You Just Want to Disappear

You knew it would eventually come to this. No question about it, though a small part of you had some lingering doubts.

You stand there, frozen. Your heart is making an escape attempt from your chest, and your hand is practically vibrating. A bead of sweat forms on your forehead, and you wipe it off, attempting to be as discreet as possible. No one else needs to know about this.

The address is scrawled in thick, jet-black ink, commanding your attention. Your eyes shift to the top-left corner. Choteau, Montana. You'd be in shock if you weren't already.

Choteau, Montana, you repeat, trying to think of a time where you'd ever heard of that place. Why would you move there anyway, halfway across the country?you ask, staring at the address.

You run your index finger along the space in between the flap and the rest of the envelope, the off-white glistening in the sun. The reflection of the sun bounces off the mailbox, and the neighbor's sprinklers release a catlike hiss before a steady, relentless stream shoots out. You step to your left after a few droplets strike you, leaving their mark on your shirt. Noticing a few unsightly stains, you aren't as annoyed as you might normally be. You can't remember the last time you had a different shirt on, and you run the smell check.

Probably best to get into this inside, you think, beaming with pride at having a brilliant idea. Easier to sink my teeth into it. A silver coupe coasts by. For a moment, paranoia convinces you that the bald, bespectacled man in the driver's seat is something more than merely a kind old man off to visit his grandkids or pick up some groceries.

The letter is typed, giving no indication as to might have written it.

Marshall, the letter began. I doubt I'll ever know whether or not this letter ever reached you. Even if it does, there's no guarantee you'll read it. You probably won't even open it, knowing how we parted. That, or you'll read it, throw your hands up, curse me, and move on.

So I suppose it isn't worth the effort to tell you everything I've wanted to for the past couple of decades. I'll try, but no promises. You were never one for promises, anyway - were you?

Cousin Georgie died. We told him he should wait til the hairspray dried, but you know how he loved his Marlboros. Sad, yes. But on the bright side, I think he'd be pleased with how he went out. You know, I always knew you needed to keep away from open flames with that stuff. But god, I never knew just how important that was! Reminded me of the one time Aunt Lucy tried to make Thanksgiving dinner. Remember that? Almost burned the whole house down! At what point is a turkey considered a Class A weapon? Oh well, nevermind.

You look up, unnerved, a growing sense of dread crawling up your spine like an insect. Only, it's worse. You can't squash this kind of discomfort with a shoe or a napkin, or catch it and release it to the wild.

It's beautiful here, the letter continued. I'm staring right at the Rockies as I type this. I never truly "got" why people talked about them as though they were gods, with the same bizarre reverence some people have for certain gods.

But seeing them in person, blessed enough to stand in their presence - it's like looking at pictures or watching videos of your favorite band, versus seeing them perform live. That's the best I can explain, and even then, the two don't even compare. Not by a long shot.

Marshall, there are so many farms! You can't even imagin And it doesn't even look like anyone sees it as work! They have the whole family pitching in, and none of the kids looked that upset at doing this kind of work. It's the most admirable thing I think I've seen in a long time!

Add to that the relaxed, breezy way the ranchers shuffle as they round up their cows - it's a far cry from wanting to ram a screwdriver deep into both ear canals just to get a break from the incessant noise and dehumanizing commotion of the city.

But I do miss LA.

The unwarranted confession is jarring. This is probably what it feels like to ride a bus, and the driver jerks it to either side, moments before missing a turn. You'd probably know that if you ever rode the bus. Probably. 

"Alexa, add 'ride bus' to my to-do list."

Time to see how the other half lives, as the saying goes.

How could you do it? you read at one point, after scrolling past a jumbled list of all the awful things California's biggest city has to offer (traffic jams and congestion are tied for first place).

How could you blackmail your show's biggest crowpleaser? And for merely pointing out what we all know: that you pay people for silence. We know you require a dedication to the art form. We just hoped that "dedication" wouldn't require getting hooked on drugs, creepy sexual shit I can't bring myself to even think about in detail, and other things like that.

How do you sleep at night, Marshall? And what if that were me? Am I even safe, as your cousin? Or are you so "dedicated" that it wouldn't make a bit of difference?

You put the letter down and step away.

At some point you want to go to Indiana. You don't know why. But only Indianapolis, maybe Terre Haute. Nowhere else. The rest of the state just seems like Iowa, the place where people go when all hope is lost (Des Moines notwithstanding).

The cliché is that that's Florida, but the truth is that at least Florida has some prestigious schools, a famous amusement park, and - if the Internet can be trusted - some crazy characters.

No, Florida is the place people go when they've hit eighty, and, at that point, you're either coherent enough to find death hopeful or so senile it doesn't really matter where you're at.

But Indiana and Iowa, these places have a different pull.

You're done with it all.

You just want to disappear.