Singles Going Steady: Steely Dan's "Reelin' in the Years"

Victor was stretched out on the couch, smoking a cigarette, "What do you want to do tonight? Buddha told me about a party—"
"Nah. I don't feel like a party. Dinner? Movies?"
"Yeah, okay. I don't really feel like dealing with people, either" he sat up and stubbed out the cigarette. "Do you need to go home first? Get some stuff? I can take you."

I'd been staying at Victor's place, fearful that if we stayed at mine, or went anywhere close, he'd somehow figure out what I'd been up to. I wanted to be as far away from the scene of the crime as possible. My fear of suspicion was approaching absurdity. And of course, to make matters worse, everywhere I went I saw reminders: A Lens Crafters commercial=glasses=Matthew. An empty bottle of Arizona Iced Tea on the coffee table=tea=Matthew. Victor's copy of Les Enfants Terribles=Jean Cocteau=Cocteau Twins=Matthew. Skinny Marie talking on the phone to Rareman=Rareman and Skinny Marie speak English=people who speak English= Matthew. …

"No, I'm good. Maggie's got some family coming and they're all going to be there," I was sad at how quickly and easily the lie rolled off my tongue.
"Cool. Want to go out or rent?"
"Let's go out to a movie and eat Chinese and sleep in tomorrow."
"Alright. That sounds good," he yawned and started rubbing my feet. "I've got some of that opium left. Or some trees—"
"I'll pass. I'm not wanting to get high." Really, I did, but didn't need the paranoia that sometimes came with it to amplify the paranoia I already felt.
"Wow," he walked over to the bookshelf. "Why are you so hugs-not-drugs all of a sudden?"
"I'm not," I lit a cigarette, "But—" What I wanted to say was, But I cannot remember the last time we did anything together sober. "We'll never leave if we get high."
He was rooting around, looking for his rolling machine, "If we're going to dinner, I want to be hungry…"

For the first time in forever, I studied Victor's frame. He was always skinny, but he seemed skinner than usual, gaunt, even. His jeans were hanging low on his hips. His cheekbones, which were somewhat angular anyway, seemed unusually sharp. His Adam's apple stuck out way more than I'd noticed before. He looked unwell.
"Here. Smell this," he handed me a Ziplock. "Maybe it will change your mind." It was filled to the top with bright green buds covered with crystals. The fumes alone made me feel stoned.
"Wow—Where did this come from?" I took another deep breath; it smelled faintly of pine and incense.
"Mackey," Victor took the rolling papers and roller and started working. "I'll roll a joint. Then we'll go out."
We smoked in silence, sitting on the couch, watching cars go by down on Lane Avenue. Near the end of the joint, I started to feel like I was wearing a jumpsuit made out of heated velvet.
Victor was staring at me, "I feel like you're so distracted lately. I miss you." His moments of sensitivity were rare, though they usually surfaced when he was stoned.
Paranoia and smoke were both creeping around my head, "But—we see each other all the time. And we talk 10 times a day…"
"I know. But—" he inhaled, "God, I sound so cheesy—being around you makes me feel like everything is going to be okay. Here."
I hoped he hadn't noticed how much my hand shook when I took the roach. I passed it back, and sat on my hands.

The phone rang and Victor reached for it, "Hello? … Oh yeah, man. What's up? … The trees? … Yeah. … Any time's cool. We're just chilling. … Cool. Late."
"Who was that?"
"Joose. I told him he could come by."
"When? Tonight?"
"Yeah."
"But we're going out, aren't we?"
"Yeah, but…" he walked into the bedroom closet and came back with a shoebox filled with the crystal-y pot. More than I'd ever seen in one place outside of High Times.
"Holy shit! Where did you get all that?"
"Mackey," Victor pulled some smaller clumps from the box and put them on the coffee table. "I told him I'd unload it for him."
"Wait—selling this for Mackey? Why?"
"Well," he got out his scale from under the couch, "I was a little short last time I was over there—"
I narrowed my eyes, "What's a little short?"
"I don't know—90, 100 bucks."
"But why?"
He was shuffling around the apartment, trying not to look at me. Whatever he was going to tell me, I knew it would not be good. "I, uh, bought some yay for myself. Just to have around."

When we bought coke, Victor was always in charge of doling it out. In the beginning, we'd share one of those origami-like tiny envelopes one of us would cobble together from whatever magazine was lying around. But that got cumbersome, especially where gender-specific restrooms were concerned, and so we'd started cutting it out into two envelopes. I'd long suspected (right around the same time I started noticing his OCD behavior) he'd been splitting it unevenly, and what do you say to your boyfriend when you think he's cheating you out of drugs? But there it was—we were both cheaters. While this information was certainly alarming, it wasn't what bothered me the most—it was that he was beholden to Mackey.

Jason Mackey was a thug, or, at least, as thugged out as a skinny white boy from ____, Ohio, could be, at any rate. He didn't appear to go to school, though we sometimes saw him on campus. He didn't live in the student slums. He had a condo. A nice one, in the Short North. The insanely loud rap music booming from his apartment and the constant foot traffic seemed to me a perfect recipe for getting busted. There were random people coming in and out all the time—one of them could easily be a narc. Mackey didn't seem to be the least bit concerned. And I suppose I wouldn't, either, if I had a posse of enormous, scary-looking guys at my side all the time. And he was a complete sleaze. Every time I saw him, he oozed over to me, wearing one of his many shiny Adidas track suits and matching Gazelles and practically dived into my cleavage, wanting to know what I was "getting into"—his favorite phrase: "What are you cats going to get into tonight?" "I know a party, if you want to get into that." "You getting into something off the hook later?"

But even worse were the stories I'd heard about what Mackey did to people who owed him money—rather, what his minions did to those people. Some of the stories involved pistol whippings and broken limbs. Understandably, I was quite disturbed.

"How many times has this happened?"
"Look—You know I don't make much at the bar and I have too much school stuff to do to get a full-time job. I'm trying to stay on the Dean's list. It would be fan-fucking-tastic to graduate with honors. Seriously, this is no big deal."
I hated when he waltzed around my questions, and he knew it, "Victor, how many times?"
"Okay, this is maybe the second time. I swear."
I felt bewildered and anxious, "Do you have to do this for him? I'll loan you the cash. You can just—"
"It's my problem and I'll take care of it," he started breaking up the neon-green clumps into small chunks, "I told you—It's not a big deal. It'll be gone in a week. Less, probably. Promise. That's why Joose is coming over, to buy a half." He sat down and held my hands, "This is the last time, okay?" He stared into my eyes, making me want to believe him.
I fished around in the couch for the lighter and lit a cigarette, "God, Mackey is such a fucking loser."
"I know he is. When I went over there, he was looped. Watching some porno in his boxers."
"I wish we'd never met him," I said quietly.
He looked a little sad, "Me, too." Satisfied with the weight, he put the chunks into a Ziploc. "Don't worry, please?"

The phone rang again, "Joose? … Yeah, man. … Okay, when? … Oh yeah? … Okay, that's cool. … Yeah. … Fine. … Late." He sat next to me and sighed, "That was Joose again. He talked to Def and Def wants an eighth. They'll be here in a few."

An hour and three bowls of cereal later, the doorbell rang. "Come up," Victor yelled out the window.
Joose and Def brought a case of Bass. They both kissed me hello and sat down.
"Damn, man," Def inhaled. "You guys have been into it, haven't you? Want a beer?" He walked to the kitchen and brought out some bottles.
"Iseult," Joose pulled a CD out of his pocket, "here's that Steely Dan CD I was talking about—Can't Buy a Thrill." He leaned over the table to give it to me, "Put this in?"

