Loving Clam

This stream of conversation, written by the same person each time, is loosely based on the dynamic of two women in their 50s who are very close to my heart. Both refer to each other as different variations of the word "Clam" and occasionally something worse, which is very true to life. These letters provide multiple examples of their relationship's wacky and somewhat inappropriate humor while also referencing very dark themes such as grief, depression, and isolation. It's not your traditional kind of love or set of thank-you's per se, but each message is pure gratitude in its own Clammy way.

Hey Clam, 

I broke our noise machine. The one you got me that's just like yours. I slid it off my nightstand when I was reaching for my Invisalign. It was soaking in the cup I got from our campus store, funny enough. It sucks, though, because it was actually doing a pretty decent job of lulling me to sleep with that one-wave audio. There's something about the predictability of the water when it's just about to crash on that artificial shoreline that really puts me at ease. It's much more reliable than the rain ones, where you can never pinpoint the thunder and lightning, and I'd always find myself jolted awake in a pool of sweat. Sorry, I'm babbling on. You know how I is. I just wanted you to know it's lovely what you're doing, all the gifts. It's helping me take my mind off Al, so thank you.

Missing our trip to Aruba and when you were over for Keith's farewell dinner. Let me know what books you've been into.

Love,

Clammy

Hey Clamshank,

Such a shame what happened with you and that guy, Mark. What a shame that douche had to cut you off, but at least he saved you the trouble of leaving at the altar in the next couple of years or months, I don't know how antsy you were. I guess now we're both stranded, stranded in single-sea once again. Sooner or later, men will realize that we're the only fish left and do something about it, but until then, you can follow behind me in my current till you're ready to latch onto some new hot bait. You can thank me later when you're hitched and happy. Like the time I helped you get acquainted with Harry. You would have never met such a great time if I hadn't dumped him for those ugly sneakers he'd always wear in Sophomore year. I'm so glad it worked out for you guys, but at the same time, I'm a little disappointed you were so content with him in those...monstrosities. Whatever, I'm picky. But honestly, if they all just end up being great times, that's okay, too. More of you for me. I miss you, and I hope you come to visit me this weekend for a little Scrabble and Blue Diamond Pub mix where we can shit on life some more. You bring the Scrabble.

Love,

Clamberg

Hey Rummy, 

I'm missing Keith (Lil Clam). I'm worried about what he's getting up to at that school. My mind returns to the absurdity of our days in Albany, and my face turns white; he can't be as bad as we were, right? I guess there is always the possibility that he's just having tame fun and not soiling his dignity with a group of twit friends. Maybe he's even studying? That couldn't be. Something I am grateful for, though, despite how much I worry, is that I ended up being persuaded into all of this paranoia. Having him with Allen.

I remember how badly I used to never want children. But once you convinced me of how worth it a child would be, there I was, holding his tiny little head that fit right in the palm of our hands. Well, eventually, I got to hold him after you and Al woke me up with a cool compress after I had passed out with my legs still splayed. You sat through all the blood and the screaming, and the thing is, I'm not even humiliated. It was probably just as bad as us drunkenly heckling people, crinkled clutches in hand, on some ferry dock in our 20s, waiting for the lucky boat to sail us into the sunset of those wild nights in our Suny years. The cerulean in the sky always sunk so quickly, so unknowingly with you. There was always so much more joy on our floor, in our paths, in my life when the two of us were conquering it.

Without your encouragement, I wouldn't have had the Platsky that we love and all that we survive to tell these tales back and forth to each other like a broken record. And Keith wouldn't have had the nickname Platsky without you. And I'm sorry you regret never freezing your eggs. But you can love Keith as much as you want because you earned it. Whether you know it or not, you're a very powerful force in my universe. I hope you do. I mean, I was never gonna let you forget. Speaking of Keith, the boy communicates poorly, so I'll make sure he rings your phone today. And expect more of these little notes I've gotten kind of into writing to you.

Love,

Rummy 

Hey Clambake, 

I'm not doing so well at work. My hunchback continues to coil inward, and all the summer heat seems to be all packed up in my at-home office. Along with my two massive monitors that take up my entire desk, I have an army of fans surrounding me as if I were rallying them up like a loyal battalion. Is it pathetic that I don't even know what I'm doing anymore? The newer staff radiate stupidity, I'm unmotivated, and my boss manages to be a lard ass and a bonehead at the very same time. The firm just isn't what it used to be, and I'm just so tired, so tired of being remote. Thankfully, I can still write to you, do the crossword, and do Sunday's crossword on my break, two very different things, as we know. And I can do it all within my freshly treated backyard, which is too big for me to afford anymore, where Al's tennis court planning and measurement papers haunt me.

