Live, Laugh, Leave

"Sleep well? Sweet dreams?"

The smell of butter and dry eggs clung to the kitchen air. Lindsey’s mother scraped scrambled eggs from the skillet. Lindsey pressed her lips together and nodded. She wasn’t about to mention the dream where a porn company bought the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile and replaced the hot dog with an animatronic dolphin—fiberglass skin slick with fake water, its body arcing endlessly over a giant bread-colored bun. Or the one where she held two heavy duffel bags, straps cutting into her palms as a man kept stuffing them with drugs.

If she told her mom, there’d be an impromptu Bible study at the table, her eggs cooling beside a highlighter-marked verse.

“Okay. Remember—the air conditioner repairman will be here at one. Let him in, make sure he doesn’t steal anything. I’ll call you on my break.”

“Of course.”

Lindsey’s eyes caught on the gold cross at her mother’s throat. It glinted in the sunlight slanting through the blinds—sharp-edged, heavy-looking. She thought of a noose.

Her mother slung her purse over her shoulder. “Consider calling Jason. Marriage isn’t easy. Your father and I had our own trials and tribulations. You need to fix this whole divorce mess you started.”

The front door shut with a hollow clap. Outside, the car engine turned over and faded down the street. Lindsey let out the breath she’d been holding since breakfast. 

She’d asked for a divorce a month ago and had been “temporarily” living with her mother ever since. It felt like years. Her widowed mother still believed this was a spiritual crisis—something prayer could fix. 

They’d married fast, just after her father’s diagnosis, her mother saying it was better for the photos: no bald head, no mourning daughter. Pass from Daddy to husband. She followed Jason through bad business schemes, borrowed money, and bounced checks. Her mother cosigned loans she knew they’d never repay. The thought of divorce hadn’t come as a plan—more like seeing a dead squirrel on the drive to her therapist no one knew about.

No one needs a therapist if they have enough space for Jesus in their heart.

Every Thursday, she passed the same dead squirrel on the way to New Beginnings Counseling. Sun-browned fur, tail stiff as wire. Cars ahead of her would hit it again. She’d swerve, but still feel the soft th-thump. Her younger sister once told her “ran through” meant someone who’d slept with a lot of people. Lindsey had only been with Jason, but she felt ran through all the same—flattened, skin cracking, fur twitching in the wind.

Surely there had to be more to life than being run through nonstop.

Divorce. I want a divorce.

The words had slipped out. Jason’s face hadn’t even changed. “You need a break. Go to your mom’s. Reconnect to God’s will.”

Divorce was supposed to be freedom, but with only $400 saved from Jason’s weekly offerings—each Sunday folded in a church program with his invite to “come hear The Good Word."

The divorce lawyer wanted a thousand up front. Even if she found it—where would she go? Her mother wouldn’t let her sleep here under the Jesus portraits once she was actually divorced.

At least with Jason, she knew what came next.

Divorce was a cannonball into a black hole.

Sleeping in her childhood bed just delayed the inevitable.

The prodigal wife's return.

At one o’clock, she’d done just enough to make the house look cleaner—straightened couch pillows, ran a dry rag over the counter. The knock startled her, quick and sharp against the wood. The man on the porch startled her more.

Slicked-back black hair. Leather jacket creased from wear. Snug boot-cut jeans with rhinestone swirls on the pockets. A pink-handled pocketknife clipped to the front. A big, gaudy belt buckle featuring a cartoon character she didn't recognize. Boots stitched with flecks of gold thread.

She usually tightened up around gay men—afraid of saying the wrong thing, of being drawn into their slippery, irretrievable world.

But the white van in the driveway said “AC Repair.”

She was expecting him.

“My goodness, sweetie. Is that you, Lindsey?”

She squinted at him—strong jawline, broad shoulders. Who—?

“It’s Ronald. High school. You told me I was going to hell all the time. Remember? Gaaaay.” He punctuated the word with two sharp snaps.

“Oh… Ronald… I’m so sorry.” Her ears went hot. Throat tight.

“Nah. You were just a child, repeating what you were told.

That was twenty-five years ago.”

She twisted the fabric of her dress between her fingers. “Come in, Ronald.”

