IT SEEMS OUR TIME HAS RUN OUT, DR. JONES

IT WAS THE WEEK BEFORE WE ELOPED. I had a $20 dress from H&M, my best friend was recently ordained at humanspiritualism.org, and there were three cases of Maker’s Mark. We were good to go.

“Except for one thing,” Christopher said. Christopher, FYI, was my finance—a fact that still sort of blows my mind. Usually guys like him are: a) Taken, b) Gay, c) Dying, or d) A figment of my imagination. Christopher is none of these things. He’s wonderful and smart and “together,”—like, he has goals and shit—and he also loves kids and puppies in a very non-sappy kind of edgy, DIY sort of way. And he always, always does the right thing, even in those moments where the right thing makes you want to stick a fork in your eye, which just then, was exactly what he was asking me to do.

“I can’t,” I said. “I can’t tell him.”

“You have to,” Christopher said. “He deserves to know.”

In my head, I listed every possible out and decided on avoidance. “I’ll tell him when we get back,” I said, but Christopher shook his head. “This is your last week as a single woman. Get your stuff, we’re going now.”

He drove me to the Music Box: This beautiful, old movie theatre on Southport that only shows classics or arty stuff. It was built in the ’20s, I think—really ornate architecture with this huge red velvet curtain over the screen. I found a seat near the front and tried to calm down; there was a grapefruit sized knot in my chest—one part fear and two parts guilt. We’d been together for so long, twenty years almost, and here I was, showing up out of the clear blue sky to say, “I’m sorry, but I just don’t need you anymore.” I suddenly wondered how he’d react; he is a pretty unpredictable guy, after all. Would he snap his whip around my waist and refuse to let me go? Would he jump on a camel and track Christopher across Chicago? Or would he do something drastic, like look into the Arc of the Covenant until his skin boils off and he eventually explodes?

The lights went down—and there’s that feeling right before a movie when you’re transported to another life that’s the farthest thing from real—the red velvet curtain rose up—my heart was pounding so fast I didn’t know if I’d make it through the opening credits—and suddenly, there he was.

We’ve all had our little crushes on fictional characters. Jake Ryan from Sixteen Candles, right? Maybe James Bond? Annette Funicello? Legolas? I know you all have one, but please understand: Indiana Jones and I were not just some fling; we were the real deal. And please don’t say that, “OMG I love Harrison Ford, too!” because, I tell you what, I could give a rat’s ass about Harrison Ford. Or Han Solo. Or Bob Falfa. Or John Book, or Deckard, or any of them.

This is about me and Indiana Jones.

We met in my parent’s basement in 1986. I was an only child, which means I was pretty lonely but also that I had all sorts of magical powers. For example, on the day I met Indy, there was a thunderstorm, which I’d started with my brain. Anyhow, I couldn’t play outside, my folks were upstairs doing whatever horrifyingly boring things parents do, and all there was in the basement was the TV—this tiny, rabbit-eared job that only got one channel. The Saturday afternoon movie: Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

The scene that really got me was the one where Indy and the kid from The Goonies are in that secret corridor with all the bugs and decapitated skeletons, and the kid keeps setting off booby traps and almost squashes them very gruesomely in the Spikey Room of Death. And I’m all, “Indy, that kid sucks! I am so way better than him!” I was up off the couch, talking directly to the television. “I’m not scared of bugs, and also I can teleport and stop moving walls with my mind!” I would’ve kept listing off my powers, but just then—I know you’ll think I’m crazy when I say this, but it happened, I swear!—Indiana Jones turned and looked straight at me, like how in the movies the actors talk into the camera. But there wasn’t any camera; there was only me, all alone in the basement with my incredible ten-year-old need, and he saw me. He looked right in my eyes and said, “What a vivid imagination.”

That was the beginning. We spent most of our time playing in the creek, digging ancient architectural relics out of the mud, and swinging on vines. Eventually, though, I got older. My priorities changed. I didn’t want us to play in the mud anymore; I wanted us to…well, I had these feelings, you know… God, how do I word this? “Nocturnal activities,” is what Indy always says, and—don’t look at me that way! Like you don’t have fantasies! Everybody has them, my psychiatrist says it’s perfectly normal, and Indiana Jones is pretty top of the line of I do say so myself.

A. He’s a college professor, fluent in numerous indigenous languages.

B. He has a very great hat.

C. Whenever I needed him, he was there.

Valentine’s Day, 1995. I was nineteen years old. I wore combat boots, listened exclusively to Nine Inch Nails, and read waaaay too much Sylvia Plath for anybody’s health. My boyfriend was Ricky—he had green hair, AND a leather jacket, held together with safety pins. We’d met dissecting frogs in freshman biology, which in retrospect is an appropriate metaphor for our relationship. Anyhow, we had this discussion about how Valentine’s Day was sap-ass corporate social conditioning designed to subjugate the masses, and we wanted no part. I believe his exact words were, “Cupid can suck my dick.”

He was soooo cool.

So. Long story short: we spent the day in a laundromat. Valentine’s Day in a Laundromat in Ypsilanti, Michigan—as gray and dead of a town as you could get—and I remember I was pairing his socks when out of the clear blue sky he said, “I’m outta here tomorrow.”

I said, “Outta where?” and he said, “Ypsilanti. There’s nothing here for me”—at which point I put down the socks.

“I’m here,” I said.

And he said, “Yeah, about that.”