By the time "Reelin' in the Years" started playing, I knew where the evening was headed, and it wasn't to China Super Buffet. I shouldn't have been surprised—so many of our nights went off the rails in much the same way, all because of drugs—getting them, buying them, waiting for them, doing them. I sat back on the couch and smoked a cigarette, watched the three of them laughing at nothing and pounding beers, and listened:

Your everlasting summer/
You can see it fading fast/
So you grab a piece of something/
That you think is gonna last/
You wouldn't know a diamond/
If you held it in your hand/
The things you think are precious/
I can't understand…

In my uber-stoned state of mind, I was quite certain the song was about us. Our relationship—it's like a fading summer, isn't it? I think it's fading. And who's the diamond? Is it me? Maybe it's Victor? Wait— it's Matthew. Maybe he's the diamond and I'm letting him slip through my fingers. I wonder what he's doing right now? I know he's not doing this. Why am I doing this? This is bullshit, isn't it? I can't keep doing this. When did this stop being fun? Was it ever? My head hurts…Something has to change...

Steely Dan's "Reelin' in the Years," from the album, Can't Buy a Thrill
Purchased at Used Kids Records, sometime in early 1996

The Racket Friday FAQ: Volume 3

This is gonna be short and sweet because I have to pack and get the hell out of this city. Spring break! Spring break! WOOOOO!!! When we were in college, this is what we would yell at the girls leaving the tanning salons. It was funnier, then. Anyway, questions. Regulators, mount up:

Q: What is an 8-ball?

Okay, I figured I would get this question, but I was surprised at how many times I did. An 8-ball is almost four grams of fun. To be specific, it's around 3.5 grams; or, 1/8th of an ounce. Back in the mid-1990s, if memory serves, it cost anywhere from $100 to $150. I don't know if that was a bargain.

Q: What the hell is a teener?

A: A teener is half of an 8—1.75 grams; or, 1/16th of an ounce. I don't know its origin.

Okay, so here's one other question that I'm going to preempt right now because I know it's going to come up in later stories:

Q: What is yay?

A: yayo [sic]: n., cocaine. Origin is the Spanish llello; yayo is the misspelled/phonetic version. Also, yay, for short. I've read that it's attributed mostly to one Tony Montana.

And now that I've displayed my mad urban lingo skillz, we can move on.

Q: None of your entries are about music so why give them the titles that you do? I read the one called "Janes Addiction" [sic] and it wasn't about them at all.

A: They're totally about the music. The music is what frames these stories. The music is what makes me remember the details. The music is why I'm writing at all. Writing about music in the literal sense—that's best left to Sasha Frere-Jones or David Fricke, no doubt. But a review can only tell you so much about a song or an album. It's when you learn about the people who listen to that song or album—what their lives are like, who their friends are, what their state of mind is—that you really understand how the music sounds. That's what I think, anyway.

Alright, so thanks for the questions. I'm not going to be online for a week and a half, so unfortunately, there will be nothing new here until I get back. But in the meantime, why don't you take a stroll through the Archives? Or check out some of the site's Greatest Hits:

* "Laurel, your friends are all sluts."
* The Elton Series—Parts One, Two, and Three.
* The most melancholy songs in the world.
* LL Cool J's doppelganger.
* The punk-rock poet with the star tattoo.

Have a great week, you guys.

Unpaid Endorsements

I'm getting ready for a vacation, and the plane ride is going to be 900 hours long, so what better excuse to shop for new CDs and books, oui? There are a million things at my apartment I could read/listen to, but something about going on a trip makes me want to buy all new stuff. I even bought a new Walkman! No, I haven't yet begun the inevitable lemming descent (band name) in to the Apple Store for an iPod. I'm keepin' it real, playa! The problem with me is that even though I ostensibly bought these items for the vacation, I don't have the patience to wait until the trip, so I've already listened to/read some of what I bought. Wanna hear it? Here it go:

Ears:
Explosions in the Sky
Those Who Tell the Truth Shall Die, Those Who Tell the Truth Shall Live Forever

Heady title, no doubt. And normally, I run like the wind whenever I hear something described as "prog rock" or "post rock." Had I not heard some of their stuff already, this definitely wasn't an album I would have bought on a whim. I have to give mad props to Peter Berg, director of the movie "Friday Night Lights," for turning me on to this Texas band. The movie was meh, but the soundtrack was fantastic— especially the EITS compositions. "Atmospheric" is what critics use when they can't come across the words to express how the music really made them feel; in this case, it works. The music sounds like early morning when you've been out too late, like walking home by yourself after breaking up with someone, like making a difficult decision that you knew was inevitable. In other words, it sounds like the promise of starting over. Musically, EITS sound like My Bloody Valentine, Calexico, some Ry Cooder, a dash of Built to Spill, a bit of Friends of Dean Martinez, and a lil' hint of Sunny Day Real Estate.

Mazzy Star
So Tonight That I Might See
That I didn't already own this album amazes me. It's one of those situations where you've heard something so much that you think you do own it. Yes, this album sounds, at times, like so much bad teenage poetry. I don't care, though. Listening to it makes me think of the old, tattered mansions along Millionaire's Row, where I grew up. Or, the old, tattered mansions along Abercorn and Bull streets in Savannah. It also sounds like the Marais, the Cloisters, and the moors. But then girlfriend goes and covers an Arthur Lee song ("Five String Serenade") and you're like, "Thank Jesus. It was getting perilously close to Emily the Strange up in this mug." Maybe they also sound a little like the Velvet Underground and Nico? Whatever it is, I'm so glad I finally bought this record. It's like hearing from a long lost friend.

Eyes:
Craig Thompson, Blankets
As it happens, this book is prohibitively large for traveling; thus, I felt perfectly justified in having read it straight away. I got it on Thursday, and was finished by Saturday afternoon. I couldn't put it down. I haven't felt that way about a book since The Corrections. This guy Craig managed to convey in drawings what I want to convey in words. This is, above all, a book about feelings—about love, loss, hurt, anger and pain, and yet it never becomes cloying. It's earnest. It's doesn't get crushed under the admittedly weighty story. It must have been so difficult for him to write about religion and love and his disillusionment with both. It's never easy to write about embarrassments we've had. It's harder still to write about happiness we've experienced. I think the main reason this works as well as it does is because of the insanely detailed drawings. He doesn't need to write the feelings because we can see them. If you like Adrian Tomine's Optic Nerve series, I think you will like this. I don't have anything else to compare it with because the world of comics (sorry, graphic novels) still verges a little too much on "my Cleric put a Butterfly Choker on your Ork and he just lost 10 hit points" for my taste.

So now I don't know what to read on the plane! I don't want anything too deep dish, but I want it to be engaging. What should I get? I like stories about people and relationships. Hate historical novels. Any ideas?

Soundtrack of Our Lives: Cocteau Twins, Victorialand

Skinny Marie's car had a broken dome light and I couldn't see where the piece of paper went. I pulled over under a streetlight to look. Skinny Marie's car was, by far, the most junked-out car I'd ever been in. Empty coffee cups and cigarette packs littered the floor. Tapes and books were strewn about the passenger seat, along with what seemed like an endless supply of black aprons from her job as a server at C______'s. Stuck between the passenger seat and the cup holder, was the paper. "Ew." There was something sticky on it that was now also on my hands. I wiped them off on my jeans and slid the paper on the dashboard. "Corner of ____ and _____. Apartment 301." I repeated it over and over until it was committed to memory and pulled back into the street.

"Hey…it's Iseult."
"Hey! What's up? How are you? Did you get the brochures?"
"Yeah, I did. Thanks. So, uh, do you…think we could talk? About…them?"
"Sure," he laughed. "What are you doing tonight?"
"Nothing. I mean, studying, but that's it."
"Well, I have a study group until 10 and then I'm free. But is that too late? I keep pretty late hours. I forget that normal people actually sleep at night."
"No —it's fine. I don't have anything going on."
"Great. Then why don't you come over around 10:30, 10:45?"
"Okay. I'll see you around 10:45. Bye."
"Wait—Iseult?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't you want to know where I live?"

