Don’t Tell A Soul

I have this thing about anniversaries, I always remember the dates of memorable things so I can dwell on think about them later. Some are happy, some are sad, and some are more important than others.

A year ago, today was a Monday. I know it was Monday, because the night before was a perfectly mundane Sunday of doing my nails and watching The Sopranos. No premonitions, no nagging feeling something was wrong, no compulsion to pick up the phone and check on things. Nothing was wrong until Monday.

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From my Razr, on Wilshire Blvd. 

Everyone is married, and owns a home to do projects on except me.

When you’re married, buying a new washing machine together is very exciting.

Lots of people are installing new toilets today.

I was supposed to fly out yesterday, but I didn’t go. Maybe if I were really supposed to go, it wouldn’t be so damned hard to get there.

Crawling at 20mph on the 101, only two almost-accidents today! Cold War Kids on my stereo, impending family visit on my mind. That night, a frenzy of closet organizing becomes an hour of sitting down looking at old stuff. A Massachusetts state Liquor ID, 10 year old Polaroids, an address book from 2001, and an old postcard from Paris: Many nights alone in a dark room await us. Sometimes it’s sad to remember, but then sometimes it just makes me laugh.

Whenever I plan a trip back to Springfield, it’s with mixed emotions. I’m excited to see my family, and the one friend I have left there, but it’s also so damn depressing.

It really is a sad, strange place. You’ve got small towns, small minds, two-lane highways, and pickup trucks. Count how many times you hear “Jack and Diane” on the radio, it’s like a game. But the small towns surround one of the worst cities gone wrong I’ve ever seen. I bet you’ve never even heard of Springfield Mass., but did you know it’s the 32nd most dangerous city in America? 3000 miles away, I almost dropped my morning coffee the day I heard that on CNN.

I’ve been fortunate in my life to have traveled to some of America’s largest cities. But in downtown Springfield, I won’t even get out of my car. It’s even dangerous in the car- I thought I was about to get carjacked once from the parking lot of Store24 in the South End while my brother was inside buying phone cards. Later that night, we were slowly driving up Main St., slowly because people kept walking in front of the car.

“What the fuck is the matter with these people?” There are crosswalks, and corners, and traffic lights- why don’t people use them?

“You have to be careful,” my brother said, “they want you to hit them. That’s how they get money.” 

Walking home from work, some guy on the sidewalk says, “Smoking is dangerous.”

“So is talking to strangers,” I said. Not bad but, of course, later I thought of much better replies. Like, “How about I put it out on your forehead motherfucker?”. That would’ve shut him up.

Usually people just hack out a loud fake cough when they pass me, as a passive-aggressive way to express their displeasure. I suppose I should just be grateful they don’t throw stones at me.

 

I’m flying back to the east coast in a couple of weeks. Keep your fingers crossed for me that Northwest doesn’t go bankrupt, or fail some massive FAA inspection. At least not before I get there and back.

I bought the tickets months ago and, of course, they’re first class. A lot of people find this a ridiculous extravagance but, to me, it’s a necessity. I like to be comfortable when I fly. Maybe it would be different if it were a shorter flight, or if I weren’t alone… or maybe I’m just a spoiled bitch, who thinks she’s special.

But there’s something to be said for a hot meal, and people being extra polite to you. I can watch DVDs on my laptop without the guy in front of me lowering his seat so far back that I can’t open the screen all the way. If I’m not squeezed in with the proletariat, there’s less chance some uncouth bitch sitting behind me will take it upon herself to use my armrest as her ottoman. Oh, don’t get me started on the shared armrest…

I was thinking about starting to write on my blog again. On one hand, it seems so self-indulgent. On the other hand, why shouldn’t I share my witty observations and sullen adventures with the rest of the world? You don’t have to watch if you don’t want to.