dear mikey r.

dear mikey r.,

you rich son of a bitch. on facebook, i was looking up girls from st. francis who graduated our year, and the second girl was some girl i had never seen before, but a last name (hyphenated) that i recognized. your last name, obviously. you got married, and i wasn't invited. it's no surprise, since i haven't talked to you in what, 8 years? we had physics together senior year with mr. porter, and that was that.

your dad was a heart surgeon, and i wondered if you ever knew what it meant to be poor. you probably did. i mean, you had to do community service like the rest of us. where were you placed? i served meals at loaves and fishes two times a week, and then some nights at the st. philomenes gym. sometimes, i'll be riding the bus, and i'll smell that smell that reminds me of that gym and that soup kitchen. i googled it, and it's the smell of urine and sweat and musty old clothes.

we had pool parties at your house because your parents always offered to host. and why wouldn't they? you lived in a mansion. my cousin or somebody asked me once how many acres your yard was, and i didn't know, so i just made up a number. "350?" "that's impossible. do you even know how big 5 acres is?" i admitted i didn't. lesson learned: study hard and become a heart surgeon, and you can own lots and lots of acres of land.

i heard a rumor that you were afraid of dying in your sleep. you would always get picked up at night when it was supposed to be a sleepover, and i asked why that was. "he's afraid of dying in his sleep," someone told me. i thought there was something off about you. you and your white hair and you being afraid of dying in your sleep. it's not like you lived on elm street or anything.

you went to lmu. i applied there, but i didn't get accepted. if i tried harder, i might've gotten accepted, but now i'm kind of glad i didn't get accepted. los angeles sounds like a terrible place to live. i wonder if you moved home. i moved home for a year, like two years ago, and i was eating at baja fresh. i was with my dad. we were just having burritos at baja fresh, and then i saw you and your dad. but you didn't eat at baja fresh. i wondered then if heart surgeons ever ate at baja fresh. your dad looked at me through the window, like he recognized me, but i didn't look back.

what was i gonna say to a heart surgeon who owned 350 acres of land? what was i gonna say to the white-haired kid who was once afraid of dying in his sleep? there was nothing to say.

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