Mini-Episode: Farewell Louisa

[Charlie on the MTA theme plays]

[Louisa is packing a suitcase. She moves through cameras and clothes pushing down the luggage and struggling with a zipper. A letter catches her eye. She rips it open, sits on the bed, and reads.]

Michael Tate—James Oliva
Dear Louisa,

My friend, I’m sure you are angry with me. My plan to alert you about Phil worked. You figured out my secret code, or someone did, and it was complicated enough to not alert Phil or Oliver to what I was up to while you figured it out. 

But you’re probably angry that I didn’t let you know where I was. Wasting time sending you off capturing Phil when I’m rotting away in this apartment. Well. Not rotting. Not… not yet… Sorry.

And you’re also probably angry that leading you to catch Phil was… maybe?… the thing that … well… killed me? Man. I hope I got that wrong, because talk about salt in the wound. But not many other people even know where I am. And I doubt Oliver would even bother, especially if he was going to do it so inconsistently. Maybe he found out I paid all the former ThirdSight employees, got pissed, and decided to cut my allowance. In which case, fuck that guy worse than ever, you know?

The thing that I’m guessing you’re really angry about, though, is that… I’m gone. And I don’t want you to be angry about that. I know you wouldn’t be angry with me, but anger is a shade of an emotion that colors grief. People focus on the sadness aspect a lot, and that’s a main component for sure. There’s shades of joy, too, as you celebrate the positive memories of the ones you’ve lost. But the more you focus on those, the angrier you can get that it’s gone. And it’s not fair. It’s wrong. And then you’re reminded that it’s not wrong. It’s nature, and nature is neither right or wrong, it just is. You can affect it up to a point. But there’s one thing about life you can never change. It ends. Everything. Ends. Nothing is eternal. You don’t choose to be born. Most don’t choose their death. Some do. But I won’t. I may have… inadvertently caused it? That wasn’t an intentional choice, but it was a choice. And that’s life. The decisions you make to fight or embrace the beautiful chaos of the world. Each option an onion. Peels and layers, good flavor and tears. Almost clear, almost translucent when slowly sliced apart, but hard as a baseball all packed together. The beautiful nonsense of everything in between. 

Eight eleven five four nine one seven six ten three twelve two. 

[Laughter.]

Wow. I probably sound like I’m high? Or drunk? I’m not. I’m just hungry. I’m hungry and I miss you. I just want to sit on your couch eating Cheez-Its and watching something really vapid with you. No stakes. Something like… I don’t know, The Bachelor, right? Relish in your short little laugh. Not quite a bark, but a shift so sudden that it has to be genuine. What you found funny always delighted me. Your laughter was so pure. So real, never forced. No melody to it, really, but still musical. Sometimes short and guttural. Sometimes a cackle, like notes going up a scale. I could never predict what you’d find funny, so your laugh was always a delightful surprise. And then one day I could predict it. I guess that’s what it’s like, learning to be a friend. A best friend. 

I haven’t mentioned Leon yet. I’ve been tempted to. I don’t really want to. I’m trying to… how did you once put it? Grow beyond Leon? You handled that much easier than I did. But then again, we had very different relationships with Leon. This letter isn’t about him, though. He was my best friend, and I love him dearly. But he’s gone. He’s gone, and we had a chance to say goodbye. That was the thing I was angry about the most, when he died at Wonderland. But then I got the chance, and the chance wasn’t what I thought it was. And I’m grateful that I have a chance to say goodbye to you. But you’ll be angry that you won’t be able to reciprocate. I know you will because that’s how you are, and that’s how I was. You’ll be angry that you didn’t find me. You’ll blame yourself, even though it’s not your fault and deep down you know it’s not.

You might be angry that I’m gone now. But when you first found me, back when I was using Leon’s calendar, trying to keep up with it to help keep things stable? When you took photographs of me trying to figure out who I was? And then you finally talked to me and we set up a meeting and became friends? You weren’t angry with me then. You got it. You understood. And the strangest thing happened then. The strangest, strangest thing happened. 

I wasn’t scared.

I’m always scared. I wish that wasn’t true, Louisa. But as I near the end—which, coincidentally, I’m pretty fucking terrified about, I’m realizing that I’ve been scared far more often than I wish I was. I’m so tired of questioning every decision. What will people think if I do this? Will it change how they think of me? Will it color me in a different light to them? I’m always contorting myself to some imaginary view of what others might see. That fear, just intricate spirits that hang in the air all around me, invisible cobwebs just waiting for me to walk into them. All those beautiful choices I could make. Each one coming with their own private haunting.

I think that’s why I drank. To dull the fear. But then drinking added its own fears, its own shame. Drinking and being someone who feels like they need to drink. It’s hard to tell people that you’re an alcoholic because that brings its own set of misunderstandings and judgment.

