I can’t think of a worse day for some time and I find myself here with a rocking chair pulled up close to the window, feet in the sill and vodka in hand, while I stare up through the glass watching the black silhouette of a neighbor’s elm wave in a slight breeze as the sky behind it goes from white to pinkish to gray to blue to dark blue to bluer still and then a black that finally swallows the tree. My vodka needs refilling long ago, but the music plays and I’m reminded of how goddamned cheesy we could be:
“Driving through the streets tonight
It’s hot, I’ve got the windows down
I wish I could call you, I wish you were still around”
That’s exactly it, tonight, I think. That’s me. And as the song keeps going I’m reminded that he wrote it about his girlfriend. Who’s dead. From cancer.
“Nothing much left in the tank
Somehow this thing still drives
Think I forgot what it needed but somehow still survive”
So, if you were still here and I was reading this shit to you over the phone and it belonged to some other girl’s blog your eyes would roll right out of your head, down Hamilton Street, through Balboa Park to the convention center, then into the mother fucking Pacific where they’d sink like two brown rocks. But it is ME who is doing the writing, quoting rock stars like this is our senior year book, and you would call me a genius – a beautiful, brilliant genius – and we’d fuck on the phone – and it would be amazing – and then we’d both fall asleep with warm tummies and dreams about the unimaginable excitement we’d bring to each other’s existences tomorrow.
How did we keep that going? For 15 fucking years.
I’m as old now as you were when we met. No, actually…at 41, I’m a year older. I’d like to apologize for all the elderly cracks – I was 22. How the fuck was I to know? But you acted so OLD. And another song that ALWAYS makes me think of you:
“…my mama never warned me about my own
Or the pitfall of control…
How it locks you in your grave
Looking for someone to be saved under my restraint”
You were always like the marshmallow kid who declined a single treat in the moment for the promise of many more that wouid eventually come. Some day, you said. We’ll figure this out.
But now you’re a box of dust on a shelf somewhere that Nancy trots out when visitors come so she can get ample milage out of her widowhood. And TWO dead husbands just does wonders for a woman whose recovery is solidly rooted in phony I-will-carry-on fist bumps and chin-up cheer. I know all about her mourning process – and her many opinions of me – because the “friend” you’ve designated as your messenger beyond the grave is actually trying got get into your wife’s pants – after determining he can’t get into your girlfriend’s. You had seriously shit judgement of character, love. We’ve stopped talking since he’s fallen in love with her and all of his communication with me became reprimands about my impact on your marriage.
He said, “You know her first husband died just a few years before kip?”
I said, “Yes, he jumped out a window. And his death revealed a secret family she never knew about. Don’t know why I’m the evil one here…after all, I helped Kip write the eulogy.”
See what you’re missing?