Guys are boring me. Like commas that divide a list, they’re only separated by single generic characteristics, whether it’s a pair of square-framed glasses, a beard, a tattoo-covered body, or the rare possession of a college degree. The initial encounter is always appealing: a competition of swift intellect and unrelenting wit. That’s how they all start. I’m uninterested. I want to find a golden retriever to settle down with, preferably one named Blue or Adam Rindy.
People do a lot to avoid real life. Certain people take vacations to throw some stimulation or deviation into their habitual routines. A number of people self-medicate, in order to divert their brain from normal activity. Others lock themselves in isolation, hoping that whatever they’re avoiding will disappear with time.
As for me, I have a healthy, convenient getaway. If ever I come home to three strangers who are stoned on my couch, and watching a movie too loudly in my living room, I get away. If I should ever have company that has overstayed his or her welcome, I get away. If I come home to an empty, eerie apartment, and I simply don’t want to be there, I get away.
My getaway is close in proximity and always welcomes me. My getaway is only one floor up, and two doors down. Although there are no numbers on the door, apartment 307 is my getaway. It’s more than just a different place to be, it’s my sister’s house. When I arrive, two dachshunds that never get tired of welcoming me, greet me with fervor. If my sister is home, she’s usually eager to nap, hike, or eat breakfast with me.
My getaway is a place to give and receive therapy, a place where almost all the snacks are organic or fat-free, a place where lights out is usually 11pm, and laziness is encouraged. There’s no television, but there are plenty of books to read, if you can stay awake long enough to finish a few pages. So here I sit with two napping dogs beside me, not really knowing what I’m avoiding today, just sort of getting away and being grateful to have a loving family member and a getaway.
From the top of the hill, I inhale a deep gulp of fresh air, I mentally snapshot the beautiful day, and remember that he’s confined to a prison cell.
I pass the girl who hikes in a bikini top, and I know I’ll never be that thin. I make another lap as punishment.
He sits. He plays cards. He waits. Before he was transferred, I made visiting him part of my routine. Through the plexiglass, he’d be happy to see me, but I think he wished more of his friends hadn’t already forgotten about him. He had begun to grow a beard before he was arrested. With each visit, he looked more and more like a criminal, as his baby blue jumpsuit became part of his skin; he acted like he belonged there.
I run down the hill, as not to waste time; I have an appointment to get my hair dyed at one o’clock. I wonder how long it will take to break in my new shoes.
I order him books from Amazon, and give him all the extra money I can. I wish I could do more. I didn’t plan for this. Nobody did. He calls me to thank me from a phone card that cost him twenty dollars. His family is in the Philippines. I wonder if he knows that Mother’s Day was Sunday. I wonder if they celebrate it in the Philippines.
A song comes on my iPod, which was written by another friend of mine. The lyrics, morose and intelligent, make me wonder if he's okay. Probably not.
I get a letter from prison. He writes, “I miss having a life.” I wish mine had more meaning. I've chosen my emotional investments poorly. In prison, nothing is his. Nothing is personalized, except for a number, printed neatly onto a hospital band, and snapped to his wrist. I know it by heart: 1832856.
I return home to change out of my workout clothes. I glance at the stack of money on my dresser. I need to go to the bank. I pack a pre-sliced piece of angel food cake into a ziplock bag and stuff it into my purse, in case I get hungry while I'm getting my hair dyed. I leave my apartment with enough time to find parking before my appointment. During the drive, I contemplate going to Vegas later on in the week. The hair salon is trendy and keeps me waiting. A lady named Veronica does my hair. I like it. What does it matter?
He's dead for two years, one if he's lucky. His resurrection will be awkward. He'll be born again, a sad person. I don't know if I want to be there to witness it.
