Soundtrack of Our Lives: Matthew Sweet, Girlfriend
End of August 1999, I'm two months away from moving to Chicago. Still at my job, but totally as a paycheck-grubber, I spend most of my days online, skimming record reviews, buying shit from Amazon, and reading sad Canadian teenagers' online journals and other Internet flotsam. One afternoon, I'm nosing around Ain't It Cool News and its short story section when I come across one that I sort of like. I thought the writing derivative, like, a very (very) low-rent Bukowski, but overall, I don't hate it, so I decide to send the author an e-mail telling him (I figured it was a him) as much. I don't expect a response.
Surprisingly, I get one. I get more than one. In short stead, I find myself in a very intense e-mail relationship with the author, Jeldon. Within a span of a week, we go from e-mailing once or twice a day to e-mailing all.day.long. From the minute I walk into work, until I leave at five, Jeldon and I are in constant contact. We mail each other about personal things. We mail about work (him: a creative at an ad agency who works mainly on car commercials; me: a rookie editor, green as the day is long). We mail about music, about a shared love of Matthew Sweet and how fucked up that Girlfriend wasn't a bigger album, given how awesome it is. I mean, "Divine Intervention," "I've Been Waiting," "Evangeline"? All brilliant bits of pop sunshine. We mail about our frustrations with our love lives (him: in a failing long-term relationship; me: a player pimp looking to reform). I think about him—rather, the version of him I have in my head—a lot. I can't wait to get to my e-mail in the morning to see what he's written.
A month in, we both agree: This is very unusual. We need to do Something.
He writes: "You're there in Columbus and I'm here in D_____. What if we never get to meet each other? I don't think I can handle not knowing if there really is anything between us other than our clothes (Yes, quasi-quoting David Bowie)."
I write: "Yeah, the prospect of never meeting seems cruel. What to do?"
He writes: "I can drive there. Tonight. Fuck work—I have vacation days. What do you think? Should I?"
Something tells me, "Do it. Just take this chance. Who knows? What if you're as compatible in real life as you are in writing? What if this changes your life completely? It's like the lottery: Someone wins those things, why not you? Do it."
I write: "Yes!"
He writes: "Excellent! I'll see you in 6 or 7 hours."
I tell him where to meet me: At a crowded restaurant, just in case something is weird, though I can't imagine what. But still, I tell D-Money to call me at an appointed time to check up. Jeldon and I haven't exchanged photos, but he tells me what he looks like: A tall, blonde, former college football player, kind of stocky, but athletic. I tell him what I look like: An ex said I somewhat resembled Sean Young circa "Blade Runner," in decent shape, curly hair. We do exchange cell numbers and he calls throughout the long drive from D______. His voice is not like I imagined: A little gruff, a little inelegant, but he has a beautiful, hearty laugh.
He asks me, "Iseult? Do you believe in fate? I never did before, but maybe I do now. I know how fucking corny that sounds, but—"
"No," I say, "I know what you mean! Maybe it is fate. I can't wait to see you."
Seven hours later, a green Jetta pulls into the parking lot at the Olde Mohawk and a nondescript blonde-ish guy heaves himself out of the driver's seat. At first I think he is someone else, but Jeldon's voice says, "Iseult? Hey! It's me." I blink-blink, confused. Jeldon didn't exactly match his description. By a long shot. The only thing he had right was his hair color. Jeldon was short and paunchy. His hair was thinning. He was sweaty. I tower over him in my high-heeled sandals as we stand in the parking lot. He gives me a bear hug that says, "Jackpot!" I study him—a stranger, for everything I know about him—and am dumbfounded. This isn't fate. This is a supernova.
We go inside and get a table, but don't say much. D-Money calls. I excuse myself, "I've got to get this. Be right back." My chest feels tight. I tell her, "Everything is fine. It's just—not what I was expecting." I am very disappointed. This outcome, however, shouldn't be surprising: I am not a lucky girl. I do not win lotteries, scratch-off games, coin-tosses, fights. But all the same, I feel cheated.
