Once Upon a Time...

A love story from the 90s comes back to haunt the present

Once upon a time a long LONG time ago, like in the very early 90’s a brown-eyed American girl fell in love with a blue-eyed British boy while he was visiting California on spring break. At Disneyland. Cliché, yes, and all the things that go with that cliché: hot sex, an intense connection, more hot sex. And then he went back toEngland. And she thought it was over. Until he sent flowers. From another COUNTRY. And love letters. And she was lost. And so it went. Loneliness and mail marked par avion and mix tapes and bad poetry and phone bills she had to pawn jewelry from her grandmother to pay. But The American Girl loved the British Boy and she didn’t care. And, when she finished university, they made plans for her to move to England so they could be together. And then two weeks before she was to arrive,e he ended it over the phone. With one icy phone call he broke her. The American Girl’s heart shattered into a thousand pieces. She never found all of them. Some of the tiniest chips were lost forever. Her friends were as relieved as she was devastated. And slowly it came out. That they loved HER but they had a very hard time being around her when she was being in LOVE with him. It as like she was another person. An addict. Only instead of being addicted to a drug she was addicted to a person who wasn’t there, a love that was never enough and always left her raw and bruised and whimpering for more.

And time passed. And even though it was over it was never truly OVER. There were still phone calls and letters, though fewer than before. And her heart still ached. But she kept moving forward in the world trying to figure out who she was if not The American Girl the British Boy with blue eyes loved.

And then in 1994, after a move to a new locale and some serious therapy, she came up with a metaphor: The British Boy = Heroin. It was short and sweet and simply went, “Just because a person kicks heroin doesn’t mean they should ever lock themselves in a room filled with it for several hours” which translated into, “just because I got some sense and cut things off with The British Boy and fell in love with a nice young man who makes me happy AND safe doesn’t mean I should ever actually have anything to do with The British Boy because I might get all LAME and screw it up.”

And everyone nodded and agreed that yes, that was a very good and true metaphor. And they sighed with relief. And a year later they celebrated the American Girl’s wedding to the American Man who bought out the best in her. And for a long time, that was where “The End” went.

Then, 10 years later, the London subway was bombed and The American Girl, now a happily married woman, called the British Boy’s mum to make sure he was okay. And they had a nice chat (at $2.71 a minute) and the Boy’s mum was touched that The American Girl cared enough to call and make sure The British Boy and his wife and daughter were all okay. And she did care. Through the grapevine she knew he was no longer a boy either but a man, a husband and father and that people had died in his tube stop. And she was truly TRULY thankful that he hadn’t been one of them.

And then three weeks later she received an e-mail from The British Boy, something she was so unprepared for it that it sent her into an emotional tailspin. Within 24 hours she fell off the wagon and called him.  And they talked for an hour and a half. And like those 12 years had not passed they plunged headfirst into a maelstrom of memories, feelings, nostalgia and LAME. And her friends sent “please, just be careful” e-mails and bit their lips with worry. This continued for 7 days and 7 nights. Neither of them slept well, neither of them accomplished much other than to check their e-mail constantly, cry, write e-mail, send photos, IM each other etc.  It felt great and awful all at the same time. And it was LAME. And they both knew it. So The American Girl forced the British Boy to wade through the remaining emotional detritus one night (his night, her day) and they seemingly came through the other end with only minor emotional scrapes and bruises. And they agreed that now that they’d finally be able to be friends.

However, during all of this the American girl had realized that her Heroin metaphor was actually MUCH more appropriate and applicable than she had ever appreciated.

• Heroin is expensive = phone calls to The British Boy are expensive
• Heroin has to be imported from other countries = The British Boy is from another country
• Heroin is bad for you = not sleeping and not eating because you have lame “The British Boy hasn’t written back yet” stomach is bad for you.
• Heroin is addictive = contact with The British Boy is addictive
• Once you get addicted to Heroin, you need more and more to keep that same great feeling = the more the American Girl talked to The British Boy the more she wanted to talk to him even more.
• Once you get addicted to Heroin you also stop caring about everything else = she got fuck-all done that week.
• Even if you go into the Heroin experience with a clean needle and what you think is a safe “I just want to experience this once” attitude you still have NO idea how bad it is going to fuck you up, that you’re going to throw up and then want to do it again anyway = substitute THE BRITISH BOY for HEROIN and PHONE for NEEDLE and yeah, same thing.
• If you decide you want to just recreationally do Heroin that means accepting that you’re going to spend 2 or 3 days a week feeling like shit, crying and shaking = Again just replace DO HEROIN with TALK TO THE BRITISH BOY and again, same thing.

So the American Girl let herself have one more really good cry. And then she stepped back and looked at the entire experience. It was an unexpected adventure. And she did get some closure and they both were able to say some things they’d wanted to say for a long time and hear some things they both needed to hear. The American Girl was honest with herself. It was very nice to know that the boy who broke her heart into a thousand pieces really did love her, was just young and didn’t know how to handle it and has regretted it ever since. He had loved her. He had. She had always needed to hear him say it and now she had. And so far no one had gotten hurt.  But she had managed not to become a drug addict yet and was SO not starting now. She didn’t have the desire, or even the energy, to go back to living like that. Sure, it was a GREAT diet but it was so not worth it.

And the American Girl admitted that an old lover does not equal an old friend no matter how much you might want them to. She hadn’t gone to all that therapy for nothing. So with a twinge in her heart she let go of him again. And she wished him happiness. And she wished his family safety. And she wished his daughter love.

And then she crawled back into the arms of her husband and, for the first times in days, fell into a deep and peaceful sleep.

The End

OBITUARIES

Laurel Elizabeth, age 34, erstwhile veterinary assistant, perennial writer of wit and incurable giver of gifts, died at home in Folsom, California, on Tuesday, August 10, 2004, following a courageous battle with the Visa bill.

She was born in the city of XXXXXXXXXXX (name omitted in accordance with the deceased's wishes). From a young age, Laurel loved to shop. She rarely met a store she didn't like, and her propensity for items pretty and whimsical is well known among all those fortunate enough to call her friend.

"She was always buying people presents," says Deborah Graff, a grieving friend of Laurel's. "I can't tell you how many times she told me how tight money was, and yet within days or even hours, a gift would arrive for me. I always assumed she stole the gifts, or forced her house elves to make them. But I guess she was just racking up a Visa bill like the rest of us."

Laurel is survived by her husband, John, lately of the California State Prison, where he is serving 3-6 months for second degree murder following the discovery of a large Visa bill incurred by Laurel. At the landmark trial, the judge issued a sentence of unprecedented leniency, and even shook the defendant's hand after the sentence was read. Laurel is further survived by many friends who are grateful for the shiny things and silly knickknacks bestowed upon them over the years.

"I wish I had kept more of the goofy little presents she was always sending me," says a friend who wishes to remain anonymous. "They would really mean something to me now that she's gone. I bet I could get a lot for them on eBay."

Funeral services for Laurel Merlino will be held at a to-be-determined date and time, pending the release of her husband, John Merlino, from prison. Despite his need to kill Laurel for racking up a ridiculously large Visa bill, still he wishes to honor her memory and invite the hundreds of people who have profited from her misguided generosity to join with him in bidding farewell to this beautiful person who made so many mailboxes a little fuller, and so many lives a little brighter.

In lieu of flowers, mourners are invited to donate to the Merlinos' Visa account.