I’m out of here
Wednesday, December 19th, 2007
This week’s question:
With the stagehands back on and the writers holding out, we wondered—job, friend, or relationship, when did you walk out?
Next week’s question:
“Eight days of oil and the birth of our savior…meh. What’s the most miraculous thing that ever happened to you?”
Send your answer here: Rachel [at] smithmag [dot] net (in 100 words or less, please). We’ll post our favorites on the front page of SMITH.
I had been dating a sort of nice and moderately good-looking guy for four months. He invited me to his family’s for Christmas, but was still omitting the word “girlfriend.” The day we were supposed to leave for the holidays, I snuck a look at his cell phone while he was in the shower. The phone was filled with countless calls and “I Love You” text messages from a girl listed only as “Her :)” I was listed as “Lindsay Champion.” As he emerged from the bathroom in his towel, he probably heard me dragging my suitcase out the door.
I had a big women’s magazine approach me about doing a story on “finding your spirit.” Over the next several months, I worked on the story, had the editors change the concept multiple times, got pregnant, HAD A BABY, and they were still dithering over this 2,000 word piece of fluff. Eventually an assistant mistakenly faxed me the marked up version with all the editing-by-committee commentary, including remarks like “We need more opinion!” and “Too opiniony!” in different handwriting. I called the editor, and for the first time in my career, said, “Kill it.” That was the last women’s magazine story I wrote, and I’m much the saner for it. I found my spirit.
I once had this needy boyfriend. “I want to see you at least four nights a week, preferably five,” he said. “Come over, I’ll make you dinner.” Not knowing how to boil an egg, I obliged. But soon I caught wind of what he really wanted: Someone to share the couch with night after night while he got high and watched Seinfeld reruns. I started showing up later and later, missing dinner, then dessert. I started having more freelance deadlines. “Why can’t you work 9 to 5 like me?” he said. “It’s writing or me.” I still don’t miss him.
In seventh grade, Kenny Boho told me I killed Christ and wanted to fight me after-school. That night, I bitched and moaned to my parents but I fought him the next day, kicked him in the balls and I won. Bill Gelfeld was also in my seventh grade class, but invisible. During gym class, however, I took offense to something he said and challenged him to a fight after school. He road up to the park by the tennis courts alone and I karate chopped his head and I swear to God that he smiled. Kenny Boho was all bluster and crowds, but Bill Gelfeld was a silent assassin: he wasn’t trying to bolster his rep or get popular - he was really looking for a fight after school. I hopped on my bike and got out of there. I didn’t even turn around when he threw my backpack up into a tree.
He said, “After we get married we’ll have kids right away.” (We had never discussed marriage.) “We’re middle-aged and there’s no time to waste.” (We were both twenty-eight.) “You’ll have to drop out of school and get a job and I’ll get a second one because kids cost a lot of money.” (I never wanted kids.) “My parents will move in with us to help with the kids.” (His mother felt he could do better than me.) I moved fifteen states away and thirteen years later, I still have nightmares over what might have been.
I walked out when he left the state for work without telling me, which was shortly after he failed to call the day I put my dog to sleep. Needless to say, this leave-taking was far too late on my part; I was far too kind on my way out. (We were on the rocks, but no matter. Her dog dies; you call. It is the law.) I took only this elegant revenge: upon retrieving my stuff from his apartment, I left all his art slightly crooked. Which I assume provoked the feeling, “Without her, I’m seasick.”
I mustn’t be worth a shit as a writer
By Mikel K
You’re not worth a shit
as a writer, if you can’t
say that you are a, “best
selling writer.”
Your writing must suck,
if you don’t have an agent,
a book deal, and a place
on the New York Times
best selling list(there are
those two words again…)
AS a poet, if you can’t say
that your writing has appeared
in…and then list a bunch of
publications that nobody has
ever heard about, and that
nobody cares about, then you
mustn’t be much of a poet.
If your dogs bark when the
wind blows, but let strangers
kick in your back door and
walk with your laptop, should
you still love your dogs?
Hang a dog and help Daddy run the nation
By Mikel K
Some guy dropped out of the race for President,
today, who I didn’t even know was in the race
for President. If you tell people that Barack Obama’s
middle name is Hussein, are you being racist?
Should a former Baptist minister lead our
church and state separated nation; and what about
a guy who let his son get away with hanging a dog?
I mean if Mike Vick is in jail, should this guy
and his son be in the White House?
Bill Clinton would be first man, if his wife wins
the election. That ought to help him get laid.
Chocolate kisses versus herpes lips
By Mikel K
Often,
what looks good on paper,
does not look like what it
looked like on paper, once
you get off the paper with
it.
What color is history?
By Mikel K
What color is a principle?
What color is a belief,
a value?
What color is art?
What color is science?
What color is mathematics?
What color is religion?
What color are the words
that come from anyone’s
tongue?
What color are you
when you think?
What color is writing?
What color is history?
I think you and I may have had the same ex-boyfriend. Although I seem to remember doing most of the cooking, as well. You sure got a better deal than I did!
your elegant revenge — i love it!