Leaving Salt Lake City

by Matthew Timion

  She couldn’t do it. She waited three whole months into my Mormon mission. I wish I still had the “Dear John” letter she sent me while I was in the Philippines. Being broken up with while on your mission is common for Mormon missionaries. These break-up letters are called “Dear John” letters, and are viewed as a rite of passage. I no longer have that letter because I had a little therapeutic exercise in Caloocan City, Philippines when I was twenty. I burned all of her letters and let her go. Our relationship was over, in smoke. I always hope, and want someone to see me for someone amazing, someone worth fighting for. With everything I had experienced with Jessica over the years, I had seen nothing but the opposite. Something must have been wrong with me.

  It was Manny’s birthday, and Jessica flew into Salt Lake City despite the fact that her drunken layover made her late. She was, however, able to show up for Manny’s 5th birthday party without missing much. He loved his party, which combined friends from his preschool and kids from our neighborhood. The sad reality was despite the cake, piñata, and presents, it was a goodbye party. We all knew it.

  We three spent time together as a family, which was something Manny longed for. Then, like the quick whirlwind that tore my family apart, it was time for Manny and Jessica to go. Out of desperation or compassion, Jessica invited me to her brother’s house for dinner. I had not seen her family since the family reunion at our house. They were just as surprised to see me as I was them, but I loved that I was able to see them again and also spend a few more hours with my son.

  An unexpected consequence of her invitation was a possibility for a relationship between her siblings and me. Her invitation sent the message that I was okay to have around and that Manny and I were okay to involve in family functions. I have always felt that her family were good people despite their connection to the CIA. I wondered how much of my behavior was noticed and how much of what I did would be reported back to the people I was certain were watching my house and tapping my phone.

  The next morning Manny was gone. Drunk Jessica never wanted to come home. She didn’t want me. She had found someone better. There was no noise in the house. The spaces normally filled with children’s laughter were silent. My cats looked up at me and then went back to sleep. Opening Manny’s bedroom I saw his empty bed, still dressed with sheets from the night before. I laid down on his bed, wrapped myself in the quilt I made for him, and cried.

  My family was gone. I had uprooted my life for a life with her, for us. They left me, even if I had allowed her to take Manny. I was the only one left. The only noise I could hear were cars driving by on the street outside. I was all that remained of the dream Jessica and I had together. The only conclusion that I could draw from the emptiness around me was I was not good enough.

  Alone in my house, originally purchased for a family, I couldn’t help but realize just how quickly everything had happened. I had been in Salt Lake City for just a little over three years. It was March and we adopted Manny the previous June. Just like that, in an instant, it was all gone. It was gone before it even had had a chance to live.

  After Manny and Jessica landed safely in North Carolina, I received a phone call from Jessica’s number. I had assumed that it would be Manny. It wasn’t Manny. It was Jessica telling me everything I did wrong as a parent. She must have had a list of grievances to throw at me, but it included how I hadn't made sure he brushed his teeth (not true), how his clothes were dirty (not true), how I didn’t pack the right things for him (subjective). She just ranted and yelled about how horrible of a parent I was.

  Jessica, who was recently denied access to an airplane because of her inability to control her drinking called me a bad parent. At least I had never killed anyone.

  With Manny being out of state I was now able to finally start working in radio full-time. I would go in at five in the morning and leave at eleven in the morning. The rest of my days were filled with television shows and silence. My new unpaid job, taking up six hours in the morning was truly me doing something I loved. I was an intern for Radio From Hell, easily the most popular radio show in the entire state of Utah.

  Radio From Hell was the alternative morning show for the unbelievers. The show, right down to its name, was a part of the counter culture of Salt Lake City. The show was so shocking that some people wouldn’t listen based on the name alone. While the show was not as controversial as Howard Stern, the show played up the shock factor. This show was the radio version of tattoos on a former Mormon. I fit in perfectly.

  My duties as an intern varied, and my computer skills definitely helped the producer do his job more effectively. I was thrust from a life of being a rejected nobody to being someone who was associated with some of the most famous local celebrities in Salt Lake City. Their appeal to me wasn’t what it was to everyone else because I wasn’t raised in Utah. I understood the importance of their role as a dissenting voice in a state that had nothing else like them to offer. Mostly I just recognized them as regular people. Perhaps my perception of them was because that was all they were: regular people who were lucky enough to talk on the radio.

  Ironically enough the radio station that aired Radio From Hell was owned by a number of devout Mormons. Money speaks louder than words, especially in Utah.

  My involvement with this show suddenly made me feel special. I was important. I was allowed to talk on the radio. Sometimes people would even recognize me on the street. I was allowed to be a part of the show, even in a limited intern capacity. It was my dream job. I knew that as long as I stayed there and waited long enough, I would be able to be a part of something bigger. Perhaps I could get my own radio show one day too. Perhaps the popularity and validation I needed would come from radio.

  Being part of a popular radio show, regardless of my being an unpaid intern, gave me opportunities I had never had before. Flirting with women was easier. They all liked me. My self-confidence increased. They all wanted to be around me. Some of them even wanted to go home with me. Perhaps Jessica had done me a favor by leaving.

