DIRTY ROTTEN SCOUNDREL

March 2023

Saturday the 18th.

I’m already miserable here in muggy, buggy Florida. Yesterday, I was at home, 2,796 miles away, fighting to not crumble. “Come visit,” my brother had insisted. “Come visit,” his wife echoed.

Today, I want to be back in California. I yearn for someone who doesn’t deserve to occupy space in my befuddled brain. Yet he’s invaded it entirely. He’s set up camp and commandeered a substantial percentage of grey matter. He refuses to budge, refuses to disappear. I can’t look away and I can’t shake him. I can literally, and I mean it, feel my heart breaking.”

Wednesday the 15th.

I discovered my partner had been lying. For months. I suspected he’d also cheated. I walked out. For good, I told him. For good, I lied to myself.

Saturday the 18th.

The three of us mugged for the camera. At center, my brother Sam, whose mustache nearly hid his scowl, looked every bit the “Goodfellow” he fancied himself. On his right, Doreen gripped one edge of the placard. She flashed her lovely smile, not even attempting to play the part of her husband’s moll. She just wanted to look pretty in her maroon fleece with the gold insignia. On Sam’s left, I held the other edge of the sign that read “Cook County Organized Crime Bureau.” I wore a colorful shawl over a pink tee, and flashed a teeth-clenching grin.

Thursday the 16th.

I searched my house. Surely, he’d left something behind. Something, anything that I just HAD to bring him. I was determined to find a reason to drive my sorry ass 26.2 miles to fling the damn whatever onto his porch and zoom off. Yet, it wouldn’t play out that way. Pathetic me would collapse and beg. Yes, beg. “I didn’t mean it,” I’d snivel. “Let’s pretend it never happened. Forget my words. Forgive my insane jealousy. Forgive overly sensitive me. I love you. I can’t survive without you,” I’d choke out. “Let’s put this behind us; I promise to forgive and forget and… and... overlook the fact that you’re a lying rat who’s utterly incapable of being faithful.” We’d have a glare off then …

He’d start to close the door and I’d resume blubbering, “Please. I’m sorry. I will love and trust … and trust… and trust every fucking word that emerges from your lying fucking mouth and ignore the fact that you’re a dirty rotten scoundrel.” I’d attempt to redeem myself with a stupid movie reference.

Friday the 17th.

I called my brother just to hear a friendly voice. I never told him my world had collapsed. Stoic that I am, I didn’t so much as hint—or so I thought—that I was falling apart. I joked. I asked how he and his wife were enjoying retirement, how often they golfed, and if they got the neighbor’s dog to stop jumping the fence in order to pee into their pool. I didn’t fool them. “Come visit,” they said.

I hung up and saw the copy of Stephen King’s Needful Things sitting on my kitchen table. The one I planned to loan him. I picked it up and smiled. I imagined throwing it into his face. I threw it back onto my table.

Rather than debase myself, I hopped an east-bound plane.

Saturday the 18th

After a full sixteen hours of sleep at my brother’s lovely home, he and his wife treated me to an evening at Capone’s Dinner Show in nearby Kissimmee. We arrived at the club, knocked three times on the door, gave a secret password, and entered 1931 gangland Chicago. Once inside the speakeasy, two “wise guys” escorted us to a back room and shoved the three of us against a mug shot wall. My forced smile and I posed. The two of us feigned having a splendid time. We fought to supress the rat gnawing its way through our insides.

I gripped the Cook County Organized Crime Bureau placard. Fitting. Not because I’d try to hire a “wise guy” to snuff my ex. Yes, it did cross my mind. It was fitting because I finally stopped pondering how to atone for having committed the crime of being offended by a crooked rat’s indiscretions.