I hesitated to put this up. It's pretty rough, due to the fact that I had to read King Lear on the same night I was supposed to write it. It's scary, putting these things up here. But I like y'all, and I know you'll like me even if you think this is silly.
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The Recovery
During the third hour of the “I Love Lucy” marathon on Saturday night, I started to crack. I was alone in the dark living room, my parents having retired to bed many episodes before, and my thoughts, which I had tried to suppress all day with errands and television, mutinied into a terrible roar that overpowered Ricky’s singing and the exuberant laugh track. All I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears, all I could feel was the hot, roiling despair in my stomach, and all I could see was a blurry screen through the tears escaping from the corners of I eyes. It was done, and I was done. I was broken.
I hated myself for these cliché symptoms of teenage heartbreak, but at the same time, I finally sympathized with all the melodramatic characters in books and movies that I once despised for their weaknesses. This hurt, more than anything I’d known before, more than any physical pain I’d ever been in. And I’ve been around for a full 17 years, which I maintain is plenty of time to learn what absolutely awful feels like.
My self-destructive reverie ended with the increase in volume that accompanied the commercial break. It was a late-night infomercial, one that catered to the largely baby-boomer audience of an “I Love Lucy” marathon. For some reason, I always give more attention than I would like to admit to the advertisements for miraculous cooking utensils, power tools, and cosmetic products that the overly enthusiastic salespeople proudly proffer to the camera. This particular commercial was for a new version of Rogaine, specifically targeting those half-bald men who stand in front of me at church and reflect light off of their astoundingly shiny pates. I wonder if anyone I know uses this stuff? I wondered. Maybe Sara’s dad. Or that unfortunate, prematurely balding kid in my French class. Bad luck, to be in the prime of one’s life, body at peak physical form, and share a burden with a man twice one’s age. A flaw, of sorts. Flawed. That’s what he is. So very flawed, and I wish to God everyone else could tell. I wish his appearance reflected the meanness inside of him.
I looked up. The well-coiffed salesman assured me that two easy payments of $19.99 would bring a full head of hair to my doorstep. And then I knew exactly what to do. I picked up my cell phone, which I had placed on the table next to me with the secret and shameful prayer that he would call me. Now I would do the calling. I dialed the toll-free number on the screen. On the other end, ringing. Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Hello, you’ve reached the Rogaine Sales Team in Burbank, California. This is Joe. May I assist you with a purchase?”
“Yes. Uh… yes.” I said, trying to make my voice sound male, husky and post-pubescent. “I need your product. I suffer from… severe hair loss.”
“Sir, I can offer you our Basic Package, which includes—“
“Better make it deluxe. I’ve lost a lot of hair,” I responded, trying to sound doleful.
“Oh, well, of course, that’s our best deal by far,” said Joe, astounded that I was doing his job for him. “I’ll just need your name, address, and credit card number, sir.”
How fortuitous, that my ex-boyfriend had written down his Visa information so that I could buy us concert tickets for the next weekend. How unfortunate, that he should decide to break up with me before I bought said tickets. And how providential, that the little slip of paper with the number on it should still sit innocently on the table in front of me.
I hesitated. This was wrong. I had never dreamt of doing something like this. I was not vengeful by nature. But I had been so very betrayed, so dragged through the mud. I made the decision in a snap.
“My name is Ben Auburn. Address is 1695 Lerner Lane…”
It was done before I knew it. I hung up with a triumphant flourish. He had just bought $100 worth of Rogaine for himself. I hoped it arrived on his porch when his new flavor of the week was over for a make out session. I let the satisfaction wash over me.
Engulf me it did, but not enough to prevent a trickle of something less comfortable from creeping into my mind. Soon, that same empty feeling from before had returned, compounded by the certainty that whatever bad thing he saw in me was real, because I’d just done something wrong to prove it. What was wrong with me? How could I fly from one extreme to another like that? It wasn’t me.
I sat very still for several minutes, my thoughts racing at an impossible speed until they dead-ended in resignation. Fingers trembling, I reached for the phone once more. I pushed speed dial 3 (an honor he no longer deserved, but one which I could not yet bring myself to revoke) and sat immobile with baited breath. And then I was hearing that voice again.
“Hello? Liza?”
“Oh… um, Ben. Hi.”
“Look, if you want to talk, I don’t really think—“
“No. I mean I do, but that’s not what I’m calling about.”
“What else could you be calling about?”
“I did something bad and I have to tell you.”
“What did you do? Shit, Liza, if you saran-wrapped my car, I’m gonna—“
I stopped listening. He didn’t know me at all. He never had. With a newfound clarity of mind, I interrupted him.
“Actually, I sent $100 worth of hair-enhancing product to your house with the credit card number you gave me to buy tickets to the concert that we are no longer going to because you no longer love me. It’s alright, though, I’m fine with the way things turned out. Have fun with your hair.”
I snapped my phone shut with a satisfying click. Turning my attention back to the television just in time to see Lucy stuffing a fistful of chocolates into her mouth, I let out my first laugh in a week. It sounded strange, but not at all unpleasant. It sounded like me.
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