I try to make small talk, but say nothing engaging. And all I want to do is go home, berate myself for being foolish and arrogant in equal measure. There it is, for all the world to see: I am a person who judges others based on their looks. "But really, is it anyone's fault that there is no chemistry? It's science, isn't it? This is science. That's all it is," I think. Jeldon catches on round about his third drink. "You're not attracted to me, are you," he asks. "Tell me the truth." He looks more and more like a bulldog the longer we sit there.
"I—well," I stutter, "It's not that I'm not attracted to you, it's just that—"
"It's that you're not attracted to me," he says.
I don't say anything.
"Hey, it's okay. I understand." He leans back in his chair and I can see the circles of sweat under his arms. "I knew it was too good to be true," he smiles, not unkindly. "Will you show me how to get to the Marriott?"
I park on the street and wait for him to valet his car and check in. He comes outside and says, "Well, I guess this is where we say 'goodbye.' Tonight notwithstanding, this has been a wonderful ride and I'll never forget it."
"Me, too," I say. "You are an amazing person."
He laughs, "Not amazing enough, I guess."
I feel like crying. "Don't say that," I reply. "Please."
We hug. I give him a kiss on the cheek. I drive home and listen to Girlfriend. When track eight comes on, the song "Thought I Knew You," I skip it. Even I don't deserve that level of irony.
Epilogue:
Spring 2000, I'm in Chicago. One Saturday, D-Money calls me, "So, have you seen that commercial yet?"
"What commercial?"
"Oh my God! That Cadillac commercial. The one where the lady is like, 'Iseult, we have your theatre tickets for you.'"
"No way! Seriously?"
"Dude, it's nuts. Keep your eye out for it."
The next afternoon, I'm flipping channels and I land on some sporting event. I figure if the commercial is ever going to be on, that's where I'll see it. And sure enough, there it is. It's a Cadillac commercial that features OnStar, which was still relatively new back then. A woman drives up to a building in a new Cadillac and presses a button, and a disembodied voice says, "Iseult, we have your theatre tickets for you." My real name is unusual; it's not something you hear, well, ever out in the world, so I knew this was Jeldon's commercial. The commercial ran for a few months and everyone in my family ended up seeing it at least once.
I don't know where Jeldon is now or what he's doing—Google doesn't turn up anything substantial—but more than anything, I hope he's happy.
Matthew Sweet, Girlfriend
Purchased at Musicland, Niles, Ohio
Surprisingly, I get one. I get more than one. In short stead, I find myself in a very intense e-mail relationship with the author, Jeldon. Within a span of a week, we go from e-mailing once or twice a day to e-mailing all.day.long. From the minute I walk into work, until I leave at five, Jeldon and I are in constant contact. We mail each other about personal things. We mail about work (him: a creative at an ad agency who works mainly on car commercials; me: a rookie editor, green as the day is long). We mail about music, about a shared love of Matthew Sweet and how fucked up that Girlfriend wasn't a bigger album, given how awesome it is. I mean, "Divine Intervention," "I've Been Waiting," "Evangeline"? All brilliant bits of pop sunshine. We mail about our frustrations with our love lives (him: in a failing long-term relationship; me: a player pimp looking to reform). I think about him—rather, the version of him I have in my head—a lot. I can't wait to get to my e-mail in the morning to see what he's written.
A month in, we both agree: This is very unusual. We need to do Something.
He writes: "You're there in Columbus and I'm here in D_____. What if we never get to meet each other? I don't think I can handle not knowing if there really is anything between us other than our clothes (Yes, quasi-quoting David Bowie)."
I write: "Yeah, the prospect of never meeting seems cruel. What to do?"
He writes: "I can drive there. Tonight. Fuck work—I have vacation days. What do you think? Should I?"
Something tells me, "Do it. Just take this chance. Who knows? What if you're as compatible in real life as you are in writing? What if this changes your life completely? It's like the lottery: Someone wins those things, why not you? Do it."
I write: "Yes!"
He writes: "Excellent! I'll see you in 6 or 7 hours."
