I hit the road and lower the volume on “Holly Jolly Christmas” because you haven’t called me once since you’ve been gone. （So much for Friends.） I bet you call your rat husband and my phone buzzes—did you read my mind?—but no. You didn’t. It’s just Shortus. He wants to grab a beer again—CrossBores are not impervious to the holiday blues—and I won’t waste another night with him. He doesn’t know shit about you—he’s not your Friend either—and all he really wants to do is bitch about all the presents he has to buy for his girls in the shop.
Halfway to the library, I slow down—I am in no rush for my daily disappointment—and I check your Instagram—nothing—and I proceed to my happy place, which is, oddly enough, your husband’s fucking Twitter account. His tweets give me hope. Patience. They got me through the first week of your exodus because he spent his time with you whining about… being with you.
Hey @SeaTacAirport if I go postal it’s on you with the xmas tunes. Peace#
Thanksgiving is the opposite of rock n roll. Peace#
Hey Phoenix. Smoking is legal. Deal with it. Peace#
My sponsor chose the wrong day to lose his cell phone. InLaws# SendHelp#
The wife let me out of my cage. Check me out at @copperblusPHX if you want to hear some REAL music. I’ll sign your tits AND your T-shirts JK just the shirts, ladies. Whipped# Peace#
Phil is a sad sack and I have to stay positive, Mary Kay. You were probably happy about the hole in your dad’s bone because it meant that you got a break from Phil. He’s so transparent. Yeah, he boasted about his show, but the show must have been a total bust because he didn’t post a single picture with a single fan, let alone a woman with tits. Even better, your rat appeared in exactly zero of your staged family photos with the Meerkat… but that’s nothing new. The rat never appears in your photos, presumably because he has some rule about tarnishing his image, because he wants people to picture young Phil. （Say what you will about drugs, but the lifestyle agreed with him and I get why he’s been TBT1997# ever since he and the Meerkat got back from Phoenix. The man was at his best when he was high as fuck and skinny as a rail and he’s no George Clooney, Mary Kay. He doesn’t get better with age.）
Someone behind me beeps and I wave—sorry!—and “My Sweet Lord” comes on the radio as I pull into the parking lot and Hallefuckinglujah. You’re here. I wore your favorite sweater—yes!—and I want out of this car and into your orbit so badly that I trip on black ice. Breathe, Joe, breathe. I don’t want to die, not now, before we’ve christened the Red Bed—ho ho ho—so I take big, cautious steps and I enter the library and you are tan and your cheeks are fuller than they were a month ago and I like you like this. Nourished. Bronzed. Here.
I wave at you. Totally normal. “Welcome back!”
You raise a hand. Robot stiff. As if I never touched your Lemonhead. “Hi, Joe. Hope you had a good holiday. Dolly’s in History and we’re pretty backed up.”
That’s it? That’s all I get?
Yes. Yes, it is. You’re already hiding in your computer and I follow your orders and plod to History and I’m worried about you, Mary Kay. Did your rat catch you gazing longingly at the Bruce Springsteen lyrics I posted, the ones you liked at 2:14 A.M. Phoenix time? I know you can’t hug me but it’s me. It’s you. Don’t you want to know how I’m doin’？
The day is flying by and soonish, it’s time for lunch, but you eat alone in your office with Whitney and Eddie. I should be in there with you, catching up, reminding you of what it’s like to be with me, but I can’t push. I have to remember that you’ve had no privacy for several weeks. You were drowning in dirty dishes and Nomi’s anxiety about her college applications—her first pick is NYU, thanks, Instagram!—and then you were the dutiful daughter. This isn’t about me. Right now, you’re making up for lost solitude.
I take my lunch break in the garden because it’s cold but it’s not New York City cold and finally, here you are, rubbing your shoulders. No jacket.
“Aren’t you freezing?”
I swallow the beef in my mouth. “Nah,” I say. “Hey, how was your trip? How’s your dad?”
Now would be a good time for you to tell me about the other dad in your life but you don’t. “My dad’s much better, thank you, so that’s a relief… And at least we had a nice Thanksgiving before he fell…” Your holiday was not nice, Mary Kay. You and the Meerkat looked like marionettes with guns behind your backs in your family photos. “Anyway,” you say, as if I’m just another Mothball. “How about you? Did you have a good holiday?”
The worst part about holidays is the way people talk about them when they’re over and you know what I did on Thanksgiving. You saw my pictures. You liked them. I follow you and you follow me and the rules of Genesis are like the rules of jinx. I am allowed to call you out. “Well, as you saw, it was mostly me and some books, which is to say it was perfect.”
You look down at your lap. “I told my dad about you.”
I put down my fork. You love me, more than you did a month ago. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah… I don’t think I ever spent that much time alone with him. I kept thinking that you two would really get along…”
You missed me and I smile. “I’m just glad he’s okay. I read about osteochondral lesions. They sound tough.”
I am such a good fucking guy! I don’t make it about me and you’re talking lesions and moving trucks and I’m here for all of it and then you touch your hair. You want to make it about me. “You really would like my dad, Joe. He’s old school, obsessive about his books, all of his Tom Clancys lined up in alphabetical order. He airs them out and wipes them down them once a week. All these years, I never knew that about him. I thought you’d get a kick out of it.”
I feel for you, Mary Kay. I thought I suffered. But you were forced to be inside of your marriage for a solid week. You played nurse. You dealt with a move and how did you get through it? You daydreamed about me. You stored up anecdotes for me and now you feed them to me and I’m happy that you didn’t tell me how you’re doin’ in a stupid text. Sometimes you love someone so much that you can’t bear a taste or a text because only this kind of moment will do. Shared air. Stillness on a love seat. Your silence is heavy with what you don’t say, that you want me to be with you the next time you fly away. I love that you love me. I love that you came out into the cold to see me and we do belong together, but not like this. Married. Buried.
I close the lid on my box of beef and broccoli. “Hey,” I say. “Do you mind if I cut out early?”
It’s fun to watch you fight the devastation in your body. “Big plans tonight?”
I remember Phil’s first tweet today: Xmas lights. Why? No. Aren’t we over this? IsItJanuaryYet# Peace#
“Well, I special-ordered Christmas lights last month…” It’s not a lie. It’s a pre-truth. “It’s kind of embarrassing but I love to string lights.”
I am the anti-Phil and I am your light. “That’s so great.”