I'd never known anyone who lived in Victorian Village. When Matthew told me his address, I remember thinking, Hey! Cool! I've always wanted to see what the apartments were like over there. That was always one of my favorite things about college: Seeing so many different people's apartments and houses and what their lives were like outside of the bars or classrooms that they spent most of their time in.

"Wait—I have a beep … Oh okay … I'll just call you later… Bye… Hello? Hey … Yeah, hold on …Iseult? Phone's for you, darling," Skinny Marie handed it over. "Victor."
"Thanks," I walked into my room. "Hey."
"Hey yourself. I've been calling you all day."
I hadn't picked up, afraid he'd hear something in my voice that would give me away. I paced the floor, "Oh—you have? Well, today's been really busy. Reading, work, you know. All that jazz."
"Yeah, I know. I've got a ridiculously difficult psych exam to study for. It's killing me. But enough of that—I was calling because I heard from Mackey and he wanted to know if we wanted something for the weekend. I told him yes."
Just thinking about it made me start to clench my jaw. That was my particular cocaine tick. "Well how much did you tell him?"
"I said an 8 and a teener."
My eyes bugged out, "For the weekend? Jesus!"
"No, no, no. For after, too. And for that concert on Thursday. I just don't want to see him any more than I have to, you know?"
"How much money are we talking? I don't get paid until Friday and I've got about $40 in the bank."
"Can you get a cash advance off your credit card?"
I hated doing that and I never ended up putting the money back. "No. I did that last time. It's your turn."
"Okay, okay. I'll do it. No big deal. So, you want to go over there with me?"
Mackey was a dick, but he was always generous with the samples, "When are you going?"
"Later. Around 9."
"Well…I can't—I have a study group."
"Where? The Union?"
I swallowed, "Yeah…"
"Okay, that's cool. Are you coming over tonight?"
"No. I have the study group."
"I mean after."
"No, ah, we may be there until late. And I have to get up early tomorrow."
"Okay, then I'll talk to later. But call me if you can come over tonight. Love you."
"Love you, too."

It wasn't far to Matthew's place, too short a distance to back out. Driving there, I felt like I was high, which, at the time, was poignant because it occurred to me that I could feel like I was on drugs without having to actually be on drugs. The car was especially cooperative that night, for which I was extremely grateful. The week before, I got stranded in it at the grocery store. I had no idea what I'd tell everyone if I got stranded in Victorian Village at 10:30 on a weekday, given that I wasn't supposed to be anywhere near there. I parked way down the street.

His was an old apartment building—not one of the big old Victorian houses; it was something of a let down. I stood on the steps and had a cigarette, then walked up and rang, "M.S. K­­­_____, 301." The buzzer buzzed and the door clicked. The foyer smelled like Pine Sol. I reached the third floor and I was just about to knock when Matthew opened the door. He smelled lemony, again.
"Come in," he gestured inside. "I'm glad you came."
"Thanks. I'm glad, too. I think."
"You think?"
"No, I am…glad."
He took my coat and my bag and set them on a chair by the door. It was your typical starving student apartment: desk, kitchen table and chairs, ratty armchair, bookshelf, stereo, none of it new, and all of it on its ninth or tenth owner. Books everywhere. Green shag carpet. There were photos on the wall above the bricked-up fireplace. The pictures were of some European-looking place.
He stood next to me and pointed, "Those are from Austria. I went the summer before I came here. I love it there. Have you been?"
"No. I haven't." I hadn't been outside of the east coast.
"Well, if you get the chance, you should definitely go."
I nodded and looked around, not sure yet if I was staying.
He must have guessed this and offered me some tea, "It's Jasmine. That okay?"
"Yeah, that's great." I looked around some more; I still hadn't looked at him.
"First, can I give you a tour? Though there's not much to see…"
"This is really big for a studio," I gestured to the mattress on the floor. The bed was made. There was a baseball bat randomly next to it.
"Oh, it's not. There's a bedroom, but it's pretty fucking awful."
He took me around the corner and showed me. Wood paneling. Stacks of books. A bed-frame, a box spring.
"It looks like a creepy porno basement."
"That's what I thought, too. I use it mostly for storage. And I don't mind sleeping on the floor."

The kettle was wheezing and while he was in the kitchen, I wandered around the main room. There was a candle lit on the mantle that smelled like honeysuckle. He had an old-looking floor lamp by the bed with a broken shade. The room had a nice glow. He didn't have many CDs, but the ones he had were ones I liked.
He handed me a mug, "What are you looking at?"
"Your CD collection. You can tell a lot about someone that way."
"Oh yeah? So what can you tell about me?"
"Well, you like late eighties and early nineties college rock, or whatever they call it. You seem to have an obsession with New Order. I don't see anything terribly embarrassing in there."
He laughed, "I was a DJ in college. Back in the early nineties."
"Oh wow. You're old. I was still in high school, then."
"Old? I'm only 25. Twenty-six in September. How old are you?"
"Guess."
"I don't know. I'm not good with ages." He handed me a mug, "You're a sophomore. So that makes you…"
"Twenty. Twenty-one in November"
"Twenty. I remember 20. Good times," He chuckled and nodded at the stereo, "You want to pick something?"
"Sure," I chose a Cocteau Twins CD. "How about Victorialand?"
We sat on the floor and drank our tea.
"I'm glad you called. I was afraid after what happened the other day—"
"Yeah, well…"
"You seemed kind of embarrassed."
"I was," I was starting to feel sweaty.
"Well, you shouldn't have been. But your face was so red. Pretty much the entire time."
Of course he noticed. It wasn't exactly invisible. "And you're like that every time I talk to you. Why is that? Do I make you nervous or something?" He grinned at me and raised an eyebrow.
I stared at the carpet, "No."
"See, you're doing it now."
"How can you tell? It's dark in here."
"I just can."

I wanted to change the subject, "Why did you talk to me that day at the bulletin board?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, I'd seen you around the department for months and you never talked to me much before that."
"Well, I would have if it had seemed like you wanted me to talk to you."
"What are you talking about?"
"You practically ignored me—"
"What? That's crazy."
"And it drove me nuts. It was kind of rude, actually; Sometimes I'd say hi and you'd just look the other way or walk past me without saying a thing."
"No way. Maybe I didn't hear you."
"You heard me," he leaned back on his elbows.
"I honestly don't remember any of this," I rolled onto my side. "And sometimes, I'm a little shy," I said into my mug. "People often mistake that for rudeness."
"Well, it only made me want to talk to you more, but I wasn't sure when you worked. Then when you were at the board by Avery's, I thought, Now's my chance. I tried not to be nervous—"
I rolled my eyes, "You? Nervous? Please."
"I tried not to be nervous and just gave it a shot. I was happy you didn't tell me to fuck off."
"Why would I do that?"
"Because! Look at you. You're beautiful—"
"Stop it," I was feeling self-conscious. I hunted around for a cigarette.
"And smart," he opened his pack and lit a one for each of us. "And a great kisser. And women like you make men nervous."
"Women like me, huh?"
"Yep."
"Well, now I'm really embarrassed," I finished my tea and set the mug on the bookshelf.
"Don't be. I'm the one who should be embarrassed. I can't believe I just told you that. But I'm just being honest," he took the cups back into the kitchen.

Sitting there on the floor, I felt warm and comfortable, and somewhere in between melancholy and hopeful. I stared up at the photos of Austria, "Those are really beautiful." I pointed to one of a church, "Where was that one taken?"
"That's in Vienna. Saint Stephen's Cathedral. It was spectacular."
"Do you have an album or something?"
"Yeah, but I don't want to bore you with that."
"It won't. Show me."
We spent the next hour looking at his trip, which also included stops in Prague and Amsterdam.
"I hear the pot is good in Amsterdam."
"Yeah, but, I don't know anything about that. I don't smoke it."
I couldn't decide if that was a good thing, "Oh."
"Do you?"
"Well, sure. Like every other person on this campus."
"I tried it a few times and it just made me feel, I don't know, slow or something. Alcohol is pretty much my drug of choice. And nicotine," he lit and handed me another cigarette. "Be right back," he walked into the bathroom.