  There I was, a twenty-nine-year-old who worked in radio and owned my own house. I was clearly a success. Women loved that. Most men they were used to meeting still lived with their parents or had roommates. They also loved that I didn’t care about them. I couldn’t commit. I was aloof. This was partially due to the emotional baggage caused by my divorce, and partially due to my new identity as a “rock star." My apparent disregard made women want me more. I secretly wondered if Jessica would have left this version of me. Tattooed and on the radio I was easily more popular than her new boyfriend. In some circles that made me the dominant male, despite another's muscles, money, great tastes, and good looks.

  I would call Manny every other day, and we would connect. Talking to a five year old on the phone is as easy as having a conversation while underwater in a pool. A five year old’s attention span is limited enough when you are right in front of them. A voice on the phone? He couldn’t care less. He wanted to watch television, run in the park, or eat Cheetos. He didn’t want to talk to me. Our conversations were short and sweet.

  My days were simple. Radio was good to me. Television was good to me. Dating was good to me. Being in the place where I didn’t want to date anyone in a serious way somehow just made my entire life about me. For the first time in my life I focused on me.

  I was loosely seeing a two women at the time. They both knew about it and neither of them cared. We were all in the same boat of not wanting to have anything too serious. During all of the fun and games both of them mentioned how much they would love to try a threesome. I saw an opportunity to cross something off of my bucket list. I contacted both of them, and we planned a tentative date. I couldn’t believe the ultimate male fantasy could actually happen.

  They both showed up at my house, nervous to meet the woman they might be having sex with that night. They greeted and seemed to enjoy each other’s company. I was cooking dinner for all of us, trying not to screw anything up. I realized that situation mi
ght be a once in a lifetime opportunity. We dined, we wined, and then my phone rang. It was Jessica. Always afraid something might be wrong with Manny I answered the phone.

  “Hey,” she started, “I fucking hate Vince." That escalated quickly.

  “Okay." I just wanted to know what was wrong.

  “We’re in Washington D.C. with the kids.... I just don’t know any more. Vince is such a dick.”

  “Is Manny okay?”

  “Yeah, he’s asleep. Sometimes I just wonder what I’m doing. Like maybe Manny’s life would be better if I were not around.”

  This wasn’t the first time we had that conversation. Jessica always seemed to believe that suicide was normal to think about. It was normal to consider as a viable option. I told her that night that Manny would NOT be better off without her. Manny would need a mom. She didn’t buy it. She was clearly drunk, upset, and angry at Vince. They got in a fight and he left her alone with the kids in the hotel room. Her mood made me upset.

  “I don’t know Matt. I just don’t know if I am cut out for this world.”

  “Jessica, go to sleep, and call me tomorrow.”

  I got off of the phone. My dates were patiently waiting for me. One of them took my phone and told me, “You don’t need to worry about this tonight." She put the phone on my dining room table and we went out to a club, the same club Jessica and I used to go to, and we danced. Men looked at me longingly knowing I had two women with me. I was enjoying my evening without Jessica and without stressing about her life.

  The evening ended at my house just as I wanted it to. Waking up the next morning with a woman on each side of me confirmed that the evening before was not a dream.

  | TWENTY FIVE |

  The Voice of Reason

  Late Spring 2008

  Still living on unemployment meant that money was becoming scarce. Despite my lack of money I was still determined to make my way in radio. Radio was, after all, my dream job. Getting my shot in the big leagues was a waiting game and I was willing to wait. Five months after I started my internship, I volunteered to be Tom Barberi’s co-host for his early morning show. The hours were from five in the morning to seven in the morning. It was also unpaid, but I wanted to pay my dues.

  Tom Barberi (long nicknamed “The Voice of Reason”) was a Utah radio legend. During a time with people needed a voice, he was there. He helped rally citizens to march on the state capitol. For over a decade, he had helped change public opinion in Utah. Unfortunately radio politics got in the way. He was soon left with no following and no pulpit from which to preach. Some say he lost his edge, but from what I saw that wasn’t true. The truth was that people changed, and what was once important no longer mattered.

  People in Utah had become more complacent and as a result, visionaries like Tom Barberi had started to become irrelevant. The radio industry also was becoming more and more corporate. They found it was cheaper and easier to syndicate a national talk show for a fraction of the cost of having an employee. All of these factors, including the rising trend of portable mp3 players and satellite radio made the veterans of radio start to look like technological dinosaurs.

  Tom was, just like me, working for free. He did it all for the love of radio. And so it began. I was Tom Barberi’s co-host. This could be my shot, I thought. I felt it was a move up in the radio world, even though the people who listened to terrestrial radio were diminishing every day. I had a speaking role, and I was part of the show. To make things even more exciting, I was sitting next to and talking with one of Utah’s legendary voices. All it would take would be one more break and perhaps I would be able to have some sort of midnight deejay shift. Perhaps I would be able to take over for Richie when he quit due to being so terribly underpaid.

  Time went by and I started planning for Manny to visit me for the summer. During one of my regular phone calls with Manny, Jessica got on the phone.