He glanced at the Ten Commandments hanging on the wall.

“Lindsey, you look like you could use a joint.”

She thought of elbows and knees.

Seeing her confusion, he grinned. “Weed, Darlin'. Marijuana.”

With the some foreign reflex , she said, “Sure. My room’s this way.”

Ronald sprawled across her bed like he owned it, rolling a joint on a copy of Home & Garden. The paper crackled under his fingers; the smell of fresh-ground weed bloomed in the air.  She used to light a candle, kneel, and pray to God here. Today, she just lit the scented candle. 

“You ever done this before? Or am I gonna have to teach you?" He asked. “No. I always tried to do the right thing.”

“Baby, there’s no right or wrong—just what you want, as long as you’re not hurting anyone. Christians get so obsessed with being right they’ll trample anyone in their way. Here—pinch it, hold it to your lips, breathe in deep.”

She took it between two fingers. “Don’t you need to fix the AC?”

He chuckled low. “Your mom has us come every month. Nothing’s wrong. I charge her forty bucks, pretend to check it, maybe drop the thermostat a couple degrees. She needs reassurance that it's as cold as her heart.”

Lindsey giggled and inhaled, the smoke rough and peppery in her throat. Coughed until her eyes watered. “That’s it, sweetie. You got it, girl.” he said.

Taking the joint from her, “Why are you here? Your mom usually sends the neighbor to keep an eye on me. Make sure the fag doesn't steal her Precious Moments figurines.”

“Oh… I guess I’m divorcing Jason...maybe.”

“Holy shit, you married that dick?”

She told him everything—her mom, Jason, secret therapy, the squirrel, the roadkill feeling, the $400.

Maybe, with enough Sunday money, she could get a lawyer. But it felt like trying to reach shore while treading quicksand.

“I don’t know. Maybe I should just call Jason. That’s what Mom says. Call Jason. Stop this divorce mess.”

“If you ever want a break from—” he gestured toward the crucifixes, “—call me. Hang out. Stay over.”

“Why? Why would you offer that?”

He put a warm, steady hand on her knee.

The weight was grounding, not suggestive.

“Because you need a friend, honey.

Your momma ain't a friend. Jason ain’t a friend either.”

“Yeah. He is a prick.” The word felt foreign and gritty in her mouth.

Ronald grinned. “First time you’ve said that, huh?”

They laughed.

“I need a receptionist. Someone I can trust. Answer phones, make appointments, not talk too much. Easy. Do it from here on the phone. Mommy dearest doesn’t have to know.”

“That’s kind, but I don’t think I can. I have to figure out what I want first.”

“Bullshit. You know what you want. You just don’t believe you can have it. You didn’t get stuck on your own—you were guided here, right thing by right thing. You can’t get out alone. Let me help. I’ll teach you how to do wrong."

He shifted his weight closer to her, "Twenty-five years ago, you told me I’d go to hell. Looking at you now, I think you’ve been living there instead.”

He snuffed the joint with a lick of his fingers, the ember hissing out. “You can go back to what you know and get more of it—or you can try something else. If nothing else… it’ll be something else.”

The smell of weed tangled with the cheap vanilla candle. She thought of the dolphin, trapped in its endless arc, and the weight of duffel bags cutting into her palms. Maybe Ronald was offering to set them down.  “Hey, Ronald… you ever dream of the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile?”

“Yeah. Dreamt the hot dog was a robot dolphin.”

“Me too. What about drugs in duffel bags? Dream of that?”

“I don’t dream it. I live it, baby. Four in the van. Be my receptionist. You’ll have lawyer money, apartment money, gold watch money, never talk to mommy money—a whole new life—before you know it. Trust me.”

She felt her pulse jump. It sounded dangerous—maybe ruinous. 

There it was—her old fear that the gays would invite her into their slippery, sordid world. Like running beside a pool, losing her footing, plunging into the deep end.

Today, she wanted to drown.

“Okay,” she said. "I'll do it.”

Ronald handed her a phone from his pocket.

"I'll call you tomorrow. Throw that money in Jason's face this Sunday. You don't need him or his money anymore."