The sweet hereafter

The end of the line for ‘Outta My Way’

by Elizabeth Peavey

THE BIG PICTURE: and all this time, you thought she was throwing a punch.

As much as I would like to feign the stoicism my Yankee ancestors wore as closely as their horsehair underpants and say I hate good-byes, the truth is I love them. I adore the drama, the summarizing, the clinging and fawning, the torturously long and drawn-out leave-taking and the occasional lovely parting gift. So fond have I been of these stewy, messy scenes over the course of my life, I have oft moved away, quit jobs, or initiated breakups just to see what kind of reaction I could elicit. Sure, ending a relationship or relocating across the country or to another continent might seem like a lot of trouble just to get people to say they’ll miss you (especially if they don’t), but that never stopped me. And it’s just that sort of behavioral quirk that fueled my Casco Bay Weekly column, “Outta My Way,” for the past six years. I made a career out of being weird.

In case you’re wondering what I’m doing here on this foreign Phoenix turf or the reason I speak of my column in the past tense, it is because “Outta My Way” is no more. Simply put: When my colleagues in the CBW newsroom were fired in a dispute over money on March 6, I quit. There was just one problem, however: I realized I had cheated myself out of one of the most chest-thumping curtain calls of my life. Thus, I have come here to bid my column and you adieu.

Now, I have to confess that while my resignation was heartfelt and without hesitation, I would be a dirty, rotten, stinking liar if I didn’t admit I felt the teensiest tiniest bit relieved. Even the old-man voice in the back of my brain, which is usually reserved for comments like “Ye are bad” when I am not at toil (which is most of the time), let loose a sigh and whispered, “Free.”

You see, churning out a column every two weeks based solely on my life was hard work. (No it wasn’t. I just like the way that sounds.) But it has been an odd way to live. When I look back to the early “Outta My Way,” I hardly recognize myself. I still lived in the West End and had newly embarked upon my freelance career. My friend Joyce was still bossing me around. I had just joined a gym and was in the process of reintroducing myself to the great outdoors. I was single, youngish, cheeky, and oozed an attitude that was so, like, get out of my way.

Meanwhile, time marched on. I moved to the East End and discovered — much to my continuing dismay — I could make a living writing. Joyce moved away, taking with her our mid-afternoon beer breaks. The gym became routine and the wilds of Maine familiar. I turned 40. I met and married Husband. And, as many of you feel the need to tell me, I lost some of my edge — all through the filter of this column.

So, now that my life is “Outta”-less, I’m curious what it’s going to be like. What if it turns out I actually like dogs and Saugus and South Portland? What if I start eschewing my all-black wardrobe for pastels and florals and prints? And here’s what really makes me nervous — what if I manufactured all my cootie- and personal space- and collective experience-issues just for my column? What if it turns out I’m not a weirdo, after all?

Nah, not a chance. But there will be a certain freedom in not airing my underpants — horsehair or otherwise — in public every two weeks or hearing “I can’t wait to read about this in your column,” every time I step in dog poo or dance with a barstool. Yes, it’s time for the filter to go.

But, first, a few words of thanks, starting with all the great people I encountered during my nearly 10-year affiliation with Casco Bay Weekly. Special thanks to Wayne Curtis, who dragged me on board in the first place, even when I laughed — ha! — in his face when he asked me to be CBW’s arts editor, and to Al Diamon, who edited my column since its inception. (By the way, Diamon, I want the 471,959 commas you’ve stolen from me back.)

Thanks to a few special fans: my friends Bill in Montpelier and Arny in Worcester and the curious assortment of readers scattered around the Midwest; those who wrote offering coffee or beer dates, rebukes, marriage proposals, grammar lessons, or just to say, “me too”; and especially those of you who have read my column and felt you’ve come to know me. (Don’t feel bad — I also have imaginary friends.)

I want to thank my family for letting me lay bare our shared past (whether they liked it or not, which they didn’t) and especially Mom, who has unflaggingly supported my writing life — and not just with her checkbook — and who taught me to draw an oar and make it look like I’m throwing a punch. And, of course, Husband for all the obvious reason, and then some. (ILYML.)

I do not know what will follow. I might show up in these pages again. Maybe I’ll finally get around to launching a Web site or a performance version of my column. My book — the collected “Outta My Way” — is currently being shopped around by my agent, so maybe I’ll just get famous. But, for the present, I plan to do what I do best: nothing.

So, that’s all. Thanks to Sam Pfeifle for making this space available. Thank you readers. Thank you Portland. Thanks everyone else. Thanks.

Okay, well, I guess I better be going. See ya. Bye for now. Miss me yet? Anyone but me need a hankie? You still listening? Anyone there? Hello? Hello?

Good-bye.

Elizabeth Peavey can be contacted at peavey@gwi.net.