There is an art to saying goodbyes, and no matter how much I try to change my stripes and revel in sociability, the ritual of parting ways continues to elude me. I suppose I should qualify this by saying the optimal ritual eludes me. I know tradition calls for a few standbys: conversations, food, the sudden savoring of routine, and I appreciate these things.
I get why they exist. They are the well-worn paths we travel to let go. There’s always a meal, a hug, a handshake. I will even suffer the surprise shindig, provided I’m able to defuse the “surprise” part with advanced intel. My spies are everywhere, as you know. The exhortation to keep in touch, typically near the end, is what gets me. I know it’s just something people say, but for some reason it feels disingenuous when I agree to it. I remember going through the exact motions, less than a year ago, with a buddy who was leaving work. “I’m sure we’ll have lunch,” he said, or something to that effect, and even as I was nodding, I knew full well the real trajectory: a few IMs, possibly an e-mail, the fabled lunch meeting never to materialize, and then the complete erosion of contact.
Grim, I know. Much of this could be ameliorated by the tome of flesh, I suppose, which ain’t happening. When Cheshire asked about keeping in touch, a few days ago, I delivered what I thought was a genuine answer: “I’ll try my best.” That didn’t fly, so I offered a “Call or e-mail, whenever you need me,” upon which she administered the saddest puppy dog eyes I’ve ever seen. Indeed, I felt a slight twinge where my heart used to be, which I gather was either arterial hardening–or a call to be a better correspondent.
The Chief once asked me, during a secret call on a hot Chicago summer afternoon, whether I was a left- or right-brained person. The honest answer would’ve been “neither” as I sat in my car in a random parking lot, fumbling with my flip phone while fiddling with the AC on the sly. I was fresh out of college, three years into my first job, and my goal at that exact moment wasn’t to plumb the depths of my psyche to satisfy an interview question–it was to ensure I didn’t sound like I was furtively interviewing in my car. Didn’t want the vents blowing on my phone. Didn’t want to roll down the windows, for fear of street noise. And so I shut off the engine, left the windows up, and cooked in a silent automobile, reasoning that this would be the cost of my ticket out of the Midwest.
The city isn’t done with me yet, apparently. Seven years later, I’m headed back. Technically I’ll be moving to Dallas, with regular flights to Chicago, but there you go. Full circle. Two weeks ago, I thought I had it all figured out. I was set on joining Deadpan at his venture. Had the commute all planned out, even. But then one night, the Chief called with an opportunity. “Corleone me,” I said, he did, and here we are. The road to this decision wasn’t easy, by any means. The thought of leaving behind friends and family and a place I consider home was gutwrenching. I weighed the pros and cons of each opportunity, reweighed them again, went round and round in the circles of indecision.
Left-brained or right-brained? Science or art? Analytical or intuitive? Head or heart? “Both” was my answer that summer afternoon, as a kind of hedge, but if you were to ask me the same question today, I’d say the latter. Right-brain has the veto, in my old age. And when I was finally able to quiet myself and trace the contours of each path, I realized I wasn’t trying to decide. I was trying to say goodbye. Next stop, Texas. Never been, but I hear Earth Chick, the Operator, Boss G, Bakespeare, Lady Cheerington, the Professor, and King Calm are all there. Is home truly where the heart is? Let’s go find out.
The shelf life of scam jerky, it turns out, is substantially shorter than real jerky, and the bitter taste of deception has been all but forgotten. It only took a month for me to get back on the horse, with dual bets placed on a horror webcomic project and special socks. They’re special because they’re made out of carbonized coffee, recycled polyester, and plastic.
Garbage, in other words, but what made me pull the trigger was the idea of wicking socks, and the unique feeling they’d afford. It’s the prospect of altering a daily sensation that’s so alluring. I couldn’t begin to explain to you how polyester is recycled, though I imagine it calls for trawling the charred remains of a ’70s disco club. I just want what rolls off the production line.
Internet meat and socks aside, I do honor the old ways and wander into brick-and-mortar locations occasionally. Most recently, I’ve been seeking to update my shorts-related wardrobe, since tennis has endowed my limbs with a hue slightly darker than off-white. I’ve been specifically searching for loafers to replace some ancient Jesus sandals I procured in Chicago. But shoes these days? They feel light and cheap, almost hollow. Makes a man long for an earlier time, when footwear boasted good, honest construction with real rubber and rich Corinthian leather.