I wish I could say I handled myself well—that I told him off in exceptionally witty dialogue—but it didn’t happen. Instead, I threw a tantrum. In the Ypsilanti Wash’n’Go. I said nasty things and threw dirty laundry, trying my damndest to pick a fight, ‘cause if he was standing there yelling at me, at least he’d still be standing there. He didn’t take the bait though, and after a while just packed up his stuff and left. And I was alone. In a laundromat in Ypsilanti on Valentine’s Day. Washing his clothes so he could me leave tomorrow—which, in retrospect, is a very good blues song, but at the time it was rock-fucking-bottom. I might’ve stood there all day, but just then, I heard it: that unmistakable “Da-da-da-DAAAA! Da-da-DAAA!” And there he was, Indiana f’ing Jones on a black-and-white TV near the back of the room. I sat on a plastic folding chair, and for the next six hours, I watched the Saturday afternoon Triple Feature.

From then on, whenever I needed a little rescue from reality, he was there.

Like when I dated the alcoholic.

Or the gay guy.

There were many gay guys, actually.

And actors, lots of actors, most of whom had serious substance abuse problems and girlfriends and/or wives—I know! I made stupid decisions, but everybody does, right? That’s how we learn to make smart ones—and Christopher, he’s the best thing that ever happened to me. We’re three years in, and suddenly I’m watching romantic comedies and wearing color and—flowers? I love flowers! Chocolate? Bring it on! Think I’m sappy? Fuck yeah, I’m sappy; I want everybody sappy. I want bluebirds on shoulders and walking on sunshine and reality to be so amazing that you no longer need your fantasy.

I no longer need my fantasy.

And so, there I was at the Music Box watching Raiders of the Lost Ark. It was that scene where Indy and Marion are in the marketplace in Cairo, and the swami guys are trying to kidnap them, so Marion hides in a wicker basket. And while Indy was running around fighting Nazi henchmen, I was slumped back in my seat, rehearsing what I’d say:

It seems our time has run out, Dr. Jones.

You’ll always be my greatest adventure.

I’m sorry, Indy, but I just don’t need you anymore.

No matter I came up with, I still felt guilty as hell ‘cause you know however much it hurts to get dumped, it’s nothing compared to hurting someone else. I can’t do this, I thought. Not to him. And I was on my feet, scooting down the row and halfway up the aisle when I heard him.

“Where you going?”

Slowly, I turned to face him—my Indy—staring down at me from the movie screen with his big eyes and stubbly face and beautiful, stupid smile. Behind him, the swami guys had just found Marion’s basket and were carrying her screaming all over Cairo, but she didn’t exist so far as we were concerned.

“Indiana Jones,” I said. “It’s been awhile, huh?”

He laughed. “Do you remember the last time we had a quiet drink?”

“Of course! We were waiting to shoot pool at Inner Town Pub, and some asshole tried to cut in line; you caught him with the whip and let him dangle from the ceiling for a while.” I felt suddenly nostalgic. “We’ve shared a lot of good times.”

“That’s not all we shared,” he said, leaning in close so his face filled the screen. “Primitive sexual practices—”

“Indy, stop.” I couldn’t let this drag on. “There’s something I have to tell you, and… it may come as a shock.”

“Nothing shocks me,” he said. “I’m a scientist.”

He waited, still smiling—and even though I hated myself, I knew I had to do it. “I can’t see you anymore.”

“What do you mean?” he said.

“I’m getting married.”

“Holy shit!”

“I know—it’s huge! I never even thought I’d fall in love, let alone—“ I trailed off when I saw his face; it was hurt but also angry, like in Last Crusade when Elsa tries to steal the Holy Grail.

“Boy, you’re something!” he said, turning to walk away.

I followed, moving down the aisle closer to the screen. “Indy, come ON,” I said. “What do you care?”

He turned back, his face twisted in a scowl. “Now you’re getting nasty!”

“You have your artifacts, your adventures—you don’t need me!”

“I’m sorry you think so!”

“It’s not like we’ve ever been exclusive! You had Marion and Willie—“

“I can only say I’m sorry so many times.”

He sounded so defeated.

“Indy,” I said, reaching out to touch his arm, but he jerked it back.

“Please, I don’t need a nurse.”

I wasn’t sure what else to say, so I borrowed from all the guys who’d dumped me over the years: “Fate just isn’t on our side.”

He laughed in my face. “I don’t believe in that magical, superstitious hocus pocus!”

I pointed my finger at the screen and yelled, “Our whole relationship is magical hocus pocus!”

He looked shocked—like that time he was brainwashed into thinking he was a Fugee High Priest and Shorty burned him with a torch—and I wondered if he’d ever realized how different our worlds were. I looked around the theater at all those faces so in love with Indiana Jones. In an hour and a half, the lights would go up, and they’d return to their lives.

This time, I needed to do the same.

The music started then, low and distant: “Da-da-da-DAAAA! Da-da-DAAA!” And I felt a sudden pang of courage. “Indiana,” I said, pointing behind me at the doors out to the lobby. “There’s a whole world for me out there, and you’ve got your own in here. Turn around, look!” He did, and saw the giant bearded Samurai dude coming at him, flipping his machete around like he was about to slice Jones in half. “You don’t have to fight,” I called. “Just shoot him, it’ll go much quicker.” He did as told and turned back to me. “Now you have to find Marion,” I instructed. “Just follow her voice; she’s loud as Hell. They’re going to try to make you think she blew up in that Nazi truck, but they’ve really got her stashed away in some tent. Remember that and you’ll be fine.” He nodded and made as if to rush off, then turned back to face me.

“Sweetheart, after all the fun we’ve had together,” he said, and I smiled.

“We have had fun, haven’t we?” I said.

From the surround sound around me, I heard Marion yelling, “Inddeeeee.” And then he was off, back to his own world. I pushed open those theater doors and went out into mine: the city, the street, and Christopher parked out front, waiting to drive me off into the sunset.