Closure
By Steve Martin
 

CLOSURE. I wanted it. Or I wasn’t going to be able to move on. The taxi had dropped me off fully ten blocks earlier than I had requested. Sixty-first instead of Seventy-first. Luckily, I had copied down the cab number in case for some reason I needed closure. This time I did. I called the taxi company from my cell phone. I told them what I wanted. “Some kind of closure,” I said. They understood. But my troubles had just begun.

It was a little matter of being shortchanged at the supermarket. One dollar and fifty cents. Not much, but as I stood there counting the change, realizing the mistake, I couldn’t move on. I confronted the checkout girl. “Oops,” she said. Oops? Oops? This was not closure. How was I to move on? The manager came over. He understood closure. He apologized and took responsibility. I was lucky. I could move on.

My girlfriend, Josie, was already at the apartment. I had given her a key just two weeks earlier. I came in with the groceries. We put them away and ordered in. We watched the news. Murder, larceny, confidence games: so many people who couldn’t move on. I kissed her and held her hand. I took her to the bedroom. I tried to make love to her, but couldn’t. Too many loose ends. But she wanted closure. I explained that because so many people in my life weren’t taking responsibility, it became impossible for me to accept my own responsibility. She understood. But she still wanted closure.

Two days go by. My movie-theatre free-admission coupon is not being honored. A line forms behind me as I explain my situation to the ticket-seller. I had called ahead to make sure it would be honored. They said it would be. Yet here I am, being embarrassed in front of strangers. Josie says, “Let’s pay,” and suggests that we move on. I cannot. I tell them I will need closure. The man selling tickets says the coupon people made a mistake, and they are the ones who will need to take responsibility. “So you need closure," I say. “Yes,” he replies, “before we can move on.” “So my closure is dependent on your closure,” I say. “Yes.” Just then Josie says, “I need closure, too, tonight.” She pays. I move on even though I am unable to move on.

“We watch the movie. It is about Mary, Queen of Scots. She was beheaded. When the movie is over, it says, “The end.” “We can go home.

Pop goes the champagne cork. Josie starts drinking. I start to worry. She starts kissing me. I am helpless. I can’t move on. The phone rings and the machine picks up. It’s the manager of the movie theatre. “I talked with the coupon people,” he says. “They will issue a new coupon. I’m hoping now we can move on.” I smile at Josie. But something’s still not right. I notice the answering machine blinking. I irritate Josie when I play back the message. It is the taxi company with a full apology. I can move on.

I give Josie closure. She snuggles next to me. A candle burns to the end and snuffs itself out. “The moonlight trickles into the bedroom. I look at the bedroom door. It’s ajar. I know what I need.

 * From The New Yorker, v. 74, n. 46, p. 43 (Feb. 15, 1999).