Your heart knows what to do.
Hooray!
— Larry Durlacher
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 the middle of nowhere trying to survive and looking for a way out, but I didn't think about what comes next.
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 do people with comfortable lives 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, so I gave him a chance. Hey, if you find anybody who dreams at all in a place like Gary, Indiana... 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. Spring is gray in Gary, but he held my hand while we waited to see if the sky would clear.
It didn't. We just stared at murky water and clouds. 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 beyond Tonawka, the more I thought about Linda, 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! She 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 than her.
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'd let herself get out of Tonawka.
It felt like the kind of thing you'd see people do in the movies. It felt like 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 find a new start in Tokyo's lights
You'll soothe your soul in Singapore nights
Don't stay
Your heart knows what to do
Hooray
The world's waiting for you
Oh Linda
Sweet Linda
Set out :-)
I felt 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.
The next day, Larry attended a next-gen investments workshop. It was a fucking scam, but he came back thinking he was gonna get rich as some kind of goddamn day-trader, which went exactly how you 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 tattooed mofo named Spyke, with a Y, showed up at my door, looking for the money he'd loaned Larry to get started as a motherfucking day trader.
I said, "Well, Spyke, 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 U.S. Marshal. Hang on. Lemme get him."
Goodbye, Spyke, and take your fucking Y with you.
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, he was gone.
Larry barely packed anything at all. He just threw some clothes in a backpack 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 next-gen day trader. Come on.
Oh, Larry.
Sweet guy.
Dumb as a dildo in a box of cocks.
Editor's Note:
Unfortunately, Larry only posted the first three lines of the poem in the online forum. In May 2019, Linda Goodman began receiving postcards from around the world, from total strangers. Thousands of them arrived. Each postcard read:
"Dear Linda;
I know where you live.
Get out."
In February 2021, she fled.