R. and Me
Historically, I’d had little luck with relationships—a situation I felt was due in no small part to my lack of conventional femininity. Not that I’m altogether unattractive—on many occasions, I received compliments on my looks from the other girls on my fast-pitch softball team.
A petrologist by training, I’d always had a soft spot for metamorphic boulders. I’d seen a few igneous and sedimentary formations over the years but found them to be shallow and immature. R. and I met during a dig near Penetanguishine in northern Ontario. When I first saw him—propping a door open at a casino on an Indian reservation—I knew right away that I had to possess him. After all, I had doors of my own.
I brought him back to meet my family in West Warwick, RI (i.e. just west of Warwick, RI). My parents admired R.’s ability to withstand extremes of pressure and temperature but were a little concerned that he might be using me to secure a green card. My father—a retired immigration lawyer—made a few phone calls and was much relieved to find that R. would easily qualify for an O-1 visa (i.e. Alien of Extraordinary Ability) given the number of unfilled door stop jobs throughout the U.S.
Admittedly, we made an unlikely couple—I an Episcopalian from Rhode Island, he a Schist from the Precambrian Shield—but we were so taken with one another that our differences in age, background, and capacity for homeostasis seemed inconsequential. Within weeks of meeting, we exchanged silent vows late one night in a quarry under the light of the full moon. I carried him across our threshold and laid him on the floor of our home in North Providence, RI (i.e. just north of Providence, RI.)
Our first few months of cohabitation were blissful. He was always there for me—right on the floor near the entrance. He never allowed the front door to slam shut even during the most wicked of windstorms. His physical stamina was beyond compare—he propped my door open all night, every night. I couldn’t have been happier.
Sadly, things started to change in October of that year. When the weather got cooler and we closed our exterior doors, R. began to look forlorn sitting in the foyer with nothing to prop. I offered him several interior doors as substitutes but could tell he viewed them as charity work. He looked sullen and sat motionless on the floor day in and day out. By the beginning of November, R. appeared to be sinking into a depression. He was completely unable to express his emotions and I feared he might hurt his own or someone else’s door if things didn’t change.
One fateful evening in early December, I returned from work to find our home empty. R. was gone. My heart sank. Tears streamed down my face. I thought of the happy times we’d shared—the warm summer breezes, the doors—oh God, the doors. On the floor in the foyer was a note. It read:
You’re clearly unable to satisfy a Precambrian Schist like R. I’ve taken him to a place where there’s always a door to prop—a place you’ll never find us.
Sincerely,
Carlene St. John
Casino General Manager
RR #17
East Penetanguishine (i.e. just east of Penetanguishine), Ontario
Canada, L0L 2B8
Lat: 44.582643
Long: -79.733276
A petrologist by training, I’d always had a soft spot for metamorphic boulders. I’d seen a few igneous and sedimentary formations over the years but found them to be shallow and immature. R. and I met during a dig near Penetanguishine in northern Ontario. When I first saw him—propping a door open at a casino on an Indian reservation—I knew right away that I had to possess him. After all, I had doors of my own.
I brought him back to meet my family in West Warwick, RI (i.e. just west of Warwick, RI). My parents admired R.’s ability to withstand extremes of pressure and temperature but were a little concerned that he might be using me to secure a green card. My father—a retired immigration lawyer—made a few phone calls and was much relieved to find that R. would easily qualify for an O-1 visa (i.e. Alien of Extraordinary Ability) given the number of unfilled door stop jobs throughout the U.S.
Admittedly, we made an unlikely couple—I an Episcopalian from Rhode Island, he a Schist from the Precambrian Shield—but we were so taken with one another that our differences in age, background, and capacity for homeostasis seemed inconsequential. Within weeks of meeting, we exchanged silent vows late one night in a quarry under the light of the full moon. I carried him across our threshold and laid him on the floor of our home in North Providence, RI (i.e. just north of Providence, RI.)
Our first few months of cohabitation were blissful. He was always there for me—right on the floor near the entrance. He never allowed the front door to slam shut even during the most wicked of windstorms. His physical stamina was beyond compare—he propped my door open all night, every night. I couldn’t have been happier.
Sadly, things started to change in October of that year. When the weather got cooler and we closed our exterior doors, R. began to look forlorn sitting in the foyer with nothing to prop. I offered him several interior doors as substitutes but could tell he viewed them as charity work. He looked sullen and sat motionless on the floor day in and day out. By the beginning of November, R. appeared to be sinking into a depression. He was completely unable to express his emotions and I feared he might hurt his own or someone else’s door if things didn’t change.
One fateful evening in early December, I returned from work to find our home empty. R. was gone. My heart sank. Tears streamed down my face. I thought of the happy times we’d shared—the warm summer breezes, the doors—oh God, the doors. On the floor in the foyer was a note. It read:
You’re clearly unable to satisfy a Precambrian Schist like R. I’ve taken him to a place where there’s always a door to prop—a place you’ll never find us.
Sincerely,
Carlene St. John
Casino General Manager
RR #17
East Penetanguishine (i.e. just east of Penetanguishine), Ontario
Canada, L0L 2B8
Lat: 44.582643
Long: -79.733276
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