Just Beat It

BY Robert Cook

Who said leaving is hard? Leaving is about the easiest thing a guy can do in this world. Just wait for her to go to work, lock the doors, write a note to the one you said you loved that stresses that commitment comes in many different forms and that you cannot be held accountable to how she (with her own free will!) interpreted your overtures… and leave no forwarding address.

Maybe make sure there is enough food for the cat – a couple of weeks’ worth should be fine – just, like, in case in her state of distress your girlfriend neglects those simple things (the simple things that would help her get on with life in a way, if only she would stop damned well crying and realise it… which is another reason why you’re best gone). Cat or no cat, though, you’ll be glad you split that dead end scene. Trust me – there’s a big wide world out there for someone with your attitude and talents! Still, you know about the good stuff – expense accounts, Hong Kong haircuts, dancers called Skye, and Armani, Armani, Armani! – so to ensure you don’t miss out on your just deserts, here’s a list of things I personally don’t miss now that I’ve moved to Capital City. Remember kids, small towns are small for a reason.

Walking through Target with Prince on my shoulders and no one even noticing! Gold jewellery that comes with spare links. Limping home. Chest hair. The three people who always show up. Fingertapping, harmonics and left-handed guitars. Shout-outs. People who look at me and then start yabbering about “the plague years”. A whole day as a toilet-paper mummy. Mortal fear of change rooms. Blisters on my feet. Explaining. Pub rules. Running out of spare tubes. Knowing they definitely weren’t “only joking”.

Losing her ACROD sticker. Beer as barbecue detergent. Lawn. Torchwood. GT stripes as abstract art. Three months in a Whippy van. Milking callouses. Naked flames on my knuckles. Filming my own Nick the Stripper video in the pines at the west of town and not noticing Tony and Jim with their own video and them running off with my pig’s head yelling, “he’s a fat little insect, a fat little insect”, and me thinking, yeah they’re probably right.

The Chantoozies. Rowing from grandma’s house to uncle Eric’s with a tarp for the kitchen. Lights on porches. My voice screaming for Mum, screaming for fucking anyone to just fucking come now, to come fucking quick, over the wheat field at night. Toby. Rowena. Raelene. Michael.

Being at Steve’s house and watching the Metallica video where the guy looks like he’s in a coma but is actually awake inside and Steve looking at me funny and suddenly hearing his brother run behind me with a length of electrical cord in his hands and half an hour later not worrying so much about being trapped like that in a body because in that time I developed a much better insight into how consciousness and unconsciousness work in real life.

People calling it how they see it. Stained carpet. The first time I used nail polish. Bottom teeth through my bottom lip. Highlights, foils and curling wands. Overalls as a grunge accessory necessity. Seven dollar nights out. Twentysomethings who think they’re putting the mondo in the rock. Cedric. Home-ground advantage. The voice of Richard Burton narrating my dreams. Ointment. Hangin’ on the telephone. Keeping something for the hard times. Home butchering. Ice cream headaches. A stranger’s hand running through my hair. Carrot sticks. June 2006 when everything was “semi this, semi that”. Tin can telephones. Another bicycle pump induced pulmonary embolism.

The 80s at eight. Never living it down. The 90s at nine. Running down hills till my legs felt like they were gonna come flying off. Corked thighs. Standing on the corner and knowing in my bones that no one is gonna show. CBGB t-shirts. Smelling him before you see him. Pushing her wheelchair. Fight night. Packed lunches. Writing illustrated letters to Jeffrey Brown explaining how Clumsy changed my life. Three buses a day. Crying Uncle.

Missing the dart board completely. Going down to the river and thinking Bruce is just a guy like me, a guy like any other guy. People who still think The Police were punk. Skunk hair. Tim and Nathan riding by my place singing “easy like Sunday morning” at the top of their voices. Picking up Sam the cat from the haven and feeling him lick my nose and saying to her that “hey, it really is like sandpaper”, and then the way she giggled and stroked my arm. Being rolled across town in a barrel. Tom Petty being filed under “Alt. Ctry”. The way jealousy moves over the wilting salad in a tavern smorgasbord just because of the way she asked for the chocolate mousse to be refilled by Hi-my-name-is-Gavin. The smell of my hair on fire.

See what I mean? Sure a clean break hurts, but it’s probably best for everyone. Plus, you know, remember, Brandon and Brenda Walsh had a totally hard time when they first moved from Minnesota, but soon enough they were tight with Kelly and Dylan and even leading the gang in pretty profound ways. So come on kids, leave now, leave while you still can. That little town is not your friend. And while that girl at the salad bar, the girl who whispers in your hair with her cat-breath, might love you, might be the only one who will ever understand you, she cannot save you.