Wynona is moving out.

I can hear him trudging from his room across the hall to his car outside. Passively (aggressively) letting the door slam on each trip. He moves with the speed and coordination of a drunk toddler, trading in precision and class for heavy feet and a less than graceful exit out of my summerstock life. I can’t help but feel little tinges of pity for poor Wynona, each passing moment punctuated by that familiar creaking of a screen door, followed closely by that sharp, metallic slam– a sound that lives uniquely in my mind as a mainstay of adolescent summer evenings in the suburban midwest. The sound has been decidedly perverted here.

Wynona probably had it coming though, to be perfectly honest. All things considered, I should probably feel a little bit more self-satisfied at our young Mr. Wynona’s late night termination from the summer company, as it was, in part, due to my aggrieved testimony that we’ve all found ourselves in this situation. Wynona stole a shirt. Wynona stole a pair of pants. Wynona lied about both instances, so the course of action was pretty clear here.

Alas, my heart. It bleeds.

I know he lied to me. Right? We know he lied to the Zara king across the square, right? Right. Right?

Aside from his suspicious (some might say, unfortunately coincidental) behavior and my genetic distrust of most mouth breathers, there is no proof on my end that he lied. I do know people though. I know when someone is, out of a desperate need to control their own perceived identity, sowing sad-sack lies to avoid coming out on the other end looking poorly.

I used to do that all the time.

After I finished telling Boss men my own interpretation of what I know in my heart of hearts to be a lie on Wynona’s part, I felt a sinking feeling. I knew Wynona was going to be fired. I knew Wynona would, even in the face of unarguable evidence, continue to lie about his actions– invoking his own dead mother’s name (once, twice, three times by my count) to avoid having to come out as a liar and a thief.

It brought me back to those moments in high school. Or junior high even, when, faced with the insurmountable reality of an ugly truth– I would deny, deny, deny, even convincing myself  of my own falsities at times, to avoid owning up to being a liar or a thief. Or, y’know, queer.

But we’re in the real world now. And as much as I feel for Wynona, actions do have consequences.

So now I’m stuck, trapped sadly in my bedroom due to my aversion to confrontation (Wynona has to know my part in his termination) I was planning on sleeping soundly tonight. Between the sullen trudging and  banging however, i’m left to ponder the situation and mine it for literary greatness.

I would’ve preferred the sleep.

Advertisement