Laura Goslinski's "How I Reevaluated My Relationship with People..."

How I Reevaluated My Relationship with People from the Hallway of a Gas Station, the Back of a Cab, a Hotel, a Bus, a Door, and a Valley; and Tried Again

Important things for the Composition of Story-telling and the Realization of Tinder Prostitution, in the Worst, Best, and most Sincere Formalities, Accompanied by Truth; and Sadness; and Joy

A. The Very Ending

• The boy (myself)—

o The boy—twenty-two at the time, tall? Medium? Scruffy with enough hair to cause envy and lose fingers in.

• in a cab with a man named Devon—

o Devon—middle aged, middle part, greasy hair down to his shoulders, cab driver for Taxi Toronto—a cab company his grandfather started, he still drives the cabs though; doesn’t say much, eyes out the window and windshield whippers causing a ruckus after the rumbling of rain gave up.

• The cab is old, 1950s old, says it’s the charm of the thing that keeps it running but it’s barely running, and Devon is boring the boy. There’s one…two… three…four…five. Five different ways for his hand to reach behind the driver’s seat. Thirty-minutes to give it a try before the boy bails out at a gas station, cell phone dead, looking for a payphone, half-way to nowhere.

B. The Ending

• Only boxers when he got there, knobby knees up to his armpits, elbows and body like a spit roast. A scratchy hotel room on the third floor of a motel turned hotel with the same style of a motel and the same quality of sandpaper through cat’s fur backwards. He was Jay—

o Jay—A middle aged man, cropped hair down to the root like there was no root to begin with, bags under everything, eyes, arms, legs, toes, bags of loose skin dripping and flapping and sliding and squishing between crossed fingers. A sad man. Pleading eyes? Sorry eyes? Begging eyes? Begging words and angry eyes? Begging words and angry eyes and clench fists?

• Jay was not forty-year-old Melinda—

o Melinda—A cougar in every sense of the word. Literally wore cheetah print in every picture she sent. Blonde highlights from the 1990s and blue eyes bigger than forty-ounce bottle bottoms bottomed below bellowing bruises blurred back behind bad decisions? An assertive woman, a kind woman, who sent pictures and morning hellooooos and messages during class that my teacher, Mr. Walker—

➢ Mr. Walker—no relevance, but walks with a walker that’s why we call him Mr. Walker, he’s actually named Mr. Green but he never wears green so what is the relevance?

o Confiscates and reminds me to Stop smiling at my crotch, and the class always laughs so there’s a bonus point in favor of Mr. Walker. Melinda’s hot, and horny, and divorced, and nice, and rich.

• I left with a wad and a bruise, four times bigger than arranged with Melinda. The hotel receptionist blew wind past my shoulders with his eye lashes flapping up and down. up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, up and down, as it rained outside on the boy waiting for a cab from Toronto Taxi

C. The Middle

• The boy got on the bus at 3:50 pm, gray clouds were catching in the net behind the antenna. A squished seat and Bill—

o Bill—late twenties, a gentle voice, slips over women’s knees on their wedding nights, the curl of cream flooding black black coffee

• Blue car, red car, white car, silver car, silver car, white sketchy van, black sketchy van, silver car, red car, blue car, blue car, black car, black car, black car, zitch-dog wiener dog out a truck window! Tree, red car, blue car, Go bus, punch buggie no punch backs! Punch stretch-limo-hummer no punch backs! Ugly orange car, canoes on cars, cows, horses, sheep, tree, tree, tree, tree, tree, tree, tree, tree, tree, tree red car, zitch-dog, same dog, tree, tree, tree, tree, tree, tree, tree, tree, tree…

A hand on the boy’s knee tree, tree, tree, tree, nothing, nothing, house, house, house, house, house, house, house, station.

• It was a fifteen-minute walk to the hotel that tasted like a motel, but a five-minute run.

D. Mid-Beginning (Midinning)

• The door was louder than I had expected it to be, it slammed the soul out from under me, and let my feet crumble into the cracks of our cement front steps. The red paint had begun to chip away even after having just been painted the summer before. Mr. Rockwell—

o Mr. Rockwell—Eighty-eight? Ninety-five? Long Dead? A Ghost?

• Looked on from across the street. “Fuck off.” I wanted to say, but the slamming of the door made my soul, and legs, and chest, and arms, and then my vocal chords fall out from under me and mix with the chipping paint on the steps of my childhood home, so I couldn’t.

• I would have been late for the bus if I did anyway.

E. The Beginning

• She had borrowed my laptop to check her work emails because she could never get it to work properly on her tablet, and that’s how she found out

• A picture of Melinda lay across the desktop, only for a moment

• That was enough for the breaking of hearts, the confirmation of coffins, I was so close to my mother—

o My mother—sharp tonged and desperate, eyes flashed across a scalding stove to boil and pop enough that it burns at the bottom, the smell of black popcorn caught in my ears as she saw it

• What is this? What is that Raymond Alexander Sutton? What was that? Was that a woman’s—I don’t even- I can’t. Raymond explain yourself. No! I will not calm down. No, no, no, Raymond what are you thinking! I can’t even imagine what you thought when you—You are so stupid Raymond Alexander, just so stupid. I didn’t raise you like this. If you needed money, why didn’t you ask? Don’t walk away from me! Don’t you dare walk away from me! She could hurt you, or kidnap you, or kill you! You never know with the internet these days; how could you be so stupid. Come back here! Come back here! Raymond!

• The boy wanted to tell her so many things, how “it wasn’t the money”, how he “wasn’t stupid”, how he “didn’t want to”, but how ne “needed to”, and he did, and the door heard every word.

F. The Very Beginning

The boy was eleven. A bag was packed for the weekend: bear, snacks, comics, sunscreen, pjs, toothbrush, toothpaste, socks, underwear, extra underwear just in case, sweaters, all zipped into his mom’s old brief case. His dad was waiting outside, he just honked, he didn’t want to speak to Mom—

o Mom—soft eyes, a bob hair cut that kissed her eyebrows and jaw, glasses that had grown and shrunk through family photos but were always perched on the edge of her nose, a smile wide enough to hold a bird, or two birds on special days, her hands were soft and smelled like lavender as she cupped his face and straightened his jacket.

You have bear right? Good, and pjs? Good honey. Don’t worry my sweet heart. It’s just a sleepover with your dad, it’s going to be just fine.

There was a crinkle beside her eye, a valley that she would one day find herself walking around in the dark, looking for answers, but she just cupped my cheek one more time.

And if you want me to come get you—You’re just a phone call away