Napkin Letter From A Nebraska Truckstop

Dear Lulu-

First of all, sorry that this is written on a series of napkins, When I sat down in this booth, all I really wanted to do was sit, have a cup of coffee, think. I pulled out the pen to look busy after my sixth cup of coffee, when the waitress started to look edgy. I didn't have anything to write, I just wanted to look like I belonged, and since you were next on the list to visit, I figured I owed you an explanation as to why we never showed up.

Of course, you also didn't have any idea we were coming, so this whole coffee-stained, felt-tipped napkin opus is definitely a big surprise to you. In fact, you don't know who I'm talking about when I say 'we'. In fact, you might not even remember me, it's been a long time.

Hey, Lulu. It's me, Raoul. We dated, oh, five years ago, remember? Looking back, I'd have to say now that it wasn't much of a romance between you and I, but it's certainly stuck with me. Maybe you remember it, too. I hope so.

I never found out from you for sure, but I might have been your first real boyfriend. You were for sure my first real girlfriend. And it wasn't until a lot later - the last couple of years, in fact - that I've heard that you told our mutual friends then that you couldn't imagine what you were doing with me.

Well, heck, Lulu, that's fair. It was pretty much vodka and loneliness, that's true. I mean, I hope you still have some warm thoughts of me, and I guess if I'd made it to your door with Dorothy and our camera, we might have found out something. But what the hell. I've become a pretty firm believer in the idea that it all happens for a reason, so let's assume that it did.

So, do you remember me now? Okay, you're not here, and I can't see your face to glimpse shocks of recognition or love or hate or whatever, so I'm gonna suck it up and carry on without knowing if this sodden clump of napkins is sitting in your trash right now, or if you've read on. And that's hard, Lulu, hard for me. Hard on me, too.

So if you're continuing on, you might be wondering who Dorothy is. Fair. Good question. I don't know if I have room on these tiny napkins for who Dorothy is, though. She was my next girlfriend, and it was probably pretty much vodka and loneliness that brought us together, too. We met in a bar one night while I was method acting out the pain and sorrow of our gone relationship and coating it with greasy pitchers of beer and boiled egg dinners. We ended up at a table by ourselves after all of the people we had come into the bar with had paired up and left, just drinking. When we finished a pitcher, she put her glass on the table, grabbed my sleeve, and walked me back to her place. We didn't talk, even when she fumbled at the door for the key, even when we walked up her dark steps. When we got in, she went to the kitchen while I stood uncomfortably in her living room, coat still on and not knowing what to do with my hands. She brought back water glasses half full of vodka and we stood there, in her living room, silent, drinking them. She finished hers, took mine and put the glasses in the sink then came back and took me by the sleeve into her bedroom and fell onto her bed, fully clothed, spooning. She took one arm and put it around her waist and we fell asleep that way, without a word.

A lot different from how we came together, eh, drunk and wrestling on the sticky floor of a kitchen at a party with all of your friends, then some yelling, then some talking. A lot of noise, but I don't think we really ever said that much either.

So Dorothy and I saw each other like that for a while, drinking and sleeping, never really talking. I mean, we made small talk, about movies and books and nice days and things like that, but the future was definitely off limits. And so was the past. And so was anything that involved more knowledge than was necessary about either of us. I didn't talk much about you with Dorothy, Lulu. I hope you take that honorably. I wonder if you tell new boys about me. I hope so, I guess, even if you don't say kind things. I'd just like to know I figured in your life, even if it was bad. I sure didn't figure much into Dorothy's, as it turned out.

Ah, but this is a letter to YOU, Lulu, isn't it? Sorry. Just know that I talked to Dorothy about you a lot of the time, too.

I can't remember whose idea it was to visit each of our exes with a video camera and tape whatever happened when we showed up. It was probably my idea, a joke, the kind of crazy-ass thing I like to say when I want to hear noise and there's silence instead. Bad habit, I know. You've told me before. Looking back, I guess one reason I kept encouraging way after it got past the joke stage was so I could bring Dorothy on my arm back to all her old boyfriends, kind of a trophy, like "Look! I won this! I beat you!" Stupid, huh? Yeah, well, look where it got me, Lu - sitting in a booth at the Top O' The Morning Coffee Shop and Restaraunt somehere in Nebraska. Pretty soon, they're gonna figure out that I'm not much of a customer beyond this coffee (cup nine now, and the refills are coming slower and slower) and heave my ass out of here.

So we embarked on this journey. Dorothy had a lot more boyfriends than I had girlfriends, Lu. In fact, you were the only one on my list. You were second, and we were driving to see you in San Francisco when I ended up here. Me, I was hopeful after that trouble with Ian, and looking forward to seeing you in a way, so I never really realized how pissed off Dorothy was.