LARGETONY Blog

Hey Jude,

When a love burns as white hot as a thousand suns it’s bound to eventually implode and fizzle into dust. It’s over. And I have moved on. You need to, too.

So, stop calling. Seriously. Stop calling.

At first, it saddened me and broke my heart to hear your tortured, pleading, tear-filled voice mails. I never realized a grown man could produce such unnatural sounds of agony and wailing. But lately, your every-hour, on the hour, calls to “tell me how much you miss me,” or to “just hear the sound of my outgoing message,” or the begging that I meet you at the Denny’s for the Grand Slam Breakfast and “just to talk,” have taken their toll. I’ve had enough. And so has Jake.

Yes. Jake knows that it’s you who hangs up whenever he answers the phone. And we’ve both seen you drive slowly by the house, in the beat-up hatch-back with the tinted windows, while we’re out splitting a cord of wood, or tossing the pigskin, or just sitting on the glider enjoying a nice batch of sun tea. We pretend to not notice, but we both know it’s you. The windows aren’t that tinted.

Even old Mrs. Hawthorne across the street knows it’s you. “Why can’t he just leave you nice boys be,” she asked me and Jake as we cleaned out her gutters last Saturday. But I don’t have to tell you it was last Saturday, do I? You were there. A word of advice: you’d attract less attention if you get that muffler fixed.

I know that when we run into each other at JCPenney or the Seven-Eleven, I may seem cool and aloof, but it’s simply how things have to be. Yes, you will always be special to me, Jude. I will never forget the glorious times we had: the sky-diving in Maui; that little cafe in Paris where the waiter was so obnoxious; and, of course, the vacation house in Chile that we time-shared with Oprah and Steadman. Remember how pissed she got when they lost at Pictionary? Poor Steadman heard about that the whole rest of the trip. Good times.

But the jet-set New York to Vegas to London lifestyle is you, Jude. Yes, I know you apologized for that thing with the nanny. It was an ugly chapter for us, and I suffered great embarrassment with all the pointing and whispers down at the barber shop and Ace Hardware. But this isn’t about that. I forgave you.

I need a simpler life. A simpler man. You’re Dickie Greenleaf, Alfie, and Gigolo Joe. I need a Jack Twist..a Bubble Boy…I need…just Jake.

That’s right. Jake and I are official. All our friends are begging us to have a commitment ceremony. Even Mrs. Hawthorne has offered to bake her special apple-molasses stack cake for the occasion. They all want to know, “are you going to invite Jude?” You know how people like drama. But Jake and me…we’re not much on ceremony, so everybody is just going to have to take their wagging tongues elsewhere. Of course, I’m sorry we’re going to miss out on that stack cake.

Now that Jake is moving in for good, we need to make arrangements for you to get the rest of your stuff. So, that there is no tension, and so that we won’t have to suffer through the embaressment of your heavy sobs, Jake and I can plan to be gone for a few hours while you load up your belongings. You will have to get the key from Mrs. Hawthorne. I’m sure you can understand why we had to change the locks after that night we woke up to find you standing over the bed “watching me sleep.”

You are also welcome to take anything that we shared. But I would like to keep the picture of us riding the teacups at Disney that’s under the South Park magnet on the refrigerator. Remember how sick Kathie Lee got on that silly little ride? You warned her to not eat that burrito grande, didn’t you?

So, once you find that you are able to hold yourself together long enough to get through a phone call, give me a ring and let me know when you want to get your things. Breakups are never easy. But sometimes they are necessary. Life is journey….a series of paths, and sometimes we have to take different ones. No point in dwelling on the past. Jude, don’t make it bad.

Oh, and if you bring Collin with you to help you move, keep an eye on him. I don’t trust him. Because, if my Franklin Mint “Gilligan’s Island” collector’s plate turns up missing, there will be hell to pay.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, March 21st, 2006 at 2:38 pm and is filed under humor, just jake, stories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.