Maybe I should get back into playing, but it's tricky. Playing with him in the back of my mind would be hard; I just know his critique will find its way to me from beyond the grave. He never did shut up about my form, that goober. Maybe it would've made sense to listen to it, though. I might've actually won a set or two. And both of us know I could never ask you to play with me. We saw your game in school; you're benched for life. But I guess he is, too, so you got us.

One thing I remembered today, pretty randomly, that was able to liven my mood a measly bit was, and you're gonna hate that I'm bringing this up, your relationship with Pete. You know... that one time I first met him? I don't know why, but it just randomly came up today.

He was such a bub; he was so damn weird, probably one of the weirder ones in your collection. I'll never forget that crystal clear image of us at his parent's house in the summer; it was practically as hot as it is now, but I remember just wanting to come up with you this one time, just curious about what the two of you would get up to on weekends. When I asked to, I remember you had this ghastly look, just pure dread. I was baffled by it.

From the moment you got there, you begged me to wait in the driveway instead; you changed your mind about me going in and said you were just going to say hello to him and his eighty-year-old parents, and it would be best if I just stayed out of it... And I told you, well, "What? So his place is a little scrappy? Sure, it looks like it could have a "Redrum" or two on some of the mirrors, but whatever." I wasn't gonna give you a hard time about it. You see what you see in a guy, and sometimes, it includes overlooking the crime scene in his living room and the corpse in his bathtub or just his parents that have maybe rotted into the seams of a recliner.

You like what you like. But that's when the hot-flash heat kicked in, and at that point, I was risking heat stroke if I didn't get inside, so I said screw it and went around the back. That's when I make my way up the stairs to the patio, and I see him twisting those big fat juicy tics off, Ralph, Ralph right? Poor mutt. Then he lined them up on the porch railing and tried to shoot them off with a pump rifle. Plunk, plunk, plunk, they all flew, getting lost in the coarseness of his lawn. In the instance I caught you nibbling away at your nails behind the screen door, I knew exactly why you didn't want me to come in, 'cause I was gonna rip you a new one.

At that point, you had already sensed the storm brewing. Out of love, I released fuckery on you.

"Clammy, you didn't tell me he was as fine as a frog hair split four ways, gosh darn it!"

And that was just the start. For the entire afternoon, I tested out every snarky remark I had in me to remind you of the country bumpkin future that was in store for you. Thankfully, Pete didn't seem to mind. Well, he rarely put much to mind. The vacancy in his piercing blue eyes was made apparent from the jump when I saw him calculating those swollen tics behind the sights of his gun. I'm sorry, Clam, he was a major pig. But aren't you happy you didn't see where it went? Aren't you glad that it didn't progress? There was no severe entanglement you had to constantly pull knots out of or anything so cataclysmic that it would burst into flames without warning. All you had to do was have him dump you a week later, have him propel you out of that mess like an enlarged bug into the vastness of lavish backwoods, and you were free. I'm just so glad there wasn't any more pain beyond that. Who knows how you'd be holding up now if you became his bumpkin bride?

Sorry for the info dump. I guess I just got really, really into writing to you. I'll try to kill my enthusiasm next time.

Otherwise… nothing's new. My final statement: I miss binge-watching Outlander together and you rubbing my feet on the couch. We should hop to it soon.

Love,

A Clammy Clam

Hey Clam, 

Thank you for helping me resolve the debacle I had with Keith. If we're being real, it wasn't his fault. He confided in me. I said the wrong thing. I fucked up.

Love,

Clam

P.S. 

I love A Tale for the Time Being. It's such a good read, and I can't put it down. It's an obsession. 

Hey Clam, 

The house is gone. You know that already, but I don't wanna put out the “sold” sign. It’s too hard to let it go when there is still a remanence of him there, in a literal and figurative sense. I didn't tell you this at brunch, but when I got the last few things out of the basement, I saved "the shelf" to tackle last. The first thing that happens is me dropping the urn right smack on the hardwood. Luckily the base didn't crack, but the lid did (a cheap piece of shit), and some of him kinda… fell out. It was humiliating. I had to use a dustpan to sift the remnants through its open wound because I was too afraid to just take the whole thing off. It's like those stupid sand viles you get for your kid at a resort. Do you think someone could put Al in one of those to give to a kid who would discard it from boredom in a couple of days? Sorry, that's morbid.

