November 16, 2021
Dear Michael, You remember exactly who I am. In fact, I’d be offended if you didn’t. I am one hundred percent sure I am the most interesting thing that has ever happened to you, or will ever happen to you. So, hello. It’s me. I promised I’d write when I left two years ago, and here I am. It’s a response to the voicemails you keep leaving. Michael, this is the last time you’re going to hear from me, and as a parting gift, I’ll let you know what happened to me. Happy? Well, it was a great summer. I loved spending time with you, being spontaneous, heavenly, and to quote myself, “Two spirits intertwined by fate.” I thought your average-ness was endearing. I mean, you worked at the home depot and had a dog, for Christ’s sake. Though, now that I think back on it… Never mind. We’ll get to that, Michael. Well, I’m sure you remember the day I left. I got on that bus at 4:00 a.m. (I was so exhausted, but I needed to make a point — you get it), and told you I was going to face the world. We kissed, I left you that bottle cap I said looked like Jude Law, and then I climbed on the bus with nothing but forty dollars and a carton of orange juice. Big mistake. The bus broke down outside Reno. And Michael, I can’t stand orange juice. It was hot, and it was the middle of the night, and while everyone was calling their families I was just sitting in my seat, all alone, because two weeks earlier we threw our phones in the river to defy the man. I’ve had two realizations since we parted. Here’s the first. I don’t do anything for myself. When I was sitting on that bus, trying not to throw up because I drank too much orange juice, I asked myself… Why do you only have forty dollars, you goddamn idiot? I knew the answer immediately. Because I wanted you, Michael, to remember me like that. I wanted to be mysterious, quirky, whatever you want to call it. And it worked, you remembered, but then I was in Reno when you thought I was seeing Rome. So point being, I am writing this with a wallet in my pocket that has more than just $40. A significant amount more, actually. Now that’s what I call living for myself. Back to the story. They got the bus running and we went into Reno, but they said we’d have to wait two hours for a replacement. The bus station smelled like cigarettes and this guy who looked like you kept eyeing me up, so I decided Reno was my final destination. Home sweet home. And thus, Michael, began the worst period of my life to date. I got a job at the Wendy’s from 7:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. (don’t ask if that’s legal), then at night from 8:30 to 12:30 I worked at the McDonalds. In the hours I had free I went to the clubs, found some guy who looked just like you, and forced myself to be spontaneous and fun so I could have a bite to eat and if I was lucky, a place to sleep. I went on so many “adventures,” took men so many “special places,” that I lost count. I looked so pretty, the men couldn’t resist. I straightened my hair and braided in feathers, put glitter on my eyes, and laughed loud enough for all the room to hear. When I walked up to a lonely guy at the bar, I leaned in innocently enough that they felt sneaky for looking down my shirt. When I danced, I swallowed my bile as their hands roamed free. They had the money, the time, the freedom I needed. Not a lot of money, though, never quite enough. It was Reno, after all. Meanwhile, I saved up, and after six months I finally had enough to fully buy an apartment (I don’t rent- I don’t like relying on people, that’s not a lie). The night before I moved into my own place, I messed around with a guy who said he was a writer. He said I could be his muse and he’d name a character in his book after me. He said I wasn’t like any other girl he’d ever met. At that point, I threw back the covers and told him I needed to fix my aura. Don’t ask me what that means. I went to the bathroom and closed the door. I curled up in Jeremy’s crappy shower, turned on the water, and let it run ice cold so Jeremy the writer couldn’t hear me burst into tears. Because what had my life become? Was this who I was? Some fictional figment, an idea that men who look like you can exploit for their “art?” You said I was your muse too, Michael. Just like Jeremy. Remember, Michael? We were sitting by the river. We went skinny dipping and then you touched my body and said I was “the most beautiful creature you’d ever seen.” You said I’d be the main character in your book too. Do you remember that, Michael? And that’s my second realization. You’re all the same, aren’t you? “Nice” guys, “average” guys, guys who really aren’t worth more than a penny but think they deserve the world. They aren’t unique. You aren’t unique, Michael. And I’m sorry to tell you that, but it’s true. I had a good summer with you, Michael. But I didn’t love you. Even if I did, you didn’t love me. Because you’re just like the other guys; you just had more time. I wasn’t a person to you, Michael. I was a character. And I hope I’m a great character in your book. I really do. Because that character was certainly a compelling one to guys who look like you. Now I’m in Reno, Nevada, writing this from my one-room apartment, and tomorrow I’m going to go interview to be a secretary. After that, I’m going to see a movie with my coworker from Wendy’s. I asked her out yesterday. She says she wants to visit Rome. Goodbye, Clementine “Nancy” Rose