The bottom of the hill
by Matt Worley

A little bit over a month ago one of my married friends became less-than-married. His wife moved out. I guess it's called separation--kind of a funny word for a time when one person takes the couch, the computer and selected CDs. I didn't find out about it for almost a week, but I'm not in the heart of the gossip column like many of my friends. And the way it happened was almost comic, if it wasn't so tragic.

We were talking late on a Sunday night. My friend had come over to pick up a copy of our latest magazine (he writes for us), and I had been watching Xena. More than likely, I should have been in bed (early newspaper work on Monday mornings), but it was a good thing I wasn't. I don't even remember what we were bantering about before the question came out of my brother's mouth.

"So, how's the wife?"

"She actually moved out on Tuesday."

I was so ready to laugh except I could see in his eyes it wasn't true. Suddenly I couldn't remember if the last time I'd seen his wife was around Christmas or my birthday. My brother, always quicker in these situations, cleared up the picture.

"You're serious, aren't you?"

And he was. I've had a few friends and family get married over the last few years. It's that time of my life. Everyone is either getting a good job, a good spouse or other activity that takes the place of both. It's the time when everyone is settling down, marking the grassy spot they've grown accustomed to as their own and then guarding it from those who might want to take it away. This was the first evidence of a snag in the settling of my friends, and it was a bit shocking.

Yesterday wasn't so good for our friend. He had spent the day trying to figure out why. Why did his wife of almost two years move out? Why didn't she return his calls? Why didn't she answer his letters? I'm sure his actions, to some, may seem irrational. I've been told, in veiled threats mostly, that writing long letters full of questions and postulations that no one would ever want to attempt to answer is just a bit obsessive. To me, it's utterly logical. When it happened to me (not a broken marriage, but a broken relationship), I was full of questions, mostly because the last thing she said was, "You should try hating me for a while."

My friend's last message from his wife had been, "Please don't call." Of course, she gave him her new number.

It's hard to tell someone things are going to get better, especially when they are at the bottom of the hill. I've been in that little place. There are millions of thoughts and questions and they all lead the wrong way. One might say, "Kill yourself." Another might say, "Kill her." Yet another: "Drink heavily." In other words, there are no answers at the bottom of the hill. The problem is that you have to wallow around in those thoughts for a while.

So all we (a small group of friends) could do for him was look down at the bottom of the hill where he was, reminisce on times of possible connection, and then say the stupidest thing a person can say to a heartbroken friend: "Man, that sucks." I think we said that collectively about fifteen times.

My friend found his wife yesterday and tried to get an answer. She was out bike riding, getting some exercise. They talked for maybe five minutes and no answer was forthcoming. And she wasn't wearing her ring anymore.

Of course, there won't be an answer most likely. There never is. Something goes "bink" in one person's life, and the other person doesn't seem the same anymore. That "bink" will happen for my friend as well. As many of us know, however, the mud at the bottom of the hill is extra sticky. As friends, we just have to keep his head out of the mud while he struggles to find his own way back up the hill.

Matt Worley hasn't heard a "bink" in quite a while, but still thinks he knows what it sounds like.

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