The Exes-Files

Not too long ago, in a not-too-distant land called "MySpace," I got my little joke of a "comment" from an ex-girlfriend describing how she'd come upon some letters I'd written a long, long time ago.

Well, four years.

Anyway, she went on to ridicule me about my plan to move to California—which, at the time, admittedly, was a dream of mine ("dream" being the key word here). Then she jested that we were "fighting." I fired back, asking why this would make her mad. And of course, the answer I got was that it was all just a joke, you know. Ha ha. How I do love being reminded of my past failures.

Naturally, I had to ask how she happened upon these "letters." Part of me suspected that it was not just coincidence.

She didn't respond to that inquiry.

***

I decided to use my afternoons off to resume thoroughly cleaning the extra room in the pad I call "the basement." It's a fairly accurate description.

Usually, cleaning involved in this second room of my two-room space finds me stumbling upon ancient articles I had written when in college. And, for one reason or another, I read every word of everything printed in the publication when I should resume my cleaning.

Perhaps you remember that there had been an issue with lighting in that additional room. Add to that an occasional flooding problem in the basement, and you have stacks and stacks of old newspapers and Esquire magazines that had been shoved into a corner with hopes of somehow still being salvaged. As it turns out, beneath those were the contents of a dresser drawer that spilled onto the floor in the darkness long, long ago (the humidity in the basement is a real bitch, and the drawers don't open without, basically, assistance from something like a fucking crowbar).

That drawer's contents? Old bills. Pictures. And, well, letters.

Naturally, the full-treatment cleaning was delayed as I read over each and every one. But the feeling was odd because I didn't become sad or depressed; rather, I was quite delighted. I suppose if I had stumbled upon letters from just one girl I cared deeply for, then things would have been different. Instead, I happened to come across photos and thoughts from basically every meaningful relationship I've ever had.

I went outside to smoke a cigarette and pondered whether to keep the items. Why had I held on to them anyway? And just as I snuffed out my smoke, I realized how long it had been since I had looked at them.

It reminded me of the scene in "About Schmidt" when Jack Nicholson finds his dead wife's box of love letters from an ancient affair that she had kept stashed away in the closet. I guess I worry that should I die suddenly one day, somebody is going to have to go through my things and they'll wonder why I kept these. But now I look at them and realize that what I've written in my journal is far more personal.

And besides, there's the pornography too. Now that's what we don't want Ma & Pa finding.

***

Seeing as I work mostly nights now, the only night I really have dinner with my folks anymore is Monday—which, as it turns out, is the same day I stumbled upon the letters.

We don't do the proper sit-down-at-the-table meal anymore, as my parents have become perfectly adjusted to taking their respective seats in the recliners and eating in front of the television. Unless there's a Cubs game on or a girl with big tits on Telemundo, my father seems to (for some reason) prefer the CBS sitcom "How I Met Your Mother" (I think it's because of Alyson Hannigan, which I can respect—I suppose).

The particular episode deals with the show's main characters, a young couple, having a problem with items they have from previous relationships. When the male reveals that certain things in his apartment, such as a lamp or a pillow on the couch were from an ex-girlfriend, his current girlfriend says she can't look at them without seeing that ex-girlfriend.

So he gets rid of all these objects. And then, of course, she reveals that the four dogs she owns were all from previous relationships. I think you can see where this is going, but hey, that's situational comedies for you these days.

I nearly choked on my pasta on the couch when the episode aired—either that, or the irony. Then I got up and went to the computer.

There was still no response on the MySpace.