Your heart knows what to do.
Hooray!
— Larry Dussurnen
I wouldn't say I was friends with The Shady Lady ladies, but I made an effort to fit in since it felt like a place I might be for a while.
I spent my entire childhood in Wanatah trying to survive, and looking for a way out.
Suddenly, I was in a not-nowhere city, with a non-hose job. It didn't pay much, but I didn't need much. Everything started to feel comfortable, which was a strange feeling.
Comfortable.
I wondered, "How does that work?" What does someone with a comfortable life do?
The girls at work liked to gossip about whoever their latest love interest was, and Lorraine, the owner, ate it up.
Dating? Sure.
That seemed like a comfortable-life thing. So I tried it. What's the worst that could happen?
One of the girls, Keri, set me up with her cousin Larry.
I know.
I went on a date with Keri's cousin Larry, from Gary. As if the rhyme wasn't atrocious enough, the fact that he was twenty-eight and spent most of his time playing video games should have been more than enough reason to put a stop to it.
But Larry was a sweet guy with big dreams, which sort of counts for something. I mean, hey, if you find anybody who dreams at all in a place like Gary Indiana, which isn't nowhere but also isn't going anywhere... That's something.
For our first date, he took me to Marquette Park, on the shore of Lake Michigan, where you can catch a glimpse of Chicago from across the lake on a clear day. He held my hand while we waited, in hopes that the sky would clear.
It didn't. But still.
Oh, Larry.
On our second date, he took me roller skating, which sounded dumb but was oddly charming and a lot of fun.
For our third date, he brought a blanket and a fifth of whiskey to The Shady Lady for a rooftop sunset.
After that, I quit counting.
I wouldn't say we were in love, but we saw each other almost every day, and it was nice. Comfortable, even. We started doing couple stuff, like going on picnics in the park when the weather cooperated, and he'd write nonsense poems in his journal as I wrote letters to Linda that I'd never send.
The more I adjusted to the wonders of life outside of Wanatah, the more I thought about her, still stuck there.
I felt like I had so much to say, but I wasn't sure it was my place to say it. I'd left and found a better life! Linda could too. I knew it!
I wrote her often, but each time, I'd end up setting the letters on fire.
Larry said I liked the drama of the flames, and that was true, but I also liked being able to speak my mind and take it back.
Put pen to paper. Words become real. And then, with fire, they're gone. It felt cathartic, especially since the words were probably more for me, anyway.
The boredom of Linda's life was what finally inspired me to get out. I felt like I owed her some inspiration in return. Maybe it's a naive thought, but I think it's good to give back when you can.
I only wrote one letter to Linda that I didn't burn. Something about it just felt right. It wasn't even a letter. It was a poem. A short poem, and Larry wrote most of it. He even talked me into taking it to the library, so we could use one of their computers to post it in an online travel forum.
We asked people from around the world to send the poem to Linda, on postcards with pictures of all kinds of fascinating places she could go, if only she would let herself get out of Wanatah.
It felt like the kind of thing you'd see people do in the movies. It felt like it had potential to be giving the gift of hope. It just felt so right.
The poem said:
Dear Linda;
I know where you live
Get out
Life has so much to give
Set out
You'll see a Tokyo sunrise so bright
And Singapore is wondrous, even at night
Don't stay
Your heart knows what to do
Hooray
The world's waiting for you
Oh Linda
Sweet Linda
Set out :-)
I was feeling so inspired that day. My new beginning in Gary was turning out better than I could have ever expected. I had a job I liked. I had an apartment. Larry and I had only been together a few months, but the relationship was starting to feel like it might be building up to... more. And I finally worked up the courage to say something to Linda, even if only anonymously. I was hoping she might feel as inspired as I did.
That was a great day.
Then, Larry decided to attend some sort of next-gen investment workshop. It was a fucking scam, but he came back thinking he was gonna get rich as a cryptocurrency day-trader, which went exactly how anyone in their right mind would think it went.
First, he stopped having money to go out to dinner, which we rarely did, so I didn't notice.
Then he didn't have money to pay the bills, but his bills were none of my business, so I didn't worry about it.
Then he got an eviction notice, but he was already spending so much time at my place, I let him crash with me.
Then some bro named Spyke ("with a Y") showed up at my door, looking for the money he'd loaned Larry to help him get started with his new asinine career as a mother fucking cryptocurrency goddamn day trader.
I said, "Well, Mister Y, I don't know who 'Larry' is or why he gave you this address, but if you've got some ID, maybe my dad can look it up for you. Dad's a state cop. Hang on. Lemme get him."
Goodbye, Spyke with a fucking Y.
And goodbye, Larry.
I know, when I said his name was Larry, you pictured a white guy. And he was as white as you'd expect a guy named Larry to be, but when I told him about Spyke, he turned at least five shades whiter than that.
And then, Larry was gone.
He barely packed anything at all. He just threw some clothes in a duffel bag and flew out the door like his life depended on it, which it probably did. He was at least half a block away before I could shout to ask where the hell he was going, but looking back, I guess that was the point.
I never saw him again.
Everybody leaves eventually, but damn. THAT was something.
Larry. A fucking cryptocurrency day trader. Come on.
Oh, Larry.
Sweet guy.
Dumb as a dildo in a box of cocks.
Editor's Note:
The poem was unintentionally truncated when it was posted in the online forum. Through the later part of 2019 and all of 2020, Linda Goodman received thousands of postcards from around the world, from total strangers, which read:
"Dear Linda;
I know where you live.
Get out."
In February 2021, she fled.