I wanted to tell him, to let fly with two years of guilt and regret about the drugs and my life and what a mess everything was. I wanted to tell him how stuck and hopeless I sometimes felt, how, though I was worried about the growing intensity of Victor's drug use, I did nothing to stop it. And I couldn't tell anyone—all our friends thought we were happy and perfect and I was only beginning notice how fucking worn out I was keeping up the façade. I wanted to tell. I think I would have had I not looked at my watch, "Wow. I can't believe it's past two."
"Time flies…"
"Yes. It does." Thinking about leaving there and going back into my life made me feel depressed. "Well I should go."
"You sure?"
"Yeah," I got up and looked again at the photos over the fireplace. I wanted to climb right over the frames and jump into them.
He walked up behind me and kissed my neck, "Tell me if you want me to stop."
I didn't think it was possible for a human being to stand so still, but I didn't move an inch, "Okay."
"Okay stop? Or, okay keep going."
"Keep going."
He worked his way around to my lips. We stood there like that for a while then he motioned to the bed, "Okay?"
This is really happening, I thought. I can't undo this, "Okay."
He rolled on top of me and we kissed, two sets of bony hips grinding into each other, sweat forming on the back of my neck, his waist. I didn't know what to do with my hands. His hands moved from my face, down to my chest. When he reached under my shirt I suddenly became really alert.
"Hey—"
He moved onto his side, "I'm sorry. I didn't —"
"No, no. I'm sorry. It's just—I have to get home."
"I totally understand," he sat up. "I'll walk you to your car."

He put on his sneakers and helped me with my coat, "Ready?"
Outside, everything was covered with mist. It smelled like mud.
We walked a few blocks, "Why did you park so far away?"
"Uh," I unlocked the door, "I wasn't sure exactly where your place was."
He nodded, "I had a really good time tonight."
"Me, too..."
He kissed me on the forehead and closed the door, "You can call me anytime you want, okay? Any time at all."

Cocteau Twins, Victorialand
Released in April 1986
Still don't own it

Soundtrack of Our Lives: Kristin Hersh, Hips and Makers

"Hey," Victor kissed me on the head. "I didn't hear you get up. How long have you been awake?"
"I don't know. An hour, maybe?"
"Still not sleeping well?"
"Yeah."
"Poor girl," he kissed me again and walked into the kitchen, "You want me to make you some coffee?" God. He was being so nice to me. I felt awful. I knew I needed to tell him what happened, to explain why, for the last week, I'd been unable to sleep through the night. I kept waiting for the right time. There is, of course, never a right time. You just have to do it…
"No, that's okay. I'll get some on the way to work."
"Maybe that's it," he sat next to me and drank some juice, "your work. That new schedule of yours is brutal."
"It's not so bad. I just—need to get used to it." I'd started working mornings at Professor Avery's office, hoping that a schedule change would dramatically lower my chances of running into Matthew. So far, it was working, but man, was I exhausted, hated seeing the dark circles that now seemed to be a permanent addition to my face. My stomach hurt every time Victor said or did something sweet. Just tell him. You have to… "Victor, the other night, I—"
"Wait," he held up his hand, "I know. You don't have to say anything else."
My hands were clammy, "You know?"
"Yeah. And I owe you an apology."
I stared at him, "You…owe me an apology?"
"Yes. I shouldn't have acted like such a dick."

***
My mental View Master sorted through the events of the past week: Oh. The night we went to Bernie's (AKA, The Distillery). We wanted to see a local punk band, only Victor didn't want to leave until he heard from his dealer, Mackey. He'd paged him earlier because he wanted to make sure Mackey got an 8-ball for us for the weekend; Victor had already paid him for it.
"The show starts in like, a half hour," I said. "Can't you just talk to him later?"
"Relax, okay?" Victor was pacing. "He said he'd call back in a few, and you know those shows never start on time."
The thing I hated most about drugs was all the wasted time spent trying to get them. I wasn't in the mood to wait around that night, "I told Buddha and Kona we'd be there at 10. It's almost 10 now—"
"Look, if you want to go, go. I'll meet you there, alright?" He was scowling at the phone, "Come on, asshole. Call me back."
I was shocked, "Are you fucking kidding me?" My throat was tight, "So what you're saying is that it's more important to you to wait for a call from your fucking drug dealer than it is to take me out on a date—a date you planned for us. Is that right?" It was absurd—I remember thinking, My God, who are you?
When he looked back at me, he knew he fucked up, and he went into damage control mode, "Oh, Iseult, I'm sorry. It's just—you know how fucking shady Mackey is. I know he's going to come through, but I just want to make sure. Just a few more minutes, okay? Buddha and Kona aren't going to care, are they?" And it's true, they wouldn't but this wasn't the first time I'd made them wait because of something like this. I was tired of making excuses for why we were late.
"I'm just going to go. I'll see you there," I walked toward the stairs, waited to see what he would do, but then the phone rang.
"Wait—that's probably him." Victor snatched it up, "Hello? … Mackey, man, what's up? Are we cool? … Okay … Excellent. I'll come by after class tomorrow. … Yeah, around 3. … Okay. … Alright. …Late." He grabbed his jacket and started down the stairs, "See? It all worked out," he gave me a kiss on the cheek and opened the door. For the rest of the night, every time I looked at him I wondered, Had Mackey not called when he did, would I be here by myself? I drank my beer and tried to enjoy the show.

***
"I wouldn't have been such a spaz about it if I hadn't already given him the cash." He put his arms around me, "And you know I wouldn't have let you go to that show alone."
Do I? I thought. But I chose not to dwell on that; instead, I recognized this conversation for what it was: My out. "I know."
"So we're okay?"
"Yeah. We're okay."
"Good," he got up and headed for the bathroom. "I'm going to take a quick shower. If you want to hang out for a minute, I'll walk you to campus."
"No, that's okay. I'm ready to go now."
"Okay. Have a good morning," he yelled over the noise of the shower. "Love you."

***
Professor Avery was shuffling through a pile of papers, "Iseult! Good morning. Good to see you."
"Hey, Professor. How's it going?"
He shoved his glasses back on his nose. They were forever sliding down. "I am, per usual, running late. I have a faculty meeting, then lecture, then a lunch meeting, then some other meeting about a meeting," he went back to shuffling. "It may not look it, but yes, this is a glamorous job." He chuckled his deep, baritone chuckle.
I smiled, "I know," and put my bag down behind the desk. "So. What's on tap for me today?"
"Well, as usual, there are some tapes just waiting for you to work your transcription magic. Should be some interesting stuff on there."
"Cool. When do you need them?"
"Oh God, I don't know. Last week?"
"Not likely. How about Friday?"
"Sold," he put on his jacket and latched his briefcase. "If not for you, these tapes would be creating a fortress around my desk. Actually, if not for you, I wouldn't be able to see my desk. So much paper. Speaking of," he dug into one of the many paper piles, "Matt K_____ came by yesterday looking for you." He handed me a manila envelope, "He said to give you these." Inside was a stack of brochures, like the ones on the bulletin board. "I didn't know you were in his class this quarter?"
"I'm … not," I wasn't sure how much I should say or what Matthew told him. I hoped Avery wouldn't ask any more questions; I hoped he hadn't noticed that my face was a shade of red that hadn't even been named yet.
"Ah, well, you should," he patted his shirt pocket absently, probably looking for the pen that was behind his ear. "He's considered something of a wunderkind around here. Very talented individual. Excellent researcher, good writer."
"Oh yeah? Maybe I'll look into it."
"Well, do it quick. He's supposed to be finished here summer quarter, though I don't know if he's even teaching in spring." I didn't know that and felt sad that he would be leaving Ohio State so soon. "Okay," Professor Avery headed out the door, giving me a salute, "Have at it, lady. I'll talk to you Friday."
"Right. I'll see you then."