  “Why haven’t you made plans yet to get Manny?" Jessica was yelling in a way so that no one else could hear her.

  “I haven’t purchased the tickets yet.”

  “I think you don’t care about him. I think you’re just disregarding him. I think you are not going to pick him up.”

  I sent her my flight information the same day. I could barely afford the plane ticket. I still co-hosted with Tom Barberi for free, but I needed to actually make money. I decided to take a day job working in the radio station’s web department, which only paid slightly more than unemployment. My job kept me in the building, awaiting my big shot.

  My experience with Tom Barberi lasted six weeks. Tom Barberi finally had had enough. He was sick of not being paid. He was sick of getting a horrible time slot and being marginalized. In one of the most amazing two hours of radio I have ever heard, Tom quit while on the air. He was able to say goodbye to his listeners. He was able to say his piece. Since it was so early in the morning he was able to do it without being stopped. I was there the entire time. I was part of what I consider to be Utah radio history.

  The timing was perfect. Tom Barberi quit his show just before I was going to have to quit. Having a child at home full time wasn’t conducive with coming in to work at five in the morning. I was going to have to stop the radio dream, or at least the version of it where I arrived at five in the morning.

  I flew out to North Carolina. My connecting flight was in New York. I arrived at the airport, rented a car, and did the best I could to find the sandwich shop where Jessica was waiting. Her directions were horrible, and the people at the gas station were not much help either. Eventually I found them. I picked up Manny and gave him a big hug. Jessica looked like an anorexic version of herself. I started referring to her as “Bobble Head Jessica.”

  At her heaviest during our marriage Jessica was a size sixteen. As a man I don’t know what a size sixteen really is, but I’m told it’s big. She had become a size zero, which she loved to brag about. Her curves were gone. He once large breasts were now tiny. The only thing that remained was her giant head. It was like looking at a stick with an apple on top, and it was NOT a good look for her.

  “Cool tattoo dad!” Manny was referring to my newest tattoo: a vintage microphone. Since tattoos to me have always been a way to tell my life story, I had inked the microphone on my arm as a sign that my longtime dream of working in radio coming true. The skin around my tattoo was peeling and flaking, but Manny thought it looked cool.

  Manny and I got in the rental car. I couldn’t believe that she expected me to get a rental car and drive an hour to pick up Manny when she could have just driven him to the airport herself. While we were driving back to the airport Jessica called me and yelled at me for being late.

  “And why did you fly to New York as a connecting flight?”

  “It was the cheapest." I didn’t understand the issue.

  “Why would you fly one thousand miles out of your way to pick up your son? You’re a horrible father. You clearly don’t care about Manny.”

  If there was a world where her screams made any sense, I clearly had never been there. I hung up to make our connecting flight. We landed safely in Utah.

  Manny visiting for the summer was filled with playing, water fights, gardening, and his making friends with kids his age. Manny was excited and optimistic. He knew his visit with me was only for a few weeks, but we made the best of it. I felt like a dad again. Nothing could have made that summer bad. In fact, some things made it even better.

  Towards the end of the summer I received a phone call from Jessica. The details of her private life were something I didn’t know much about. Honestly, I didn’t care. Whenever she wanted to talk to me I just assumed she was drunk.

  She started the conversation with an abrupt statement. “I’m being sent overseas to Qatar,” she said. Being sent overseas was an unfortunate reality of military service, one she could not avoid no matter how hard she tried.

  “For how long?”

  “At least three months. I want to have Manny come back for a few weeks
and then I will send him back before I deploy. He can attend school there until I get back." She was the defacto custodial parent so I felt I could not argue. I agreed that he would go back to North Carolina for a few weeks only to return to start Kindergarten here.

  She had just broken rule number one of our verbal custody agreement. She was deploying and bouncing my son all over the country. His stability was extremely important to me. She had already broken rule number two. She was still living with Vince. Manny’s “bedroom” for the last five months had been an office with a bean bag. He didn’t have a bed. He had a bean bag.

  It was as if Jessica paid zero attention in our classes while we were being trained to be foster parents. It seemed as though she was actually trying to make Manny’s life more difficult and disjointed with every single action.

  The divorce still wasn’t finalized. The divorce papers still had not been signed. I was starting to think letting Manny live with Jessica in the first place was a mistake. Fortunately I had time on my side to figure that out.

  | TWENTY SIX |

  Daddy Time

  Summer-Autumn 2008

  The door was opening. I was there all alone fiddling with my fingers. I wanted to leave. Waiting was killing me. People started coming out of the door and all I wanted to see was my son. I looked and looked. He was nowhere. Suddenly a flight attendant came out with a little five year old in a denim jacket. His backpack was almost as large as he was. “Dad!” he yelled right before he ran up to me.

  “We need to see your identification sir,” the flight attendant told me, “and you’ll need to sign him out of our care." It was the first time we had experimented with Manny flying by himself on an airplane. His flying unaccompanied was a little more expensive than a normal flight, but ultimately much cheaper than the cost of flying out with him and then flying back.