I just hope I didn't miss any of him, that's all. I know we're not spiritual, but I just get the feeling that he'll never really leave that house because of his unfinished projects, lost time, and lost moments.

The world is cruel, but I'm glad to make light of it with you, Clammers. Otherwise, I would have asked Kieth to just fry me up and add me into the spice pantry with his old man, just to get it over with. Kieth would hate that I said that.

When we finally made the last round on all our stuff, which overall is way too much for two people to hoard away in one space, on the way to storage unit, I made sure Keith skipped all the songs the three of us used to play during the drive. The ones from the old apartment in Jersey City that Allen would dip us to. The songs we'd belt from the fire escape in the early AMs that miraculously never received a complaint from a neighbor above or below. Strange, maybe they knew. Maybe all those people who dwelled below that sad little brick wall view we had must have thought those moments were precious enough to be left alone. That we wouldn't have them forever.

I worry I may never stop asking Keith to skip them.

Pray for me, Clam

Hey Clitty, 

Yeah, we're both pushing 60, but that doesn't mean we have to be alone while we do it. Come over, please I want you to try the banana bread I made for my neighbor with the screw loose. She invited me to her place about a week back, certainly out of pity since I'm never active in the neighborhood, for this all-keto dinner she prepared that was, believe it or not, some good eats (you probably wouldn't think so). I gotta make it up to her somehow, and since we don't cook or bake, we can both agree that it's good enough, and that alone will motivate me to actually walk over to her place and subject her to it with confidence. I need your like-minded input, so just let me know when your car is approaching, and I'll make sure the dog isn't standing in the driveway's roadkill-zone. I appreciate you.

Love, 

Clitberg 

Hey Clam,

Finished your book. Now what? 

Love, 

Clammy 

Hey Clam,

I think I figured out the round-trip flights to Puerto Rico, but I totally messed up with the hotel. I booked two by accident, one of which apparently has Michelin-star restaurant status, and the other one is the hotel we decided on from our itinerary… It's too late to make a cancelation on the one we'd shoot wads for, so bring some dressy clothes and get a pedi done because we're bringing our nice show-toes for this girl's trip. Don't worry, I'll still cover both, and before you say I'm dumb, trust me, I know. Thank you for bearing with it.

Furthermore, Kieth says he's excited and told me that he's even gonna make sure he wakes up before noon to make the flight. I know you two aren't blood, but he always had your cut-wit. Get excited, Clam! 

Love, 

Clam 

Hey Clam,

That trip was fantastic! Keith is showing me our pictures. It's crazy—we're actually looking into the camera concurrently in some of them! I think we're starting to grasp technology. Can you believe it? And thanks for helping me find a dog sitter for the Pheebers. They did her well (which means they were able to cut her nails, something Phoebe will never let me do.)

Love, 

Clammy

Clam, 

I'm lonely. Send reinforcements (peanut M&M's). I appreciate you!

Love,

Clam 

Hey Clam,

I heard about your mom. I don't even have words; she was so wonderful. I remember when I lost mine. When I first saw her, she was different. Especially at the hospital. She had already lost a lot of her warmth. There was desolation even when I held her hands beside her bed. It was like our bond had been caught in the midst of a dust storm. There we were on opposite sides of a desert separated by whirling sands and thick thrusts of wind, with no way to see each other through the mounds of it that hurled in our paths. Yet, despite how badly I wanted to fight it and push through the pelting pain of airborne salt, I knew it was her time. We had to go our own ways. And just like that, I found beauty in natural disasters.

And, just so you know, I would never explain something like this now to anyone in such agonizing detail but you. You always said that if I can empathize with you about something, I better spare no detail when doing it. So there's your proof—that I know how tragic it is. I hope you at least know it's rare for people to live a life as vivacious and as meaningful as your mother's, and you were responsible for all of it.

I would love to swing by if you were around, but I know you tend to appreciate some distance in these circumstances. So, I sent you an edible arrangement. It can't aid the loss but it can surely fill you up for about two days' worth of dessert. I hope you enjoy it irresponsibly and do what must be done. 

Love,

Clam

Hey Clam,

How do I get my son a job? Actually, scratch that. Let me request something more realistic: How do I get him some vitamin D and the desire to do something fun outside this summer? Thank you for offering up your cats for him to watch, but like his father, he's actually semi-allergic. Too bad you aren't his daddy. He'd be all up in Milo and Ziggy's shedding by now.

