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. I figured I'd be there a while.
After spending my entire childhood in the middle of nowhere, trying to survive and looking for a way out, I was finally living in an actual city. I had a non-hose job, too. It didn't pay much, but I didn't need much.
Everything started to feel... comfortable. For me, that was new.
I wondered, "What do people with comfortable lives do?" Everybody at work liked to gossip about whoever their latest love interest was, and Lorraine, the owner, ate it up.
I thought, "Dating? Sure. What's the worst that could happen?"
Keri was one of the girls at The Shady Lady. She set me up with her cousin. She said, "He's nice."
"I thought your family's in Toledo."
"Most of 'em, but he lives here in Gary."
"What's his name?"
"Larry."
"You're kidding."
"What?"
Keri set me up with 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 somebody who dreams at all in a place like Gary... 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 sunny day, which this was not. But he held my hand while we waited to see if the sky would clear.
It didn't. We just stared at clouds and murky water. But still.
Oh, Larry.
On our second date, he took me roller skating, which sounded dumb, but it was oddly charming and a lot of fun.
For our third date, he brought a blanket and a bottle of Boone's Farm 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 did couple-stuff, like go 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 Tonawa, the more I thought about Linda, still stuck there.
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 ended 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. Writing to Linda felt cathartic, especially since the words were probably more for me than her.
The boredom of Linda's life was what finally pushed me to get out of Tonawa. I felt like I owed her something in return. It's good to give back when you can.
I only wrote her one letter that I didn't burn. 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 anonymously send the poem to Linda on postcards that had pictures of all kinds of fascinating places she could go, if only she'd let herself leave Tonawa.
It seemed like the kind of thing you'd see people do in the movies. It felt like giving the gift of hope.
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 :-)
My new beginning in Gary was turning out better than I could have ever expected. I had an apartment. I had a job I liked. 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'd 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. It was my 19th birthday, in fact. Larry even bought me a cake.
Actually, I got me a cake. We ate it for dinner.
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 any money, but he was already broke, so I didn't notice.
Then he couldn't afford to pay his bills, but that was 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 next-gen motherfucking day trader.
I said, "Well, Spyke With A Y, I don't know why somebody named Larry gave you this address, but if you've got his full name, 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. 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.
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 a small portion of the poem in the online travel forum.
In May 2019, Linda Goodman began receiving hundreds of postcards from around the world which read:
Dear Linda;
I know where you live.
Get out.
In February 2020, she fled.