Vote For Larry

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from VOTE FOR LARRY

Beth told me later that what we had done didn't change anything, that we had important work to do, that she was serious about Simon . . . blah, blah, blah.

But everything changed.

I don't want you to think I reverted to some dopey guy following Beth around like a puppy. I was cool, gave her a boost up out of the hole after the rain stopped, waved goodbye with a smile.

You know when you finally do something you've been obsessed with for years, and somehow afterward it feels anticlimactic, not worthy of all the hype?

This wasn't one of those times.

The term "slow-motion" doesn't begin to describe the care I took in playing back my afternoon with Beth. Her kissing my chest, my muddy hands pulling her toward me, the sky opening up and pouring down on us afterward.

It was messy.

It was beautiful.

It ruined my vision quest.

I went home and ate a three-egg omelet with half a jar of salsa, then took the longest, hottest shower of my life.

I had been happy with Janine—she was kind and gregarious and fun—but this was Beth. As for Simon? I didn't care what Beth said about her commitment to him. His reign was over.

I wanted to play it cool,[35] so I didn't rush over to Beth's. I grabbed a notebook and a handful of markers and headed for the basement.

In the cocoon-like safety of my swing, I outlined several ideas. I got so carried away mapping out various projects, I ran out of paper in the first fifteen minutes.

I left the swing for the larger space of the workroom. Cans of paint lined the walls, probably leftover from Peter's jobs. I rolled out a giant drop cloth until it covered most of the basement floor. I took a brush from the tray next to the sink and began graphing my thoughts. Soon the tarp looked like an abstract expressionist painting with chunks of color representing possible avenues of action.[36]

When it was dark, I took a break and cleaned up. Peter had left a message saying he was in Worcester and wouldn't be home until tomorrow. So I figured enough time had passed for a non-desperate visit to Beth's.

In all the turmoil of coming home, I hadn't made Beth a Christmas present. She and I had always celebrated the holidays as non-materialistically as possible—we made each other presents. So I sat down and spilled my guts in a letter, detailing how I'd felt about her for years and the new level we'd taken the relationship to. The thing was mushier than a stupid pop song, but the words just wouldn't stop. I took the Ganesh statue from its box in the closet and wrapped it carefully in one of my T-shirts. I headed over to her house.

But what I saw from the edge of her yard froze me in my steps.

She and Simon were making snow angels.

They were lying on their backs, holding hands, and naming the constellations. Our constellations, the ones Beth and I had named a hundred times before.

But the most painful part of watching Beth and Simon? They looked happy.

I'd witnessed Beth with Todd, with Charlie, with Dave—but never this relaxed and comfortable with someone else.

She was right about one thing she'd said earlier today: Nothing had changed between us. Nothing at all.

I shoved the letter in my pocket and trudged home.

I tried to hate her—for using me, playing with my mind, cheating on him—but I couldn't muster up the anger. Whatever she did to me from here on in was nothing compared to what I'd put her through. She had me over a barrel and she knew it.

I hurried to the basement to put my pent-up energy to use. But this time, the paint splattered and flew across the tarp at warp speed. Where my work that afternoon had been meticulous and well thought out, this was wild and raw. A Pollock of pain.

Should I go back to Boulder? Hit the road? Come out of hiding and be Larry? Work side by side with Beth and Simon? Oh, and by the way—Happy New Year!

I picked up the phone and called Janine, but all I got was her answering machine with the Banana Splitsf0 theme song. I wanted to tell her that my name wasn't Mark, that I was in love with someone else, but that I still thought about her all the time. Instead, I quietly dropped the phone back into its base. Josh Swensen—King of Calling Old Girlfriends and Hanging Up. I barely slept.

I woke up at three, full of anxiety. It took me a few minutes to realize why. Between the pre-dawn darkness and Peter's absence, it was almost exactly like the morning I'd left two years ago. I washed up quickly, grabbed Peter's bike this time, and headed into the early morning.

My body knew where I was going long before my mind acknowledged it. Hour after hour, I pedaled south, then east. Thankfully, most of the roads were clear.

Somewhere around Plymouth, I couldn't avoid facing my destination.

I was returning to the scene of the crime.

As I pedaled, the colors and lines I'd painted yesterday congealed into some kind of plan. The task this time seemed Herculean—or was it quixotic?[37] That was also what made it appealing.

Once I hit Wareham, I coasted—almost afraid to catch a glimpse of the bridge. I stopped at a diner to use the bathroom and down two bagels and a bottle of water. Should I go along with Simon and Beth's idea or follow my own path? I wrote down my idea on the napkin in front of me. Was I being too delusional this time, even for me? No, delusional was thinking I could ever end up with Beth. This idea seemed almost attainable compared to that one. I told myself to quit stalling, got back on the bike, and headed toward the Sagamore.

As I pedaled across the bridge, my body instinctively pulled over to the same spot I'd stopped at back then. It was much less windy than that previous day, but no less threatening. I leaned my bike against the stanchion and gazed over the side.

How had I even pretended to jump? My hands clenched the girder for support. I felt as dizzy and nauseous as I had the morning of my pseudocide. Stand here, I thought. Stand here until you realize what you've done. What you're going to do.

I looked across the bay and let the past few years flash before me—the campsites, the hostels, the lies, the fake IDs, the paranoia, the loneliness. Yes, I had met interesting people and traveled to parts of the country I never would have seen otherwise. But I'd traveled as an interloper, a fugitive.

The wind pressed against my back, pinning me to the railing. I let myself feel the isolation of my existence. This wasn't about Beth, my mother, Peter, or even Janine; it was about me. I didn't know what the future held, where my place was in the universal plan, but I did know this.

I didn't want to be Mark anymore. Or Carl or Gil or Tom.

Whatever the future held, I would meet my fate as Josh Swensen. And that meant embracing Larry again. And being Larry meant contributing in a big way. I unfolded the napkin I'd scribbled on in the diner and read my New Year's resolution.

This year I will run for president.

I couldn't be president, of course; no one my age could. The Constitution was quite clear that you had to be thirty-five to serve. But there was nothing in that document that said I couldn't raise issues or voice my opinion.

Absurd?

You bet.

But that was what drew me to the idea.

A police car pulled alongside me, lights flashing. The cop in the passenger seat got out of the car cautiously and asked if there was a problem.

I shook my head and looked past him to the dark water below. "Don't worry, I'm not thinking about jumping."[38]

I thought about turning myself in, throwing my bike in their trunk and hitching a ride toward my newly decided fate. Instead, I hopped on my bike and headed toward Boston.

I had a lot of work to do.

____________________

35) For once

36) I may not solve any of society's problems, but I was certainly enjoying myself.

37) To throw in some references from Ms. Kelly's senior year lit class.

38) This time.

Copyright © 2004 Janet Tashjian

This text is from an uncorrected proof.