And then there was you. And there was none of that. It was just… easy. Relaxed. Casual. I barely had to talk to you about how I felt. You just understood. You’d be happy to talk to me about it, let me vent about how it is with most other people. The looks. The passive-aggressive comments. The assumption they have your life all figured out just because they know this one thing about you, and that one thing easily defined you completely to them. 

My only regret is that I’m not sure I offered that same level of friendship back to you. Maybe you don’t have anything to be ashamed of. Maybe you don’t have that same level of fear. But did you feel comfortable unloading it all to me? I think you did. I think you were there. But we still didn’t do it. And I’m not sure why. I want you to have that with someone, that level of comfort and trust. Don’t be afraid to be vulnerable, friend. I know it’s scary, but people care about you and they want you to have that release.

It doesn’t even have to be in the form of long talks. It can be simple. With the right person, it can be graceful and easy. I think about one night I came over to watch TV with you—some new show you were introducing me to. You were always introducing me to new shows. Always excited to. This one was the sci-fi story set on another planet. A—a castle mysteriously appears in the sky creating a natural division between the haves and the have-nots. After the first couple of episodes ended, I went to the pantry to refill the Cheez-Its and the chips. Inside your pantry were a half dozen liquor bottles, some full, some nearly empty, some in between. I filled the snacks and came back to the couch. I sat there and laughed and glanced at you expressing surprise. And then it slowly dawned on me that I was holding something besides snacks. When I’d gone into the pantry and saw your booze, I grabbed a bottle of rye and brought it back to the couch with me. And I was still holding it by the neck, cradling it like a baby as I laughed at the delightful head of security—the Alpha Wolf—struggling to keep everything in line while I balanced a bowl of chips on my lap. 

I hadn’t opened it. I hadn’t drank. I was just holding it. And for minutes at a time, I didn’t even think of it. I didn’t even realize. But you noticed when I did finally notice, the shock of how absent-mindedly I had just brought it back, equating the good time I was having with you with good times of my past, good times that led to bad times. The worst times. 

And then you reached over and touched me on the shoulder. And I looked into your face. And everything, everything I needed to know was there, every freckle and contour. There was no judgment. Your face was open, your eyes soft and understanding, your mouth bent into the smallest knowing grin, your expression just barely pinched, just a touch of pain as you connected with what I was experiencing. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t take the bottle. You squeezed my shoulder and gave me just the slightest nod. Your face… your face, I could fall into it, like it was a calm lake or a pool. I could fall into it and float. I could trust you, it told me. I was okay with you.

We went back to watching the show. Minutes later, I handed you the bottle. Wordlessly. And you set it on the end table next to you. It sat there for the rest of the night. We never spoke of this. We didn’t have to. We had a great evening and continued to laugh and enjoy the show, enjoy each other’s friendship.

Next time I came over, I went to grab snacks again. You’d moved the bottles to a higher shelf. They were still there. I—I—I could still reach them. But you’d put thought into that distance, just like you’d put thought into the way you connected with me in that moment of weakness, when I was in a low moment and didn’t even realize it. You were there for me. You… you told me it was okay. And because you were so sincere, I believed you. I still do.

It’s that look I’m picturing now, Louisa. Now that I’m at the end. It will be that look that welcomes me to whatever’s next. I say this to you not to make you sad, but to remind you that although you may be angry that you aren’t here at the end—you are. Your tolerance and acceptance, your sense of humor, your excitement to share, to connect, to remind the ones you love that it’s okay, that you have them and hold them, and that you have the ability to do that with little more than a look and a gentle touch? If I die, this is what I choose to take with me when I do. My best friend is with me. And I know as long as you are out there, I will always be with you too.

I love you, Louisa.

Michael. 

[Louisa puts down the letter and brings out her phone.]

Louisa Alvarez—Julia Propp
God damn you, Tate.

Pause, tearful laughter.]

Yeah. Yeah, I finally opened it.

CREDITS

Greater Boston is created by Alexander Danner and Jeff Van Dreason, with help from T.H. Ponders, Bob Raymonda, and Jordan Stillman. Recording and technical assistance from Marck Harmon.

This mini-episode was written and sound designed by Jeff Van Dreason.

Dialogue editing by Bob Raymonda.

Cast:

This episode featured:

Julia Propp as Louisa Alvarez (she/her)

and James Oliva as Michael Tate (he/him)

Interviews recorded with real Greater Boston Residents.

Music:

“Charlie on the MTA” by Dirk Tiede and Emily Petersen

Additional music and sounds used from public domain and creative commons sources.

Content Warning:

References to near starvation / dying

Greater Boston is a ThirdSight Media production.

COOKIE

Julia Propp

[Laughter.]

Oh–okay. [Laughing] Oh god–okay, I’m gonna jump while I say it, just for fun.