Status: something to keep me going.
Tomorrow Will Be Better
i'm home
Monday, January 2, 2012
5:10 A.M.
I’m boarding my last-minute flight, flakes of sleep still clogging the corners of my drooping eyes. By the sheer mercy of luck, I was able to book a flight from Boston to Denver, two stops—one in Philadelphia, another in Detroit—which, believe me, was no easy task the day after New Year’s. I’d gathered up all the money Mom had sent me to keep me going for the next two months, the little bit of money I had saved up from working at that smelly sub shop, to buy the plane ticket. Shit, I’ve already wasted six figures worth of Mom’s money on my silly Ivy League fantasies; what’s another eight hundred?
Take my assigned seat near the back, set my carry-on on the floor, pull my coat off and drape it around my lap for the sense of safety it provides. Pop a Xanax with a deep breath and a racing heart, impatient for take-off and praying for the stewardess so I can order a glass of wine.
Eight hours from now, I will be a little less lost.
• • •
2:32 P.M.
Suitcases at my feet, a little tipsy, a little drowsy, a little loopy. I sit in the waiting area where families and lovers are reuniting, parents are lugging heavyweight luggage while their jet-lagged children hold tight their stuffed animal souvenirs, lone businessmen are rushing back and forth through the time zones.
I scroll through the contacts in my phone in search of a ride because D.I.A. is shit out of luck if it thinks I’m going to blow anymore money on its provided taxis. In all the hundreds of names, half that I don’t even recognize anymore, there’s one that keeps sticking out, and every time I pass it by it begs a little louder, and every time it begs a little louder I search a little more desperately for a different name, any other name. But there are no other names.
“Damn it,” I whisper to myself and with a deep breath, scroll back up to that name and press ‘call’. Four rings and my heart beats harder with each one, and then finally a groggy ‘Hello?’. I clear my throat, smile even though he can’t see me.
“Charlie? It’s me, Molly. …I’m back in Colorado. …Yeah, I should be but it’s a long story. …Look, I know you probably hate me and I don’t blame you but if I asked you for a favor, could you not ask any questions? …If I toss you some gas money, think you could pick me up from D.I.A.? …I told you, no questions. It’s a long fucking story. …Really? Oh my god, Charlie, you’re my fucking hero. …Okay, call me when you’re here. …Bye.”
I’m home.
• • •
3:48 P.M.
Charlie picks me up in the same ’98 Toyota Camry he’s had since high school. The same one I took his virginity in sophomore year. The same one we got high and then fought in the night his mom died. The one he told me he loved me for the first time in, and the one he told me he hated me for the first time in. Neither were true, then or now.
He opens the backseat door so I can load my luggage, which is three huge suitcases and a couple of purses stuffed to capacity, and then I get in the passenger seat and take a deep breath, bury my hands between my knees, and he says, “So… hey.” He looks at me, but not directly. His eyes are a lighter shade of brown than I remember; droopy and bloodshot and dark-circled. His hair is a darker shade of brown than I remember; shaggy and unkempt and littered with split ends.
“I hope you don’t think I’m just like, using you,” I blurt out. “because I’m not.” And as soon as the words leave my mouth, they sound so stupid because really, we’re all using each other, and it’s not a bad thing either, I don’t think. If we didn’t use each other, we’d all die from our utter uselessness.
Maybe this is why I have no friends.
He laughs and takes off without a word and we both light cigarettes. I sink back in to the seat as Jim Morrison’s voice fills the car. When we hit I-70 I suddenly realize, where am I going from here? What in the fuck am I even doing? This is why I was never cut out for law school, or anything else, really. Fuck, I wasn’t even cut out for middle school.
“So what’s your story?” he suddenly says and I swear I almost jump out of my skin. I gasp and he laughs and when I ask him what?, he only laughs again, that same high-pitched, boyish laugh that hasn’t changed since he was thirteen. “Damn Molly, chill. It’s like you’re not even here.”
“Maybe I’m not.”
He rolls his eyes, another laugh. Ha-ha-ha, oh Molly, silly little girl with too many thoughts and not enough words, or maybe it’s the other way around. “It’s not an interrogation,” he says. “I just wanna know why you’re back. Thought you were gonna be the big hot-shot Harvard graduate? The next Nancy Grace?”