I dug my Kristin Hersh CD out of my backpack and put it in Avery's ancient stereo. It was hard for me to decide between listening to "Your Ghost" or if I should skip ahead to "Me and My Charms." Both seemed appropriate. I fanned out all the brochures on the desk, happy to know that looking at them was still relaxing. Stapled to the top one was a sheet of paper that said:

IW – If you want to talk about the *brochures, call me. I stay up late. That sentence is both a **sequitur and an administrative note, as I didn't want you to worry that there would be a time that was too late (early?) to call, when there is, in fact, no such thing.

MK

* I don't really want to talk about the brochures— though, if you want to, that's fine, too.
**Why should non sequitur get all the action?

I held on to the note, stared out the window, listened to the CD:

… So I pad through the dark/
And call you on the phone/
Push your old numbers/
And let your house ring/
Til I wake your ghost.../

Then I got up and walked over to the phone.

Kristin Hersh, Hips and Makers
Purchased at Sun TV and Audio, Niles, Ohio
Spring of 2004

Thanks to this site for the lyrics.

Singles Going Steady: The Smiths' "Please, Please, Please..."

That night, I walked the long way home from D____ Hall, chain-smoking and replaying the conversation over and over in my head:

"I think you know that I'm interested in you. And I'm pretty sure you're interested in me. Am I right? … You had every opportunity to tell me that you had a boyfriend but you didn't. Why not?"

Yes, Iseult, I thought. Why not? What made me madder, I couldn't decide: That Matthew called me out, or that I lied? If I was so happy with Victor, why not tell Matthew about him?

"If you ever want to see me, I'm here. I don't care about the boyfriend. I don't want to know anything about it. All you have to do is call me. No questions, no strings."

I liked to think of myself as a reasonably honest person. Sainthood wasn't in my future, or anything like that, but cheating? Victor and I were having a rough time, that was true, but it didn't give me license to cheat. We can work it out. We always do. As soon as he figures out his job situation, things will be back to normal, I know it … I stubbed out my cigarette and unlocked my front door.

***

Over the next few days, though I tried hard not to, I continued to stew. I alternated between being furious at Matthew for being so cavalier and dismissive about my relationship and being furious at myself for my culpable behavior. Then I was angry with Victor for neglecting our relationship, then angry with myself for doing nothing about it. I'd been with Victor for almost four years, since high school. I didn't follow him to Ohio State—at least, that's what I liked to tell myself so I could retain some shred of independence. But when I got there, I wasn't expecting to have such adjustment problems. I hated my dorm, hated most of the people on my floor, missed my dad, was broke, felt over my head academically, and was generally miserable my first year. Victor was there through the whole mess. All I had to do was call him, and he'd come and get me, take me out, study with me, talk me down—whatever I needed. Now, a year later, I was settled and relatively happy with my life at school; meanwhile, he was beginning to crack. It was my turn to repay his kindness.

Fuck you, Matthew. You don't know anything about me, I was indignant after hours of analyzing and reanalyzing everything he said. I wanted to stop thinking about it and him. I wanted an apology. I fished his number out of my trashcan. "Hi, Matthew? It's Iseult."
"Hey! What a surprise. How are you?"
I wasn't really sure what to say next, "Fine."
"Good. I'm—"
I plowed ahead, "Listen, we need to talk—I need to talk to you. Are you busy?"
"Not really. You want to go—?"
"No." Then I thought it would be that much sweeter to get the apology in person, "Wait—Yes. Meet me at Arabica."
"Okay. Give me a half hour."

It was cold, and I had been in such a hurry to leave my house, I hadn't brought any gloves. I stood outside of Arabica and smoked, shifting my weight from foot to foot and rubbing my arms. A small blue car pulled up and Matthew got out. His hair was messy and his cheeks were rosy. He looked like he'd just gotten out of the shower and I was embarrassed that I was thinking about him taking a shower. My stomach was in knots, "Hi."
He smiled. He smelled like lemons. "Hi." He pulled out a cigarette, "May I?" I handed him my lighter. He exhaled a cloud of smoke and squinted at me. He wasn't wearing his glasses. "Want to go inside?"
I did, my toes were growing more numb by the second, but this wasn't some friendly chat; I had to remain steadfast, "No. Out here is fine."
"But you're obviously freezing—"
"Don't tell me how I am."
He raised his eyebrows, "Okay…So, what do you want to talk about?"
"Well—I think—we shouldn't talk anymore," The big speech I had for him fell out of my head into the street, turned to ice, and shattered all over the place.
He laughed, "You asked me here to tell me we shouldn't talk anymore?"
I hated that he was laughing at me and now my teeth were chattering, "Y-Yes we shouldn't talk anymore about—what you said. In Avery's office."
He breathed into his hands and rubbed them together. "Hey—let's at least go sit in my car, okay? I'm freezing."

He opened the passenger door for me and walked around to the other side. He started the car and turned on the heater, ejected the tape that was playing, but not before I identified the song: "Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want" by The Smiths. You and me both, Morrissey, I thought.
"Warm enough?"
I nodded, hoping that my brain would thaw quickly so that I could regain control of the situation.
He turned toward me, "Listen, Iseult, about that, what I said, you're absolutely right. It was inappropriate of me and I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable. I was an asshole—"
Ha! This is going very well! "Yes. You were."
"It's just—I thought maybe you were feeling…I don't know. I had no right to make the assumptions I did. I'm sorry," he rested his elbows on the steering wheel. "And if you don't want to talk to me anymore, I completely understand."
I got what I wanted, he apologized, and yet...I was disappointed. I didn't want this to be the last time we ever talked, did I? I waffled, "It's not that I don't want to talk to you. We work in the same place—I don't want things to be weird. We just have to be professional. Understand?"
"Professional. Absolutely."
"Good. Okay, then." The heat felt really good and I started feeling my feet again, "Well, I'm going to go."
"You want a ride?"
"No, that's okay," I zipped up my coat.
"You sure? It's on my way."
"No, really, I'm good," I was having a hard time figuring out the door handle.
"It's tricky, sometimes. Here," he reached across me and jiggled the latch. "This car has been through a lot. Good car, though."
"Oh yeah?" Why did I suddenly want to hear him tell me everything about his car?
"Yeah. I've had it since high school."
"Okay, well, I'm going to go," I turned toward him. His cheeks were still rosy and my stomach started to hurt. Iseult, professional. Stay professional, "Bye," I reached out my hand for him to shake.
He looked down at it and smiled, started to shake it, then held on. His hand was so warm. I stared at his mouth and thought about what it would feel like to kiss him. He started to say something, I leaned over and planted my lips on his. After a while, he pulled back and said, "This isn't very professional, is it."
I pulled him back to my mouth, "Stop talking."

It was unbelievable—the best kiss I'd ever had by far, like he did it for a living. If the gearshift hadn't been stabbing me in the thigh, who knows how long I could have stayed just like that. I sat back in my seat feeling 1,000 different kinds of fantastic. Out of the corner of my eye I saw some people on the sidewalk looking in at us. That's when I freaked out. "Oh my God. I'm sorry. I really have to go," I fumbled for the door handle.
"Hey, it's okay. Don't—"
"I have a—I have got to get out of here."
Half out of the car, he grabbed my sleeve and pulled me back into the seat, "Iseult—wait. Can I say something first? Please?"
"Okay, yes. Fine. Hurry," I put my head in my hands, pulse pounding in my ears.
"Can you at least look at me?" I peered at him through my fingers. "I want you to know, my offer? From Avery's office? Still stands."
It was getting difficult to breathe. "I have to go," I sprinted out of the car and toward my apartment without looking back.

