Tuesday’s not in the wind as Skynyrd mourned. I know where she is. She packed up her blonde and purple hair, her slew of tattoos including the owl, and her non-binary self-identity and moved to Idaho about six months ago.
I didn’t realize Tuesday enjoyed potatoes that much, to uproot her life and head east to Spokane and then north to out of our lives. Had I known, I would have bought a ton of spuds and mashed them, boiled them, fried them, baked them—hell I would have double-baked the fucking things for her. She weighed about 90 pounds, feather-light for a talisman, and I also would have gladly worn her around my neck. Or hung her from my key chain. That would have been a good weight to bear.
The boy and I have been trying to piss up a rope since she blew town. Impossible, our days it seems, off-kilter and turbulent. Stubbing toes, faltering starts, one step forward, two paws back, jibber-jabbering with fools, walking into walls, repeatedly, throwing good money and better time out the window. To little avail.
We’re moving on to medication and patience, lots of patience, and Amy.
I’m heading to Vegas, and I have no idea if the worm has turned or if I am going to be an arctic cooler for the whole town as soon as its wheels down at McCarren Airport. To all the sunglass-wearing poker degenerates—and take off those stupid fucking baseball caps, because Sinatra is watching. To the crap table and roulette junkies. And to the slot stuffing grannies, you have all been forewarned. I am descending on your holiday, with stubborn ice on my boots.
Don’t blame me if you slither out town with nothing more than empty pockets and the saccharine, slippery stench of a stripper’s lotion. You can make up whatever bullshit you want when you get back home to your wife and buddies. It’s OK to close the door and sob quietly after you do.
For me, I now count my days like this: Monday, Amy, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday.
Too bad Tuesday’s name isn’t Monday.
No one misses Monday.