Leaving Isn't the Hardest Thing(75)

Ivan came back and opened his paw to show me a gram bag of coke. He’d helpfully brought a caviar spoon. He said, “You must taste.” I actually laughed. He seemed sad that I was laughing. I told him: “Look, I can’t. I’m at work. I’ll take it home, though, for tonight.” This was one of my first jobs that day. I did not want to find out what climbing a telephone pole felt like on cocaine.

   He said, “No. You must taste.” This time he emphasized the word “must.” I told him I get sinus infections. (This is true and extremely annoying.) He didn’t understand. I pantomimed and explained a sinus infection in words like “nose, coke, bad, no breathing.” This made him happy. It was a problem he could fix. “Stay.” I was the puppy now.

He came back with a little round mirror and a little pile of coke. He said, “This is better. No cuts.” I was just standing there. I really couldn’t figure out what to do. I hoped this was some weird mob thing like when every Russian I’d ever met forces you to do vodka shots and then you’re friends. But I’m not great with vodka. And I’m really not great with coke. Drugs affect me.

He stepped closer and he looked older and very sad. He said, “I am trying to say, is safe for you if you taste. You do not taste, is maybe not safe for you now.” I figured it was probably his job to kill me and he honestly felt awful about it. I took a bump.

He was visibly relieved. He smiled all goofy and lopsided and said, “Okay. Yes. This is smart decision you make.” And he took me to the basement.

I think my heart attack started on the stairs. It was good, though. Best heart attack I’d ever had. I could hear it. I didn’t know my eyes could open that wide. Which didn’t help me see.

   They had a bunch of sweet gaming computers lined up on a table. But with no Internet, all the guys were hanging out on a couple of sofas watching soccer. The World Cup was on. One of the guys pointed at me and asked Ivan something. Ivan said, “Yes, of course.” I understood that much Russian. And the guy gave me a thumbs-up, said, “Good shit, yes?” I agreed that it was good shit. And I changed their splitter and got the fuck out of there. I don’t know what they were up to that they didn’t want me to see on those computers. (If you’re reading this, Ivan, I do not know what y’all were up to. I didn’t see shit.)

We got a new regional manager after that. He called me “young lady.” I told him not to. My old vet buddy said he’d called me an entitled dyke after I left the room. The company was bleeding money with the whole no-one-fucking-needs-cable-anymore thing. And I was back to chasing points. Eventually, my ankle went out.

I remember my last day. There was a big meeting. I hated these. The only potential good part was that they’d play happy messages from happy customers about their cable tech. If you got one, you got a twenty-dollar gift card to Best Buy. I got lots of calls, mostly because little old ladies liked me. I programmed their remotes. They never played mine in the meetings because no one ever figured out what to do about customers thinking I was a “nice young man.” That last meeting, they gave a guy an award. For ten years, he’d never taken a sick day, never taken a vacation day. He had four kids. I thought maybe they’d have enjoyed a vacation. But that mentality is why I was never getting promoted in that company.

I couldn’t go back after surgery. My ankle never healed right. I needed a letter from HR to continue my disability. Just a phone call. But they moved their HR team somewhere else. They never answered my emails. So I work at a gay bar. The pay is shit. But I like going to work. I don’t spend my nights worrying about where I’ll pee. And no one has called me Larry in years.





Everything That’s Beautiful Breaks My Heart


It’s helpful, in the midst of an existential crisis, to find yourself driving a bread-box Winnebago down a two-lane road winding through Texas farmland. Not a car to be seen for miles. No cell service for hours. The only colors, the wildflowers gathered around fence posts and the impossibly blue sky. The only sounds, the wind, a rattle in the back you can’t identify, and an old iPod full of LimeWire downloads circa 2007. It was like skipping through a time capsule of bad relationships—a lot of Korn, Daughtry, and Papa Roach and a surprisingly thorough collection of John Denver. But it was that or the old-time Gospel hour or the cattle auction on AM radio. And I fuckin’ love John Denver.

It was September 2016. A few days before this, I’d gotten a call from a friend, another cult baby (don’t throw that term around), who asked if I could go to Dallas to pick up a box of Family literature someone had found. I said yes because I had nothing better to do. And I was curious.

   So I drove up to Dallas. I texted something friendly like, “Hey, it’s Lauren. Sara’s friend. Prob 20 mins away? Where do you want to meet?”—like I was buying a coffee table off Craigslist and didn’t want to sound like a possible serial killer. The replies came in a string, without any attempt at friendliness.

Turn down the alley.

Flash your lights.

Once. Don’t honk.

Leave it running.

Don’t get out until I’m back inside.



Meth dealers aren’t this paranoid.

The handoff looked like something out of a bad spy movie, like they ran out of money and didn’t bother scouting for a cool location, just filmed the pivotal scene in their mom’s suburban cul-de-sac, dogs barking in the background.