Goodbye to You

As the holiday weekend approaches I am usually filled with memories. The radio stations seem to want to send you (provided you are in their target demographic) back to the days of your youth, particularly, those happy, free-wheeling, untroubled days of youth. They fill the airwaves with top ten songs from the summer I turned 10. And the summer I graduated high school. And the summer of my first love. And the summer I graduated college and had to think about things like P&L statements, and business attire, and reliable transportation from that point forward. I hear, in no particular order, The Night Chicago Died, The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway, Goodbye Stranger, and West End Girls. Each one makes me want to call someone who would recognize the special meaning of the song. The opening bars of The Night Chicago Died usually has me speed dialing Charlotte so she can hear it with me.

The work day ends early and I head to Kate's for a BBQ and the company of old friends. Kate is a gracious hostess. Loads of food, tons of beer and wine in coolers strategically placed all over the property, artfully decorated tables and socially convenient seating.

But as each of the gals arrives, she has a hushed story to tell.

Priscilla is getting divorced. Sshhhh.

Priscilla, her sister. Our frequent travel mate. A Girls Weekend steady-ender.

Priscilla and Mick have been together for at least 20 years. They were married before I was and it would have been 20 years for me and Lars...umm...the day before yesterday. (See how that went by unnoticed?)I can't pretend to know what happens in anyone's marriage (I barely knew what was happening in my own) but I assume it is the classic stuff. Grown apart. Never talk any more. Don't have anything in common. Spend most of their time apart and doing separate things. Would find bursting into flame more pleasant than actual sex with one another.

Kate does provide one glimpse into Priscilla's nightmare, though. Mick at some point found Jesus. Like some people find stray dogs. Invited Jesus to come live with him and gave him the spare bedroom. Swears that all their problems would be resolved if they all just prayed a little harder.

Now, I love the Lord as much as the next guy, but as a practical matter, you should have a Plan B, no matter how much you believe in the power of prayer. Especially if you have financial or marital or employment woes. And who doesn't?

So presumably as a result of these things, and a few more we'll never know anything about, they are calling it a marriage.

So I pledge to Pay It Forward. In my two year ordeal of Divorcing the AntiChrist, I did quite a lot of boo-hooing to my friends. Whining about the minutia of my marital disentanglement at all hours of the day and night, at all manner of settings, during all types of social engagements - parties, baby showers, Chrstenings, graduations, birthday bashes, sporting events. You name it, I took Lars' name in vain at it, railing against his particularly humiliating brand of ass-holery whenever a bitter little memory was triggered by something.

I owe Priscilla that. As optimistic as she is, and as cordial as the parting may seem to be at this point, at another point, in the not-to-distant future, she will want to scream. And I want to tell her, as Dr. Frazier Crane would say, "I'm listening."