find enough humility to tuck their baby boy into bed after they got done tearing each other’s throats out. Funny how now I wish they wouldn’t have. Then I would have seen earlier on I didn’t need them.

Then you came along, and none of that really mattered.

I didn’t stop worrying, no, but for some reason I didn’t care about Mom or Dad, or death or forgiveness. I only cared about you, and making you happy.

I remember in tenth grade, when I first saw you at the pep rally. You were all alone, and looking just as annoyed as I was. Jeez, you were beautiful. That long, dark hair, and those gorgeous green eyes… I remember wondering why the hell every other guy wasn’t all over you.

So I sat down, and introduced myself, and you smiled, and said, “Nice vest, buddy.”

I always wore stupid clothes until I met you.

Months passed, and we spent hours talking about everything. We’d spend the evening talking about the craziest shit, the stuff that had us laughing so hard it was hard to keep the conversation going. Then at night we’d talk quietly about the stuff that was really important to us. About God, about meaning, love, and each other. I remember telling you once that I wanted to die until I met you.

It was a lie, of course, but it got you thinking.

Finally, after a summer or so, you realized that you were way too good for me and that you had olive colored, flawless skin and I was a “pizza face” as your friends politely put it, and that would never do. You realized that I wore clothes that were too big and too small for me, and that I was hopeless at any sort of athletic ability and that you were always dressed to the nines and could pitch faster than Randy Johnson. You realized that you had long, perfectly black hair that always fell in just the right way, and that I had way-too-long brownish red hair that never looked brushed even when I tried. I remember the nickname your friends gave me that year- Ronald McDonald. God, I hate that bastard clown to this day.

And for nearly a year, we didn’t even talk.

Every day sort of drug by, like those sticky hot Minnesota summers where ninety degrees feels like a sauna. I began to read poetry, and listen to metal. It was a strange combination, and I found that sensitivity and masculinity could mix well if done right.

Then one night I just called you.

I don’t remember why, but I did. I picked up the phone, punched in your seven numbers that were burned into my memory, (and still are 447-9675) and called you. You started crying after I told you about my mom, and how she’d ran off with that dumbass realtor. “I miss you,” you had said.

I cried that night too. I just didn’t let you hear it.

We talked about your current boyfriend, (You had to upgrade to a new model every other month or so) and how he was a dumb crap with a nice face, and that you were growing bored of him. I wanted desperately the whole time to tell you that I loved you and that I would take his place in an instant, but good taste kept my mouth shut.

We talked about people we loved, and people we hated. I brought up my distaste for the name David, and all who bore it. You laughed when I couldn’t come up with a good reason why.

We talked about us.

I told you that you were the most important thing in my life and that I’d called because if I hadn’t I would have gone crazy. You were silent a lot, just listened, but added, “we’re gonna get married some day, love.” You always called me that.

You almost died.

I remember the call all too well. It was from your dad, at about eleven o’clock at night. I grabbed the phone, and said, “Hey,” cause I thought it was you who’d be talking. Then he told me that you were in the hospital because you’d overdosed on ecstasy, and that you were in stable condition and expected to recover.

I cried for the second time that year. Not because I thought you were gonna die, but because when I called the hospital it killed me to hear that you were in too much pain to come to the phone.

You always enjoyed my pain.

You’d punch me, kick me, bite me, anything to inflict a little hurt. I hated it, but I lied and told you I didn’t mind because you were so goddamn cute when you were doing it. “did that hurt?” You’d say, and I’d just laugh, then nod.

It usually did, even when I said it didn’t.

Then you got restless.

You’d talk about the million different places you used to live, especially California. You loved it out there; the rolling hills, the sheer cliffs, the well dressed, tanned people… everything you wanted. You’d say how much you hated Minnesota, and how it “sucked balls.” You absolutely hated the snow. And in the summer you liked to compare it to South Dakota, even though we both knew Minnesota was a hell of a lot more exiting. I’d always tell you that I was gonna move too, and we’d get an apartment together. You’d laugh, and we’d talk about the good times we’d have if we were lucky enough for that to pan out.

We were never that lucky.

I remember when you got the offer to move, out to Utah. You jumped at it, and told me over cheerios as we watched Monty Python reruns on BBC. I pretended to be just as exited as you were. After all, it was what you’d wanted for years.

When I got home, I ripped out chunks of my hair and beat my head against the wall until the room got blurry and I passed out on the floor, staring at a spinning ceiling.

I woke up the next morning, you’d left a note on my chest that said, Dear Love, (You always called me that, but never admitted once that you actually loved me. To do that, you would have had to show your feelings for me, and we both knew that was a taboo far too dangerous to try) I’m leaving now, because I suck balls at good byes, and this is a hell of a lot easier. Utah’s a long drive, too.

I’m gonna miss you, love. You were the best.

And you didn’t even sign it.

I heard from you three months later. You were married.

I remember setting down the post card, and thinking, she didn’t even invite me to her goddamn wedding. And for the third time in my life, I cried over you.

It took all I had to look at your husband’s name. His name was David, of course.

It was another two months before I found myself in Los Angeles. I grew to like the rolling hills of California, the pretty faces and tanned skin. I loved the culture of the smaller communities, and the different walks of life each one carried.

Now here I am, writing this down on a smudgy napkin in a pub off Fifth Avenue. Remembering the girl who took me here, who makes me stay.

So, well girl, I’m waiting. I’ve waited for six years, and I’ll wait a hundred more.

It snows here, too, girl. Just not like back in Minnesota.

So there’s a two bedroom apartment that has a vacant room… it’ll be here for you when we finally get that lucky. So… I suck balls at good byes, but I have a feeling this isn’t one… I miss you, love.

You’re the best.