I scoff and sneer, shoot him a look of horror. “Who the fuck said anything about Nancy Grace? Was that supposed to be some kind of backhanded compliment?”
Another laugh—fuck, he never stops—and he lets go of the steering wheel momentarily to throw his hands in the air. “Hey, I don’t know these things anymore! It’s only been like a year since I’ve talked to you. Y’know, when you just—“
“Charlie,” I yell over him, eyes lowered and lips pulled tight in a straight line. “Save it, okay? Please?”
He just smirks, chews on his lower lip and taps his fingers against the steering wheel, like he’s got no care in the world. I wonder what he thinks about these days, if his heart is as heavy as mine. “I know, Molly. I’m just fucking with you.”
We are silent again for a long while, and it’s comfortable like it always is but I can’t tell if I like it or if it makes my skin crawl, so I just count the snowflakes as they fall from the sky, watch the airplanes take off and eventually fade in to the clouds.
Unsurprisingly, it’s Charlie who’s the first to speak again as we merge on to Colfax from I-25. “So pizza or burritos?”
“Excuse me?”
“What do you want—pizza or burritos? I’m starving, which means you are, too.”
I smile at my lap and shake my head. “Charlie, I—“
“Molly,” he says and slams his hands against the wheel, trying to make his creaky voice sound commanding but it’s useless. Another thing that hasn’t changed since he was thirteen. “Whatever weird preconceived notions you have about coming back to Denver, forget them for a second and fucking relax.” He lets out a long sigh as he steps on the gas again, and we’re so close to my mother’s house that even the Colorado winter can’t keep me from sweating. “I should probably hate you, but I don’t, so get over yourself for five minutes and let me buy you a greasy-ass, three-dollar slice of pizza.”
I’m trying not to smile but I can’t help it, especially when I see the crooked one over his face, the sincerity in his tired eyes, so utterly heartfelt that I almost feel inhuman because I know I’ll never be able to feel about anything the way Charlie feels about everything. “What if I wanted burritos?” I finally say, my voice so meek and small I wonder if it’s even mine.
“Too fucking bad,” he says. There’s that laugh again.
5:10 A.M.
I’m boarding my last-minute flight, flakes of sleep still clogging the corners of my drooping eyes. By the sheer mercy of luck, I was able to book a flight from Boston to Denver, two stops—one in Philadelphia, another in Detroit—which, believe me, was no easy task the day after New Year’s. I’d gathered up all the money Mom had sent me to keep me going for the next two months, the little bit of money I had saved up from working at that smelly sub shop, to buy the plane ticket. Shit, I’ve already wasted six figures worth of Mom’s money on my silly Ivy League fantasies; what’s another eight hundred?
Take my assigned seat near the back, set my carry-on on the floor, pull my coat off and drape it around my lap for the sense of safety it provides. Pop a Xanax with a deep breath and a racing heart, impatient for take-off and praying for the stewardess so I can order a glass of wine.
Eight hours from now, I will be a little less lost.
• • •
2:32 P.M.
Suitcases at my feet, a little tipsy, a little drowsy, a little loopy. I sit in the waiting area where families and lovers are reuniting, parents are lugging heavyweight luggage while their jet-lagged children hold tight their stuffed animal souvenirs, lone businessmen are rushing back and forth through the time zones.
I scroll through the contacts in my phone in search of a ride because D.I.A. is shit out of luck if it thinks I’m going to blow anymore money on its provided taxis. In all the hundreds of names, half that I don’t even recognize anymore, there’s one that keeps sticking out, and every time I pass it by it begs a little louder, and every time it begs a little louder I search a little more desperately for a different name, any other name. But there are no other names.
“Damn it,” I whisper to myself and with a deep breath, scroll back up to that name and press ‘call’. Four rings and my heart beats harder with each one, and then finally a groggy ‘Hello?’. I clear my throat, smile even though he can’t see me.
“Charlie? It’s me, Molly. …I’m back in Colorado. …Yeah, I should be but it’s a long story. …Look, I know you probably hate me and I don’t blame you but if I asked you for a favor, could you not ask any questions? …If I toss you some gas money, think you could pick me up from D.I.A.? …I told you, no questions. It’s a long fucking story. …Really? Oh my god, Charlie, you’re my fucking hero. …Okay, call me when you’re here. …Bye.”
