Connor Simpson

Small Town Diaspora

I live in a place that everyone tries to leave at some point. I left when I was eighteen, before I was ever ready to, and came back a little over a year later with my tail between my legs. I was young and ambitious, but I wasn’t ready to live on my own. I came back, put in few more years, and I don’t think it’s a secret that I want out again. But I’m stuck here for the next while, which made last night especially hard. Leaving here isn’t something you can hold against someone. It’s a right of passage. Getting the fuck out of your small town that’s in the smallest province of the second largest country is practically a fucking victory. But that doesn’t mean seeing Patrick off last night didn’t hurt any less.

I fought back tears at least three times, and buried my head in my phone to try to stop thinking about everything. We talked about TV a lot, and television writing, and whether or not there’s a way to measure how many people are listening to certain radio show at any time. The conversation was about the things that distract us, and I don’t think it was in unintentional. And when we talked about all the embarrassing things that have physically harmed us - I hit a moving car on my bike when I was 12 - it was the anecdotal equivalent of slapstick comedy. We were looking for cheap laughs and light distractions. It’s the last time we’ll be together, at least for a while. 

Close friends have moved away before. It’s something I’m pretty used to now. But not like this, not one of the inner circle. We grew really close over the last year, a small group of us left behind. The bros. The last refuge of cool kids left in Charlottetown, and Patrick’s the first one of us to depart. I’ve always wanted out, but I figured it would come at the end of a summer. A time that has a finality to it. Moving in January is so jarring when you’re world has always revolved around a September to May calendar. 

When we all got up to leave, it was 12:30 in the morning. We had over stayed our welcome, for certain, and bled the conversation dry. He was supposed to leave at 5 in the morning, but he insisted it was okay if we stayed late, and we weren’t in any position to argue. No one wanted to put their coats on, or move for the door, because then the thing we were all avoiding would come true, and we’d say our goodbyes, and he’d be gone. I was one of the first to hug him goodbye. I didn’t really want to let go. I leaned against the counter in the kitchen and let everyone else have their moment, purposely hanging back so I could say goodbye again. Everyone hugged him and said their goodbyes. Feet shuffled towards the door, everyone looking around, locking eyes, looking lost, wondering to ourselves, “Are we actually leaving now?” “Is this actually happening?” “Are we really saying goodbye?”

Annie wagged her tail and saw everyone off. The ones privy to the ritual gave her a treat on the way out. I gave her two. When I hugged Patrick the second time, I can’t remember what I tried to say to him, but I know it didn’t sound like anything more than, “gooby pariii.” My voice cracked. I choked up. My eyes swelled, again. I turned away before I lost my composure. The second hug wasn’t half as long as the first.