The Smiths, "Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want"
From the album, Louder Than Bombs
Released in the late 1980s

Kings of Leon, Aha Shake Heartbreak

Dear Caleb, Nathan, Jared, and Matthew,

I want to tell you a story. When I was 17, 18, I wanted so badly to be in a band. And you'd have thought it was possible, given that all my friends at the time were boys in bands, fragments of bands, or at least played some instrument—some well, some not so well, but they were cute, and cute gets you very, very far, in rock and roll. (You should all know this, as you are all very, very cute. But we'll get back to that in a minute.) So yeah, I wanted to be in a band. I'm a pretty good singer—that's what got me to college, a vocal scholarship. I logged many hours in my friends' basements listening to them play really bad covers of Cure, Jane's Addiction, and Radiohead songs. Sometimes they'd ask me to sing, but they didn't ask me to be in the band. And I never thought to ask to be in the band.

When I was 19, I wanted so badly to be in a band. When I got to Ohio State, I started scouring the The Other Paper, looking at all the classified ads, hoping I'd find something like "Female Lead Singer Wanted: Must be hard working, talented. Influences: Scrawl, Pixies, all Manchester Bands, the Smiths, All Shoegazer Bands, and some trip hop." And I did, once. I psyched myself up to make the call, practiced what I would say and when the person on the other end told me, "No, it was a misprint. The ad should have been for a guitar player. We have a singer. But thanks for calling," I felt a tiny jabbing sensation in my chest, not unlike heartbreak.

When I was 24, 25, I wanted so badly to be in a band, and I was, sort of. My circle of friends at the time included a bunch of cartography grad students and a professor (don't ask), who played at cartography and geography parties. I sang with them a few times, mostly backup vocals on crowd favorites like, "Superman," "Gimme Shelter," and various songs by The Cars. They/we played at my going away party before I moved to Chicago. I know there is a videotape out there of me screeching the soul sister part of "Gimme Shelter." Not good.

When I was 27, I wanted so badly to be in a band. I took four months of guitar lessons at the Old Town School of Music, bought my very own Daisy Rock guitar, and played it 'til my fingers bled. (No, not really.) At our first recital, we played, "The Same Boy You've always Known," by the White Stripes. For our second recital, we played Wilco's "Passenger Side." We were terrible, but earnest, and our instructor went off to L.A. to become a star, only nobody's heard from her since.

I stopped wanting so badly to be in a band—until I got my most recent Rolling Stone. There you reformed preacher's boys were, in a glam spread shot by Terry Richardson, louche-looking models with mile-longs legs lounging on and all around you. You (and especially you, Jared) looked like you'd died and gone to heaven. And who can blame you? You're young, you have a fabulous, sexy new record, and you're damn good looking. You're on the edge of perhaps being serious rock stars.

Some thoughts: It might be better if everything Caleb sang didn't sound like, "Dang gum, darm mummpf allo fregunter, fucking yeah." You want to do growly and nicotine-ravaged, but it doesn't sound natural. The lyrics are sometimes shaky; Mick Jagger and Robert Plant would never write about their fear of going bald or impotence. That shit doesn't happen to rock stars, capisce? Matthew doesn't seem too comfortable in his skin and he needs a better stylist. No attractive guy ever, EVER should wear sleeveless t-shirts. Ever. Nathan, there's not much to say about you—you might want to work on that. Like, who are you? Tell me before I get disinterested. Jared, you're the cutest of the bunch, but the photo of you shoving your hand in that model's mouth? Was embarrassing. It wasn't sexy; you looked kind of like a dick and she looked like she was choking. These things can be remedied. Look, when it comes down to it, all that is required of a successful rock band is skinny jeans (check), great haircuts (check), well-composed songs (check), sexy-ness (check, check, check, check), and some balls (check). You're well on your way!

You have rekindled my desire to be in a band—but only if I could be a guy. You lucky bastards. Girls in bands, they get none of the model treatment. Sure, they can keep up with the boys in the drink and drug department (cf. Miss Zia McCabe of the Dandy Warhols), but once that part of the night is done, there's no guy waiting to be taken back to the hotel, waiting to get just 10 minutes of your time. Where are the sexy rock girls? Where are the sexy girl guitar players? When will there ever be a serious female contender for the cock-rock mantel? A female Led Zeppelin or Van Halen? An all-girl Rolling Stones? The Queens of Leon?

I'm waiting. But in the meantime, I'll take you.

Kings of Leon, Aha Shake Heartbreak
Purchased at a Best Buy, somewhere in the Chicago suburbs, March 2005

Soundtrack of Our Lives, Tel Aviv, Tel Aviv

Just like he'd said he would, and just like I'd agreed to, he'd called me on Wednesday to make plans to go to the bookstore that night. I was lying on my futon, heard the phone ring, looked at the caller ID, saw that it said "M.S. K_____," and waited for the machine to pick up.
"Hey, this message is for Iseult. Iseult, it's Matthew K_____. I was just calling to see what time you wanted to meet tonight. I have a review session until about seven, so I was thinking maybe eight? Let's meet at S____'s for coffee and walk over to the bookstore after. If that works for you, give me a call—well, give me a call, either way—at 555-5498 and leave me a message, okay? Bye."
I rolled over and played the message three or four times before I deleted it.

That next week, at Professor Avery's office, when I heard the knock, I knew it would be Matthew. Shit, I was listening to Tel Aviv on Avery's crappy boom box, which you had to turn up to 11 just to sort of hear something. I reached over the desk to turn it off, right in the middle of "I Like Your Style," which had become one of my favorite songs, and waited. I'd been keeping a low profile around the building since the bookstore incident. I knew I should have called him back, should have never gotten myself into that situation in the first place. I spent the greater part of the weekend feeling guilty about telling Matthew I'd go. I thought about him a lot, which only made me feel guiltier, especially since Victor and I seemed to be on an upswing. Saturday night we went out, he was in good spirits, had a lead on a job. We talked, really talked, for the first time in months. Dinner and drinks, it was almost like old times, save for the lines we did in the car on the way to the Mohawk. "To celebrate," he said. "I think this job could be mine." Other than that, though, old times…

More knocking and an, "Iseult? I know you're in there." Shit, I was hoping that he would just forget about it and ignore me if he saw me, but I knew that he would do neither of those things.
I got up and opened the door. "Hey."
"Hey," I felt a jolt in my heart.
"Can I come in?"
I nodded and went back to the desk. He shut the door and sat down across from me, "So, what happened last week? You never called me back. What's the deal?"
I started to ramble, "Yeah, I know. And I'm sorry. It was really lame of me to do that." I was sure he could see the heat from my face coming off in waves—like in a cartoon.
"Yeah. It was."
"I know. I said I was sorry. And I am," I started to fidget in my chair. I tapped my pencil and looked at the floor, the desk, the door, anywhere but at him.
He leaned forward, rested his elbows on the desk and fixed me with that look—the one he gave me at the bulletin board, "Can I ask you something?"
"Okay."
"Are you seeing someone?"
I exhaled, thought about lying, "Yes. I am."
"Seriously?"
I felt sweaty, "Do you mean, am I seeing someone seriously? Or, seriously, am I seeing someone?"
"Oh man, ______ majors. I forgot who I was dealing with. I mean, is it serious?"
"Yes," I rasped.
He leaned back and nodded his head, as he let that sink in. Then he smiled, "I don't care."
I sat up and squinted at him, "Sorry?"
He took off his glasses and cleaned them on his sleeve, "I don't care that you're with someone."
"You don't?"
"No," he put his glasses back on. "Look, I think you know that I'm interested in you. And I'm pretty sure you're interested in me. Am I right?" He looked me square in the face.
"You think that I'm interested in you?" I slid back my chair and crossed my arms. "That's—that's awfully presumptuous, isn't it?" He knows, I thought. Can he see it on my face? Can everyone?
He laughed, "You had every opportunity to tell me that you had a boyfriend but you didn't. Why not? I mean, I was clearly asking you out. Wouldn't that have been the best time to tell me? "

Good question. I fumbled with the buttons on my sweater and looked down, "Well, it didn't come up?" That was all I could think of. Worse, I was uptalking, which made me sound like a complete moron.
"Good answer. I ask you out and instead of saying you can't because you have a boyfriend, you say you can't because you have things to do. What is that?" He shook his head, "You know, from the first day I saw you—at the copier—I've been interested in you. Every time I've talked to you since—at the mailboxes, the coffee maker, the bulletin board—I've gone over those conversations in my head a thousand times. That you have a boyfriend, it doesn't change how I feel, and you're right: it is presumptuous, but I think you feel something, too." He stood up and put his bag over his shoulder. "So I'm going to throw this out there: If you ever want to see me, I'm here. I don't care about the boyfriend. I don't want to know anything about it. All you have to do is call me. No questions, no strings."