Love,

Clam

In response to your concerns, 

I just don't know. I haven't lived with someone since Allen, and I don't know if Keith could handle the shrunken space even when he'd only be there on certain days. He'd love hanging with you, but with the dog and everything and all his art supplies and the big bad monitors that follow me around everywhere I go, I don't know if you'd wanna have me. It would be too much to ask you to come with us too. You wouldn't see me for the first 8 hours of the day, and you're always taking calls and stuck in meetings, and after a while, I don't feel like talking. Thank you for the offer, though. I'll have to give it more thought, but I doubt it will change anything. Anyway, don't spoil the end of Ray Donivan; I will still try and tolerate it to the end. 

I Love You, Clam 

Hey Clammy, 

I'd hate to have you see me in shambles, but you already have many times, and Kieth is back in school again, and he took the damn iPad with him. It's gonna take a whole year for me to be able to play a gargantuan round of Farm Heros, or at least until he visits me again, which could be NEVER. In general, I'm pretty bummed. Would it be easier if I came to you this time? 

Love, 

Clam

Clam, 

We're both pushing 60. Don't ignore me. 

Love, 

Clam

Hey Ann, 

I know the two of us have been pretty MIA these past couple of weeks. Hopefully, just weeks, I can't keep track of time anymore. I've been thinking about taking you up on your offer. I don't want our closeness untethering under our noses. I want to make sure we can still grab hold of it and keep it wrapped up as tightly as possible. It's probably my fault. The ends of the tweeds I'm holding onto are just so thin from all the way in North Jersey.

When I think of home now, I see Irvington, New York. I want to live in that condo on the water. I want to grow old with you in that town. I’m always envying the me that was with you in Albany, in Jersey City, and on some plane leaving Newark.

After Al, nothing was infinite except you. I don't know why, but you stayed. You stayed when I was neglectful. You survived my outbursts and my mistakes; you held your gaze over my cold shoulder. You're the reason I'm still verbal and how I stay aware of the outside world. I could avoid everyone I love but always find an excuse to sneak you in through the confines of my isolation. You made me a lover, a mother, and a comic all in one go, and you made me feel like one, too. Now, all I see for my future is you sitting with your two cats, your big HD T.V., your overnight oats in the freezer, and a view of the Tappan Zee whenever I want (it's still the Tappan Zee in my ultimate fantasy). I know that lately, I've made you quite angry, I need to "learn how to pick up the phone and answer a message from time to time," I know. I'm always in a slump. But maybe I wouldn't have to keep myself in check if the person that I needed the most was just a few steps away from me.

All I know is that I need to get out of the ruins of Al's Kingdom. I thought I'd feel better after the move. Yet, I still live in the old blueprints that'll never leave the drawing board. Living here means being reminded of that from the moment I open my eyes in the morning until I close them again at 3 am after watching Law and Order re-runs while simultaneously playing Candy Crush in the living room (I know, not healthy). I love Platsky, but he reminds me so much of Al, which can leave me solemn. And now that both of them aren't around like they used to be, I feel like I'm the one who's forced to upkeep this dead narrative all on my own. There's nothing to stay loyal here to anymore; I wouldn't even know what it would look like for me if there were. Like a tree, I think I’ve been meaning to extend my branches and grow outward. It's like an itch that needs scratching.

So, I finally came to the realization that I'm sick of how empty my room is every night. I'm sick of how long I have to wait to get caught up in a fit of laughter, how long I have to wait for you to hold me again, for you to hold me and simply understand. As a tag team, we've lost many good things, you know that, but we have each other to remember how things used to be. As a tag team, we're just one extensive archive, not just of memories; we hold and preserve all the stupid jokes we make and all the stupid men that accumulated over time. We remember great lyrics, great movies, great stories, and even all the great hairstyles and outfits we put together and ditched, which was for the best, I'd have to assume. Most of them weren't pretty.

So, all I'd ask is that you make room for me in your bed and plug in your CPAP. We'll cuddle up like we used to do in our dorm's twin beds, and we can play Wordscapes till our fingers turn purple, and Keith won't mind popping a Benadryl before he sees your cats and taking a different train up to have Jeeves (AKA me) tend to his laundry at the start of September. As long as you can also stand to slide a dog into the mix as well.

If you could, I would never stop thanking you. There's so much that's obliged with you if that makes sense. I would like that very much.

Maybe you would, too. 

Maybe there will be a morning when I'll be sitting at your dining room table with a cup of that Keurig coffee you like. I always preferred a grounded roast, but not to worry; I'd get used to it. Anyway, maybe I'll look down and be face-to-face with all these dumb letters again. And I'll crack a smug smile because I'll know that they weren't the only thing that made it to Irvington.

Love, 

Steph