Don't Call it a Farewell, Journalism, Me Myself and Ty

I’m not good at goodbyes

You can feel the tears queued up behind your eyes even when you talk to the pretty girl. That’s how you know it’s time to go.

Time to say goodbye at a goodbye party, but the two negatives don’t make a positive in this case.

You hurriedly put whatever distraction conversation you were having on the proverbial shelf, but you know it need not ever be resolved. Then you turn to find her, not to say goodbye, though.

Goodbyes are for suckers who don’t think they’ll ever see each other again. A healthy understanding of the ambiguity of the term “later” allows you to say “see you later” without much thought and without much remorse. It sets the table for the reunion.

But you don’t even say it. You just think it. The farewell moment is a long, tight hug. You don’t say a word, but not because the silence says it all. It’s because saying nothing deep down in your head allows you to suspend the disbelief for another night.

Now it’s the escape. Hurry to the door. Say bye to everyone else. Suddenly saying bye to them means absolutely nothing. It’s a cheap goodbye. You’ll see them all Monday and you’ll drink and you’ll bitch and complain about work, but she won’t be there. It doesn’t matter if you say goodbye to them at all, but all of a sudden it’s imperative that you do, just to prove that you can say it to someone.

Quick, easy strides to the car. It’s no longer a question of holding back tears. Just imagine how close you are to home, to your bed where you can finally let it all out. Cry into your pillow. Wake up and start worrying about work again.

The drive home proves to be a healthy distraction. Just turn on autopilot and let the subconscious take the wheel so you can shut the rest of your brain off. You’ve traveled this way hundreds, thousands of times before.

Fucking goddamn train. It breaks the monotony. Think about the implications. No more dancing. No more drinking. Now it’s hitting you.

Start thinking about the blog entry you’ll write. That’s how you’ll cope, huh? Write that lead in your head because we’re all really fucking impressed. You’re just distracting yourself again, just like you did two weeks ago when he left.

Not saying goodbye doesn’t make them not leave.

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It's in the vault, Journalism, Me Myself and Ty, Politics

(Re)affirmation (re)visited

I recently followed up on a candidate for City Council who put down two separate addresses on his voter registration form.

One was the address at his recently purchased home in the district he was aiming to represent. The other was his work address.

I did due diligence, especially since I knew he was living out of district very recently, but N.C. laws concerning residency are very ambiguous. A formal challenge to his residency filed by a resident fell flat, as well, mostly because the challenger didn’t appear to read my stories, but to make a long story short, the young man is still on the July 17 ballot.

I know the guy well since he’s one of the young professionals in the area and we’ve shared quite a few beers before and since his candidacy. He’s a nice enough guy, but the story isn’t about him or his candidacy. Like nearly everything on this blog, this story is about me.

I had just arrived in Canada and it was 12:01 a.m. when I received a text message from the candidate whose campaign I had nearly stamped out. Continue reading

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It's in the vault, Me Myself and Ty

Feets of Strength

I hadn’t seen Farrell or Jessica since I returned from Canada more than a month before, I was halfway through a pint of beer and talking with Farressica, Farrell’s dad and Zachary Tubb at Lilly’s Pizza on Glenwood Avenue.

And where was I? I was on the sidewalk, near some dumpsters, struggling to hear what was being said on the other line.

The beer was calling to me. And the pizza. But someone else had called, too and she was telling me all about her assignment.

The story was riveting, but I caught myself thinking about how badly I wanted to get back to the table. I fought it for several minutes, but I was ready to return to my beer.

And then there it was: a white convertible Mazda Miata.

It pulled up to the curb, but for whatever reason didn’t pull up into the definitive parking space behind a white Suburban.

The boy in the driver’s seat attempted to crank the car again, but it stalled.

“Hell,” I thought, “It’s a Miata. I could throw that thing over my shoulder and carry it the 10 feet forward into its proper parking space.” Continue reading

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