Well Played (Well Met #2)(19)

Sometimes I think about time, and what we do with it. I turned twenty-seven last month, so I’m inching closer to thirty, and what am I even doing with my life? I look at my friends on Facebook. Friends from high school who grew up and moved away. Friends from college who went on to brilliant careers. At one point we were all in the same place; we theoretically got the same basic start in life. I look at what they’ve accomplished. And then I look at me. Part of me thinks that I really screwed up by staying here. But when my mom got sick all my priorities shifted.

Here’s what I won’t tell Mom, though. It was like that first heart attack jump-started her into getting old. What an awful thing to think, right? I mean, my parents have always been old. Older, at least. Mom was thirty-eight when I was born. She was in her forties when I started school, while all my friends’ moms were much younger. So it’s something that I’m used to. But then she had that heart attack. I can’t tell you how . . . old she looked in that hospital bed. That was the thing that got me. My mom, who’d always been the strongest person I knew, the person I went to with every single problem of my life, was suddenly this frail little thing that I wanted to swaddle in bubble wrap.

Now that she’s better I could get on with my life, of course. Start that fashion merchandising career that I’d intended. But an internship in New York at twenty-seven is a lot different than an internship at twenty-two. Those connections dried up long ago, and I have no idea how to find new ones. Not to mention, every time I think of leaving I think of my mom in the hospital and how helpless she looked. What if it happens again? What if it’s worse, and I’m not here? I mean, yeah, Dad’s here, and he took great care of her before. But he’s not getting any younger either. I feel like I should be close by. I love them so much, and they love me.

You know, love songs say crap like “love will set you free,” but lately I’ve been thinking that love is more like a cage. The most beautiful cage, with gold filigree and diamonds on the bars. But a cage nonetheless.


To: Stacey Lindholm

From: Dex MacLean

Date: November 16, 01:30 a.m.

Subject: Re: PSL Final Tally!


Checking my email isn’t something I usually do on faire weekends. There’s so much going on here at the grounds that email is usually a “during the week” thing. But I have to say that I like this new habit of writing to you before I go to sleep. It’s the perfect way to end my day.

Fourteen is a lot of pumpkin spice lattes. Is there maybe a support group you can join?

I had to think about that for a minute: love is a cage. I think you’re on to something, but at the same time the idea makes me sad. Something as glorious and powerful as love shouldn’t make you feel caged in. I wonder if what you’re seeing as a cage is obligation instead of love. They can look the same, especially when it comes to family. It’s hard to break free from that, and some people never do. Says the guy who tours the country with his extended family on the Ren Faire circuit for a living.

You sound like you feel trapped, and it’s totally understandable. I can also relate. Not just because this particular stop is a much smaller Faire that doesn’t provide hotel rooms. And that’s fine: we have an RV that we can camp in, and in a pinch I sleep in the back of my truck. But this part of North Carolina had an unexpected cold front, so camping wasn’t as pleasant as it usually is. It’s the last weekend here, though, before we move further south, so I’ll survive.

But for how much longer? Like you, I’ve been thinking more and more about the passage of time lately. And wondering how much longer I can live this lifestyle. I’m not twenty-one anymore, when traveling the country and sleeping in the back of a pickup was an adventure. But now that I’m thirty-one (hitting thirty wasn’t as painful as I anticipated, BTW, you’ll do just fine), I’m more likely to wake up with a backache, and insist on contracts at festivals that include hotel rooms. No more of these small-time places that want us to just work for tips. We’ve been doing this too long for that.

And then my mind circles back to How Much Longer? I know guys, performers on this circuit, who’ve been doing the same gigs for years. Decades. Is that how we’re going to end up? Are all of the guys going to want to keep this going that long? I mean, at some point, we’re going to have to make a real living, right? At least one of us is going to get married and want to stop traveling. And it’s not like we have health insurance, or any kind of retirement savings. Or a roof over our heads that doesn’t belong to family. This nomadic life can be great, but sometimes it feels like I’m speeding toward a cliff that’s just getting closer and closer. Sometimes I wish I had a safety net.

Hmm. That got kind of deep, and kind of down, which isn’t how I want to feel when I write to you. So it’s up to you, Anastasia. Cheer me up. Tell me what you’re doing on this lazy Sunday.


To: Dex MacLean

From: Stacey Lindholm

Date: November 16, 1:43 p.m.

Subject: Re: Re: PSL Final Tally!


Lazy Sundays are my favorite thing in the world, actually. Right now I’m on my laptop in my parents’ living room, about to watch a movie with my mother. She has a weakness for romantic comedies. If this is part of being in that cage, I don’t mind it so much.

Shut your mouth about PSLs. They make me happy. No support group needed, thank you very much.