I’m home.
• • •
3:48 P.M.
Charlie picks me up in the same ’98 Toyota Camry he’s had since high school. The same one I took his virginity in sophomore year. The same one we got high and then fought in the night his mom died. The one he told me he loved me for the first time in, and the one he told me he hated me for the first time in. Neither were true, then or now.
He opens the backseat door so I can load my luggage, which is three huge suitcases and a couple of purses stuffed to capacity, and then I get in the passenger seat and take a deep breath, bury my hands between my knees, and he says, “So… hey.” He looks at me, but not directly. His eyes are a lighter shade of brown than I remember; droopy and bloodshot and dark-circled. His hair is a darker shade of brown than I remember; shaggy and unkempt and littered with split ends.
“I hope you don’t think I’m just like, using you,” I blurt out. “because I’m not.” And as soon as the words leave my mouth, they sound so stupid because really, we’re all using each other, and it’s not a bad thing either, I don’t think. If we didn’t use each other, we’d all die from our utter uselessness.
Maybe this is why I have no friends.
He laughs and takes off without a word and we both light cigarettes. I sink back in to the seat as Jim Morrison’s voice fills the car. When we hit I-70 I suddenly realize, where am I going from here? What in the fuck am I even doing? This is why I was never cut out for law school, or anything else, really. Fuck, I wasn’t even cut out for middle school.
“So what’s your story?” he suddenly says and I swear I almost jump out of my skin. I gasp and he laughs and when I ask him what?, he only laughs again, that same high-pitched, boyish laugh that hasn’t changed since he was thirteen. “Damn Molly, chill. It’s like you’re not even here.”
“Maybe I’m not.”
He rolls his eyes, another laugh. Ha-ha-ha, oh Molly, silly little girl with too many thoughts and not enough words, or maybe it’s the other way around. “It’s not an interrogation,” he says. “I just wanna know why you’re back. Thought you were gonna be the big hot-shot Harvard graduate? The next Nancy Grace?”
I scoff and sneer, shoot him a look of horror. “Who the fuck said anything about Nancy Grace? Was that supposed to be some kind of backhanded compliment?”
Another laugh—fuck, he never stops—and he lets go of the steering wheel momentarily to throw his hands in the air. “Hey, I don’t know these things anymore! It’s only been like a year since I’ve talked to you. Y’know, when you just—“
“Charlie,” I yell over him, eyes lowered and lips pulled tight in a straight line. “Save it, okay? Please?”
He just smirks, chews on his lower lip and taps his fingers against the steering wheel, like he’s got no care in the world. I wonder what he thinks about these days, if his heart is as heavy as mine. “I know, Molly. I’m just fucking with you.”
We are silent again for a long while, and it’s comfortable like it always is but I can’t tell if I like it or if it makes my skin crawl, so I just count the snowflakes as they fall from the sky, watch the airplanes take off and eventually fade in to the clouds.
Unsurprisingly, it’s Charlie who’s the first to speak again as we merge on to Colfax from I-25. “So pizza or burritos?”
“Excuse me?”
“What do you want—pizza or burritos? I’m starving, which means you are, too.”
I smile at my lap and shake my head. “Charlie, I—“
“Molly,” he says and slams his hands against the wheel, trying to make his creaky voice sound commanding but it’s useless. Another thing that hasn’t changed since he was thirteen. “Whatever weird preconceived notions you have about coming back to Denver, forget them for a second and fucking relax.” He lets out a long sigh as he steps on the gas again, and we’re so close to my mother’s house that even the Colorado winter can’t keep me from sweating. “I should probably hate you, but I don’t, so get over yourself for five minutes and let me buy you a greasy-ass, three-dollar slice of pizza.”
I’m trying not to smile but I can’t help it, especially when I see the crooked one over his face, the sincerity in his tired eyes, so utterly heartfelt that I almost feel inhuman because I know I’ll never be able to feel about anything the way Charlie feels about everything. “What if I wanted burritos?” I finally say, my voice so meek and small I wonder if it’s even mine.
“Too fucking bad,” he says. There’s that laugh again.