81. Pen and Paper
Dear Lassie,
I ended up spending Christmas wandering around Rockefeller Center. Saw the Rockettes, oooed and awed over the big tree, went ice skating, did all of that touristy stuff. I even made a special trip to Times Square just to ride the ferris wheel in the Toys"R"Us. A ferris wheel in a toy store. How awesome is that? I spent New Years at some crappy bar with a sawdust covered floor. If Patrick Swayze had been there, I would have sworn it was the Double Deuce! Don't worry though. When the ball dropped, I didn't kiss anyone. Unless you count your picture.
I don't know how long I'm going to be here. I got a job ushering at a theater, which is nice since I get to watch the show. Of course, you can only see The Vagina Monologues so many times before it starts to make you a little crazy, but it's free and you know how I feel about free things.
It feels like the entire city is crawling with manly Irish cops. Half the time it makes me smile and the other half it makes me want to cry.
It's January, I'm in New York, and I love you.
Dear Lassie,
Have you ever fantasized about me in a gladiator's costume? Don't lie, you know you have! And we both know I totally have the legs for it. My knees alone are phenomenal. My calves inspire sonnets. There are arias dedicated to my thighs. And now I get to flaunt them all the time because some casino hired me to stand around at night doing nothing but pose for pictures in a silly costume. Lassie, it's like this job was made for me. I'm about to go off break, so I need to find my spear and magic helmet.
I'm putting a picture of me in costume, my winner-autographed program from the Frank Sinatra impersonator contest, and the first chip someone tipped me in with this letter.
It's March, I'm in Las Vegas, and I love you.
Dear Lassie,
I'm working in the casino on an Alaskan cruise line for the summer. Looks like I just can't get away from the gambling, right? It's gorgeous and there's tons of free food. I spend most of my time dealing poker and the rest just bumming around on deck. Occasionally I go on shore. Last time I saw a moose that reminded me of you. Nothing big, just something in it's pissed off expression.
When we're out on the water, the early morning sky is the same clear, pale blue as your eyes. It's so big and vast that most mornings I feel like I could get lost in it. And I want to lose myself in it, Lassie. I want to pull it down and wrap it around me like a blanket to keep out the cold.
And now I'm spouting poetry! Must be all this unhealthy clean air. That crap will give you cancer or something.
It's June, I'm near Anchorage, and I love you.
Dear Lassie,
Leading tours of the Grand Canyon this month. They kicked me out of Texas after I announced that I'm a fan of miniatures and not killing people in zappy chairs. It's hot here, but it's a great chance to work on my tan. It makes me look even more gorgeous. I wish you were here to see it.
Another one of the tour guides, Kelly, has been flirting with me. I haven't done anything. She's nice and all-pretty smile, good hair, unremarkable eyes-but the thought of touching her or her touching me makes me feel sick. There's only you, Lassie. I know what you told me, but there's only you. I think that for the rest of my life there might only be you.
There was a family here the other day who brought their collie with them. Her name was Carly. I think I handled it pretty well. They only saw me laugh. Thank God moisture evaporates so damn fast out here, right?
Sheesh, I think the heat and the dry air are making me super sentimental!
It's August, I'm in Arizona, and I love you.
Dear Lassie,
It's been exactly a year since I've seen you. A year since I've heard your voice. A year since the night I left Santa Barbara.
I'm home. Well, not home, because it will never be home again, but I'm in town. Henry and Gus and Jules say that it's the healthy thing to do. They think I need to find closure and can't do that anywhere but here. They don't understand. I miss you so goddamned much it hurts, Lassie. It hurts all the fucking time and there's nothing I can do to change it. It's just this constant, burning, excruciating pain in my gut. In my heart. In all of my major organs, really. Every time I close my eyes, I see that night and wonder what I could have done to stop it. What did I miss? I know I must have missed something.
They don't understand that when I come back here I don't remember, I expect. When I'm in a strange city filled with people and places I don't know, I can sit down and close my eyes and remember your smile or the warmth of your breath on my neck or that sigh you would make when I touched that one spot just above your right hipbone. They're memories that usually make me want to cry, but they make things bearable. They make me remember what you made me promise. They keep me from going crazy. From giving up.
Then I come back to Santa Barbara and everywhere I go, I expect to see you. I go to our coffee shop and expect to see you in line. At the station, every moment is spent holding my breath, expecting to run into you behind every corner. I drove by our house this afternoon and cried because you weren't there. It's like Donny without Marie. Cheech without Chong. Hall without Oates. I'm peanut butter without my jelly.
I can't stay here. An old friend of mine has a place in Hong Kong. He says he can fix me up with a job gutting fish or something. I don't know, I'll figure it out when I get there. Maybe if I'm on the other side of the world, it won't hurt so much.
I don't want to hurt anymore, Lassie. I almost don't even want to love you anymore. But only almost and only sometimes.
I miss you.
It's now exactly 9:38pm on October 27th, I'm in the alley where I last held you, and I love you.
Kristin: Okay, my lovelies, here's the deal. After tomorrow's update, I'll have officially run through the backlog of extra stories that I wrote during my first few days working on this challenge and real life is hitting me hard. The non-tl;dr version is that I've been having some very personal problems and ended up physically collapsing on Monday night. I'm drained and busy and, after tomorrow, updates are most likely going to be slower for a while.
For those not in the know, Double Deuce was the bar Patrick Swayze worked at as a bouncer in Road House. I'm not sure how common of a practice it is, but writing letters to a deceased loved one is used by some people to help them work through their grief. Also, I totally plan to get a collie and name it Carlton someday.
Comments always help brighten my day.
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