The Long Goodbye

I think of my job as a series of long goodbyes.  With each project we’re assigned comes the understanding that, after several months of getting to know your hospital, getting to know the town, making friends with the staff, waking in the middle of the night with a brainstorm or to answer a frantic phone call… you will never see the people, or the place, likely, again.  It is defined. 

Letting go of the place is always hardest for me.  Whatever the circumstances of the installation, however troublesome or hectic, and regardless of the frequent “get me the hell out of here” mentality that comes with bucking my seatbelt on the final day of my final visit, I always take my time driving to the airport, repeating under my breath the street names, the landmarks: this place I’d come to know, passing away.

We exaggerate our own importance to a location, I’m sure, and even I would be hard-pressed to convince myself that Shannon, the bartender at Gerard’s, would wonder why I hadn’t returned six weeks later, as usual, for my 32 ounce Miller Lite in a frosted mug, but there’s something bittersweet to be said for making yourself a home, away from home, knowing you will leave.  But what choice do I have?

If grace is a virtue, then forced grace is still a virtue, albeit, perhaps, contrived.  The eloquence of my series of goodbyes is in knowing their inevitability, in the cold, defined reality of my responsibilities.  I take care, in that regard, to make my goodbyes, and leave quietly, reverently.

In a sense, our formative years are defined by transition, and thus, by goodbyes.  Each graduation (primary definition: mark on a vessel, indicating quantity) serves as a new opportunity to get accustomed to saying goodbye; to buildings, to teachers, to friends.  But few of these goodbyes are permanent (rather, perhaps, the ones we wish not to be are not) and thus do little to prepare us for the realities of real life, when we cease to grow and begin to die (some of us faster than others).  It is in this time that we come to treasure the long goodbye, the touching, cinemafied, romantic ideal of letting go.  For real, this time.

I stopped smoking several months ago, arbitrarily.  I remember the moment I made the decision perfectly: It was 12:40 in the afternoon.  I had picked Greta up at the airport at 1:30 in the morning the night before, still fairly hung-over from my previous night’s escapade, and she was now in the living room, checking her e-mail, while I smoked the fourth-to-last cigarette in the pack in the kitchen.  I had a six-day-old beard and a pimple had me afraid I was getting a cold sore.  The nearly-empty pack was a left-over from earlier in the week, and this particular cigarette had been crushed and tasted awful.  My hands smelled terrible and were shaking from two cups of Southern Comfort flavored coffee.  Massachusetts had just raised the tax on cigarettes by a dollar.  I’d had enough.  In three cigarettes, I would quit.

In the summer of 1998, my (first) girlfriend Amy came with my family to Kiawah Island, South Carolina on our annual vacation.  We drove my dad’s black Ford Thunderbird down I-95 for 700 miles to join the crew, blasting Radiohead and Dave Matthews, talking about our future.  We went on bike rides and late-night walks on the beach, and on the final night there, she fainted while waltzing with me in the sand.  Sure that only our love would get her through that difficult time, I proposed that we get married in four years, and she happily accepted (What else could she do?  I was her ride home.).  A month later, my fiancée visited me in State College on my first weekend in college, kissed me goodbye, and drive off in her Rabbit.  Two months later, her best friend told me that she was back with her ex-boyfriend, she never loved me, and I looked like a giraffe.  Our goodbye was simple, uncomplicated, inelegant.  In many ways, it was one of my finest goodbyes.

Shortly after I made my decision to quit smoking, I realized an immediate shortcoming: namely, I didn’t give myself adequate time to enjoy them while they lasted.  Oh sure, cigarettes and I had spent some good times together… well, all of my twenties.  I had met my closest group of college friends thanks to cigarettes, and those I didn’t meet thanks to cigarettes, I introduced to cigarettes.  Cigarettes went with me on every road trip to New York, they were there when I was promoted to assistant manager of the movie theater, and they were here for me when I was unsure of a job in Boston.  Cigarettes deserved better than to be cast aside because of a decade of personal indiscretion and legislative malfeasance.  They deserved a proper farewell.  For real, this time.

My departure from State College was marked by two farewells: my home for five and a half years and my job at the Cinema 5.  When it became clear that my days in town would be numbered, I cherished every moment.  Nights became longer, conversations weightier.  I completed my quest to visit every establishment in town.  At work, every shift was a celebration.  Ken and I wore pieces of the “American Wedding” tuxedo donated by the rental shop nearby, completing crosswords gained significance, and Mr. Thompson was never far from sight.  In fitting tradition, near the end of my final shift (but not before it was over) we had a free Guinness at the G-Man and reminisced about the money we’d made together.  Everything was in my control, beautiful and excruciating.  The inevitability of my return beyond my comprehension, each event was filled with gravity… as such, each time I have found my way back I am filled with disappointment.  The memory so carefully ingrained altered by evolution, and I a dinosaur.

Non-smokers are always ready with awful suggestions for quitting… most of these derived from internet headlines or Glamour articles.  What no non-smoker appreciates is that for most people, smoking is not a habit, like twirling your hair or popping bubble gum.  Smoking, for smokers, is like a nationality… it’s like being Swiss, really… if the average lifespan in Switzerland was 55.  Fantastic perks, great camaraderie, high taxation, and a guaranteed early death.  And just like changing nationality, only a careful consideration of the risks, benefits, politics and peer pressure will result in a successful transformation.  Gum, patches, exercise, knitting… these are all replacements for an identity?  That doesn’t sound right.

In Act 3 of La Boheme (or RENT for you heathens), Mimi approaches Marcelo and mentions that Rodolfo has been ignoring her.  Rodolfo tries to convince Marcelo that Mimi has deceived him but later confides that Mimi is ill, and he can’t bear to watch her die (she overhears this and understands).  When she approaches him and tries to say “Goodbye,” he recalls the good times they’ve had together, and insists that they remain a couple for the winter.  This is the approach I have taken to my nationality.  I’ve acknowledged that I can’t let this continue, but a few months to appreciate the glory of this magnificent creation can’t hurt (“Vorrei que eterno durasse il verno!”).

My greatest goodbye came with one of my greatest friends as I was leaving State College.  During a visit to Zeno’s, we acknowledged each other across the room and quietly came together, discussing our lives at the moment.  While my friends left to watch a movie at the theater, I walked her home, and we continued our conversation.  In her new apartment, we looked through her books, still in boxes, and simply appreciated each other.  When I was ready to leave, we embraced, kissed, and upon leaving I whispered to her, “Please don’t let this be the last time we say goodbye,” knowing the prayer would not be answered.

Addio senza rancor.

I generally detest people who say, as a blanket statement, that they “have no regrets.”  This traditionally means there have been plenty of missteps, foolish and thoughtless, but they’re fine with where they’ve ended up.  It by necessity disregards all “close calls” and life-changing opportunities, all the individuals affected by their carelessness, and accepts as fate the situation they have found themselves in, which is of course ridiculous.  My god, I have hundreds of regrets; poor choices that left friend hurt, unfair wordings of criticisms, grand decisions or non-decisions that had dozens of people pulling out their hair.  My regrets are not on my behalf, but on behalf of people who cared for me or trusted me.  While I do not specifically regret joining this society, I know that if something happened to me because of the silly indulgence, I would die with the regret.  No thanks.

I have loved cigarettes, and my love for them has been well acknowledged, their benefits cherished, but now it’s time to move on.  Unlike other farewells, for the rest of my life I will see them on the street, outside my home, at work, and our future relationship will be as painful and rewarding as any I’ve known.  I don’t need pills or affirmations, advice… I need time to let this sink in.  I need time to say goodbye.  For real, this time.