Landon: 'Don't Say It's Over'

Don't Say It's Over
Jeff Landon

Jane dumped me and I was fine with it because when she wasn't smoking cigarettes she was eating tuna fish on Saltines and if you're imagining her breath, you're right. She'd made a list of my faults as a prelude to the end of our love. Typewritten, two pages, three columns per page. I couldn't disagree. She had me. Still, I wish she'd put more effort into her farewell. She wore my sweats and a V-neck T-shirt speckled with mustard stains.

"You should quit smoking," I told her, in parting. "Or eating tuna."

***

I hiked my duffel bag to the YMCA, bought a locker, stored it there.

"My sweet baby left me," I told the guy at the front desk. His nametag said: Harry.

"Life's a bear," said Harry.

"Tell me about it, brother," I said, feeling a connection.

Harry made a grunting sound, like an old person standing, but he wasn't old and he didn't move.

"We should grab a coffee," I said. "I have woe to share."

"I don't date the clients," said Harry, completely misunderstanding my wants, but that was cool. Love is love.

I'm mellow, although Jane's list said otherwise.

***

A few minutes later, under terrible lighting, I returned with two coffees. We drank in near silence.

"We should go see my old girlfriend," I said. "Jane. I want her to see me with my new pal."

Harry sipped his coffee, said, "No way."

"Twenty bucks," I said.

***

A few minutes later, we were knocking on Jane's door. She opened it, just a crack.

"I'm engaged in the world, Jane," I said. I took off my hat, fluffed out my hair. "You can take 'Doesn't have any friends' off that list."

"OK," she said. "That leaves about 256 more things." The door shut. She didn't slam it; that wasn't her style.

"I flossed this morning," I told the door. A lie. My dental records were horrendous. "I'll do anything."

"Could you maybe go away?" said Jane. "That'd be pretty great."

"Done," I said.

***

Two hours later, after talking to Jane's door for two hours, and one hour and fifty-nine minutes after Harry had left, I relented. I scooted away. Love requires action and effort. I needed money.

***

Five hours later, I counted the haul from my Zippy Go Mart robbery. Fifty-seven dollars. I capped my night of petty crimes by stealing some kid's banana seat bike. One of the tires was almost flat. The bike and I wobbled to the bus station.

***

Ticket to Raleigh in hand, I found a woman to sit beside. She kept crying and looking at messages on her phone. She smelled like lavender and wine coolers. I coaxed her through her sadness and told her I understood how love could die like a fluttering butterfly.

"That's poetry," she said, and I agreed. One of my gifts.

Her name was Tricia. She wore a Guns 'n Roses hoodie and black jeans. Every few moments, she would lift a bottle of Peach Schnapps and guzzle, unashamed, beside me.

"There, there," I said, patting her hand. "It's OK, Tricia."

Halfway across Virginia, darkness fell, and my fellow passengers followed into sleep. I looped an arm around Tricia. She didn't stir. We moved through the night and I knew this was the one that could finally ruin my life. I looked out my window, held Tricia close, her breath warm and broken on my neck.

Jeff Landon is the author of EMILY AVENUE and TRUCK DANCE. He lives in Richmond.

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