Contact: Facebook.

We're Going Back Home, and You're Leaving

I was with Michael in Mt. Vernon, IIllinois, where he had taken up residence. He had cooked up lasagna for the weekend, and I had brought a pie. He took me around by car to see his boyhood home and haunts, with what seemed to me to be incessant chatter. I had tried to share some of my own experiences and they didn't seem to register with him. It felt as if I were in some kind of a fantasy play in a role that made me uncomfortable.

After two hours of this, I voiced to him a concern about the imbalance in the conversation. Wordlessly, he turned around and sped home. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"We're going back home, and you're leaving," he said through gritted teeth. With each word, he hit the steering wheel with the heels of both hands. He wouldn't discuss the matter further.

At his home, he literally threw my suitcase out the door and handed me the pumpkin pie. In a hopeless, futile gesture, I let it slide into his trash can, and I left.

Next