My mind was spinning. I'd expected something like, "Okay, well, see you." But not that. Definitely not that. "Really, I don't know what to say," I stood up and leaned on the desk. My legs felt wobbly.
He went to the door and turned around, "Say you'll think about it." Then he walked out and down the stairs.
I shut the door and slid down to the floor. I sat there for a minute; the glass was cool, a salve to my over-warm skin. When I went back over to the desk, I noticed a slip of paper on the chair he was sitting in: It was his number.

Tel Aviv, Tel Aviv
Advance copy from KBUX, the Underground
Fall 2005

First, Last

First Rock Concert I Saw: the Beach Boys, at an Indians baseball game, in the mid-1980s
Last: Air, at the Riviera, April 2004

First Hip-Hop Show I Saw: Wu-Tang Clan, at the Newport, August 1997
Last: Ugly Duckling, People under the Stairs, and Deltron 3030, at the House of Blues, November 2000

First Tape I Bought: Out of the Blue, Debbie Gibson
Last: Loveless, My Bloody Valentine

First CD I Bought: Hatful of Hollow, The Smiths
Last: More Adventurous, Rilo Kiley

First Album I Made out To: Ten, Pearl Jam
Last: Flirting with Twilight, Kurt Elling

First Time Someone Broke My Heart: Fumbling Towards Ecstasy, Sarah McLachlan
Last: Grace, Jeff Buckley

First Time I Broke Someone's Heart: Vol. 1, Best of the Smiths, The Smiths
Last: Country Grammar, Nelly

First Time I Got Stoned: Black Sunday, Cypress Hill
Last: Hoist, Phish

First Song I Sang in a Band: "Creep," Radiohead
Last: "Mayonnaise," Smashing Pumpkins

First Song I Sang at a Karaoke Bar: "Hold On," En Vogue
Last: "Criminal," Fiona Apple

First Time I Got in Serious Trouble: Lovegod, Soup Dragons
Last: Music from the Edge of Heaven, Wham

First Album I Bought at a Midnight Sale: Orange, Jon Spencer Blues Explosion
Last: Odelay, Beck

First Song I Recall Hearing on the Radio: "Sailing," Christopher Cross
Last: "Can't Deny It," Fabolous, featuring Nate Dogg

First Album I Bought Because of a Boy: Surfer Rosa, Pixies
Last: Coltrane for Lovers, John Coltrane

First Album I Bought Because of MTV: Appetite for Destruction, Guns N' Roses
Last: Make Yourself, Incubus

First Song I Played on my Radio Show: "Radio, Radio," Elvis Costello
Last: "Asleep," The Smiths

First Time I Really Hurt Someone's Feelings: "Martha My Dear," The Beatles
Last: "In Da Club," 50 Cent

First Song I Heard Today: "It's a Hit," Rilo Kiley
Last: ?

Soundtrack of Our Lives: Everything But The Girl, Walking Wounded

Well before things had gotten to this stage, I'd thought about what would happen once things did get to that stage because I knew they would. Should I leave Victor? Could I? Wouldn't that be the wrong thing to do? I loved Victor and didn't want to abandon him when he so obviously needed something or someone, maybe even me. But I had plenty of things going on myself—school, work, my life. Being with him was starting to make me feel old. I didn't want to be his or anyone's caretaker. I decided to throw myself into work and school. I figured that the busier I was, the less time I had to worry about Victor. And the less time I had to worry about Victor, the happier I'd be. It was, obviously, by no means a solution to anything, but at that point, I was incapable of finding a solution. The best I could hope for was a distraction.

The distraction came in the form of one Matthew S. K_____. I had a work-study job in the _______ department and he was a GTA in that same department, but we didn't have any real reason to hang out with each other since we weren't working for the same professor. We'd bump into each other at the copier or getting a coffee, introductions, some small talk. So when he came over to me at the bulletin board one afternoon, I was having a difficult time trying to hide my excitement. The board was full of brochures for ______ programs at other universities. Those brochures made everything look so promising, with their glossy pictures and high design. Looking at them relaxed me. Everyone in the pictures seemed so happy and well adjusted. I made up little scenarios for the people: I imagined them sitting around in coffee shops, smoking cigarettes, and having deep and meaningful conversations. I'd walk over to them and they'd say, "Hey! Iseult! Come join us. We were just discussing Laura Mulvey and wondered what your take was." I'd offer some pithy analysis and they'd nod and agree and love me…

I'd been giving serious thought to transferring schools for many reasons, most of which were related to Victor. I was feeling shitty about how much I was fucking off in my classes and the thought was gnawing away at me: You are smarter than this. I'd casually broached the subject with Victor, but he almost had a meltdown. "I need you," he'd said. "You can't just up and leave. What about me?"
Yeah well, what about me? I thought. I rolled my eyes at the memory and bent down to tie my shoe.
"Hi."
I looked up, "Oh, hey." My face felt hot. Matthew had a pencil tucked behind his ear and was wearing tortoise-shell framed glasses. Kind of like Elvis Costello's, but smaller. "I almost didn't recognize you."
"I don't recognize me in them yet," he smiled. "You like them? They're new." I nodded and tried to focus my attention back on the board. He stood next to me and looked at it. "Working late?"
"Yeah. Professor Avery is getting ready for that conference next week."
"That's what I'd guessed. He's pretty great, isn't he?" He took off his glasses and cleaned them with the hem of his shirt. I could see a flash of skin just above his waist. The waistband of his boxers stuck out a little—they were pink.
"Yeah. He's … been really good to me." The building was always cold, but I was sweating. What is your problem? I thought, He's just being nice.
He nodded toward the board. "So, are you thinking about trying one of these programs?"
I took a deep breath, "Well…have you ever felt like you weren't in the right place? Like, that somewhere else would be better even though you don't know where that somewhere else is? I don't know if that makes any sense—I just know that right now, I'm starting to feel like I'm a robot, and…well, yeah." I stopped, embarrassed that I'd rambled so much.
He looked thoughtful. "I think everyone feels that way sometimes." I noticed that he smelled like soap—clean. I liked that. "And I'm sure that you'll figure it out. You've got time. I can tell you that this is a really good program and you might want to stick it out. I mean, Professor Avery is very well respected. He's got clout. And tenure, which must be nice…" he chuckled.
"Yeah, I bet it is," I met his eyes for a second. He looked down at me expectantly. Cocked his head to the side and really looked at me. There was something vaguely sexual about it. Or maybe there wasn't and I just hoped there was. He was probably still getting used to the glasses. I felt warm all over. I looked down at my shoes. "Well, I'm only thinking about it, for now."
He looked at me again like he was expecting me to say something else, but my brain turned off. "Okay…So I guess I'll see you around?"
"Yeah. See you," I watched him walk away. When he got to the end of the hall, he turned around and waved.