I tell him where to meet me: At a crowded restaurant, just in case something is weird, though I can't imagine what. But still, I tell D-Money to call me at an appointed time to check up. Jeldon and I haven't exchanged photos, but he tells me what he looks like: A tall, blonde, former college football player, kind of stocky, but athletic. I tell him what I look like: An ex said I somewhat resembled Sean Young circa "Blade Runner," in decent shape, curly hair. We do exchange cell numbers and he calls throughout the long drive from D______. His voice is not like I imagined: A little gruff, a little inelegant, but he has a beautiful, hearty laugh.
He asks me, "Iseult? Do you believe in fate? I never did before, but maybe I do now. I know how fucking corny that sounds, but—"
"No," I say, "I know what you mean! Maybe it is fate. I can't wait to see you."
Seven hours later, a green Jetta pulls into the parking lot at the Olde Mohawk and a nondescript blonde-ish guy heaves himself out of the driver's seat. At first I think he is someone else, but Jeldon's voice says, "Iseult? Hey! It's me." I blink-blink, confused. Jeldon didn't exactly match his description. By a long shot. The only thing he had right was his hair color. Jeldon was short and paunchy. His hair was thinning. He was sweaty. I tower over him in my high-heeled sandals as we stand in the parking lot. He gives me a bear hug that says, "Jackpot!" I study him—a stranger, for everything I know about him—and am dumbfounded. This isn't fate. This is a supernova.
We go inside and get a table, but don't say much. D-Money calls. I excuse myself, "I've got to get this. Be right back." My chest feels tight. I tell her, "Everything is fine. It's just—not what I was expecting." I am very disappointed. This outcome, however, shouldn't be surprising: I am not a lucky girl. I do not win lotteries, scratch-off games, coin-tosses, fights. But all the same, I feel cheated.
I try to make small talk, but say nothing engaging. And all I want to do is go home, berate myself for being foolish and arrogant in equal measure. There it is, for all the world to see: I am a person who judges others based on their looks. "But really, is it anyone's fault that there is no chemistry? It's science, isn't it? This is science. That's all it is," I think. Jeldon catches on round about his third drink. "You're not attracted to me, are you," he asks. "Tell me the truth." He looks more and more like a bulldog the longer we sit there.
"I—well," I stutter, "It's not that I'm not attracted to you, it's just that—"
"It's that you're not attracted to me," he says.
I don't say anything.
"Hey, it's okay. I understand." He leans back in his chair and I can see the circles of sweat under his arms. "I knew it was too good to be true," he smiles, not unkindly. "Will you show me how to get to the Marriott?"
I park on the street and wait for him to valet his car and check in. He comes outside and says, "Well, I guess this is where we say 'goodbye.' Tonight notwithstanding, this has been a wonderful ride and I'll never forget it."
"Me, too," I say. "You are an amazing person."
He laughs, "Not amazing enough, I guess."
I feel like crying. "Don't say that," I reply. "Please."
We hug. I give him a kiss on the cheek. I drive home and listen to Girlfriend. When track eight comes on, the song "Thought I Knew You," I skip it. Even I don't deserve that level of irony.
Epilogue:
Spring 2000, I'm in Chicago. One Saturday, D-Money calls me, "So, have you seen that commercial yet?"
"What commercial?"
"Oh my God! That Cadillac commercial. The one where the lady is like, 'Iseult, we have your theatre tickets for you.'"
"No way! Seriously?"
"Dude, it's nuts. Keep your eye out for it."
The next afternoon, I'm flipping channels and I land on some sporting event. I figure if the commercial is ever going to be on, that's where I'll see it. And sure enough, there it is. It's a Cadillac commercial that features OnStar, which was still relatively new back then. A woman drives up to a building in a new Cadillac and presses a button, and a disembodied voice says, "Iseult, we have your theatre tickets for you." My real name is unusual; it's not something you hear, well, ever out in the world, so I knew this was Jeldon's commercial. The commercial ran for a few months and everyone in my family ended up seeing it at least once.
I don't know where Jeldon is now or what he's doing—Google doesn't turn up anything substantial—but more than anything, I hope he's happy.
Matthew Sweet, Girlfriend
Purchased at Musicland, Niles, Ohio
posted by Iseult at 12:40 PM
3 comments