A week or so later, I was getting ready to leave Professor Avery's office and was rummaging through my bag looking for my headphones. I'd been at the radio station earlier that day and Buddha gave me an advance copy of Everything But The Girl's Walking Wounded to play on my show. I wasn't a huge EBTG fan—they were a little too adult contemporary for me. Having loved the remixes I'd heard from their previous album, Amplified Heart, however, I was excited to listen to the new album because it was supposed to be more of the same and better. I was locking up and listening to and loving the hell out of "Before Today," when I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped.
"Sorry! Didn't mean to startle you," It was Matthew. I hadn't seen him since the bulletin board and I'd been looking.
"Oh, hey!" My heart raced.
"I was on my way out and I thought I'd stop and say hello. How are you? I was hoping I'd see you."
He was hoping he'd see me? "I'm…good. How are you?" I made a big show of adjusting my headphones and fiddling with my keys. I felt like I needed to have something to do with my hands. I really wanted a cigarette.
"I'm fine. Busy, though. This dissertation is killing me. Want to walk out?"
"Sure." We headed down the stairs and out to the Oval.
"Which way are you headed?"
"South campus."
"Me, too."
I pulled out a pack of Parliaments and offered him one. He took out a lighter from his backpack, lit mine, his. After the first drag, I felt more in control of my faculties and we ended up having a good conversation about school, his paper, my classes. We got to the corner of 12th and Neil and stopped. "I'm going this way," I pointed toward 12th.
"I'm going that way," he pointed down Neil. We stood there and looked at each other under the streetlight. I heard people laughing. Cars. Dogs barking. It was windy and there was a slight whistle in the trees. I could have stood there for hours. Finally he said, "Do you think you'd be interested in going to the bookstore with me this weekend? I need to get some things for class and I figured you might be the sort to like bookstores."
Victor's face flashed in front of my eyes. He'd made these big plans for us because it had been a while since we'd been on a real date. "I, uh, well, this weekend, it's not good—"
"Oh—You have plans."
"No," I lied, "It's just that, um, I have some things I need to do." A drop of sweat ran down my back, all the way to my waist, making me squirm. "I'm sorry…"
"Well, maybe sometime during the week?"
I spoke before I thought—it just came out, "I'm free on Wednesday."
"Great. I'll call you." He took an appointment book out of his bag and wrote down my number in the Wednesday block. He had one of those really good pens. A Parker. I could see on the Friday block, "Kate," and on Sunday, "Kate." Monday was "Lunch with Kathleen," Tuesday, "Dinner with A," whom I imagined was "Angie" or "Amanda." And now Wednesday was "Bookstore with Iseult." There appeared to be a lot of girls in that book. I wondered how many more there were. "Wednesday, it is."
"Great. Sounds good."

We said our goodbyes and I headed for my apartment, feeling more than a little guilty. Had it been Victor in this position, I would have been furious, felt betrayed—it wasn't like I wanted to be friends with Matthew. I had plenty of friends already. I lit another cigarette. He's just a colleague, I thought. A fellow employee of the ______ department. We both work there. We're coworkers. I'm going to the bookstore with a coworker. I ran my hand up the back of my shirt; my fingers were slick with sweat.

Everything But The Girl, Walking Wounded
Gift of Buddha, spring 1996

Singles Going Steady: Beastie Boys' "Shambala"

Something was different with Victor, his demeanor. Initially, I attributed it to his mounting anxiety about graduating from college. I'm sure that was part of it; he didn't have a plan and didn't seem to know what he wanted to do with his life. He was looking for a job in Columbus, but he wasn't looking very hard. He said it was overwhelming and that I'd understand better when I was a senior. He would half-heartedly sort through the classifieds, make a few circles, sit down to work on his resume, get discouraged, drink a beer, stop working on it, and light a joint and watch T.V. He was always a little high-strung, but he was way more irritable and moody than I'd ever known. And he started doing these really obsessive-compulsive things: repeatedly checking to see if the alarm was set, checking the locks on the door to make sure they were locked, checking the faucets to make sure they were off. Checking everything to see if it was doing what, in his head, he wanted it to do. His car had one of those overhead lights that stayed on a few seconds after you left the car; he refused to go anywhere until the light went off. I'd say things like, "I already checked the alarm: It's set." Or, "Goddamn, Victor. You saw me lock the door." But it didn't matter; he had to see or do for himself.

Some random weekday night, when I went to his place to study, I came up the stairs and saw that he was hunched over the mirror on the coffee table. The Beastie Boys' "Shambala" was playing loud enough that he didn't hear me. I stood in the doorway and listened, watched him take down one, two, three good-sized lines. I was quickly going from concerned about to bored with this scenario, which I'd been in of late more times than I cared to count. It was like an endless After School Special, starring a protagonist who was difficult to feel sorry for. He looked startled when he finally saw my reflection in the TV.
"Oh, hey. I didn't know you were coming over." His eyes were watering and he was pinching at his nose, sniffling.
"You asked me to come over, remember? We were going to study?"
"Oh yeah, yes, I did. Well, I was so tired from work and class that I needed a little bump, you know? It was a long day."
I rolled my eyes, "Well, I know that there's going to be no studying for you, then. I'm going to head out –" I turned back toward the stairs, and he jumped up and grabbed my sleeve.
"No, Iseult, stay. I only did a little bit and I'll be fine. Just give me a few minutes, okay? Don't go."
I didn't think three huge rails was a "little bit," but I didn't feel like making a case out of it. He looked horrible enough as it was. I definitely wasn't in any position to judge his behavior; after all, the Bolivian Marching Powder and I were well acquainted at that point. But still, this was like, a Tuesday. I was fine holding out for the weekend. In the early days, he was, too. He wasn't anymore. "Victor, I really need to get things done. I have a ton of crap to do this week."
"Look, just sit with me for a minute, okay? I'm going to smoke a bowl and I'll be fine."

He got up and walked over to the bookshelf and took out a bag of pot from the hollowed-out dictionary where he kept all his drug paraphernalia.
I tossed my bag on the floor and slumped down, arms crossed, in the ratty armchair. "Fine. Whatever."
"Fine. Whatever. Why are you acting so bitchy?" He rooted furiously through the bag, sorting out the seeds, tossing them back in the dictionary.
Here we go, I thought. Anytime I expressed anything other than complete and total support for what he was doing, I was being a bitch. I felt so tired, right then. "I'm not. But if I'd known you weren't going to study, I wouldn't have come here. Now I'm wasting more time arguing with you and—"
"Okay, enough!" He slammed the book shut and the little Buddha figurine I'd given him for his birthday the year before fell from the bookcase onto the carpet. He didn't pick it up. "I'm just—I'm really stressed out. I was tired, so I did a little—I'm sorry. You know how much I have going on. You're lucky; you don't have to deal with this for two more years." He sounded so brittle.
"Yeah, well, if you keep this shit up, you'll be right here with me," I muttered.
"Ha, ha, ha." He picked up his favorite bowl—metallic blue, from the Import House—and tapped out the ash into the empty Bass bottle on the table, then started scraping resin from the screen with an untwisted paperclip. When he was satisfied with the cleanliness of the screen, he untwisted the bowl from the stem and started scraping it. He did this with such care and precision that I was kind of mesmerized.

The pot was really skunky and smelled like dirty socks when he lit it. He took a hit and coughed. "God," he wheezed, "one of these days I'm just going to break down and start spending the money for better weed. This is terrible." He held it up to me, I shook my head no, so he hit it again. The bud burned red in the bowl with an occasional snapping sound. "Seeds. Fuck." He got up and walked over to the fridge to get a beer. "You want to watch a movie?"
"Uh, no. I told you that I have to study." I got up and slung my backpack over my shoulder, "I'm going to go to the Ohio Union."
He got up and walked me to the door. "I think I'm just going to take it easy tonight. I'm sorry that I'm so stressed out. I'll make it up to you," he kissed me. "I promise."
When I got down to the sidewalk, I walked to the side of his building and looked up at his window. He was packing another bowl. Then he turned out the lights. The blue glow from the television looked pallid. Much like his complexion.

The Beastie Boys, "Shambala," from the album Ill Communication
Purchased at Used Kids Records, Columbus, Ohio
Sometime in 1996