We Are Still Tornadoes

by Michael Kun

  Where Men and Boys Shop

  EAST BLOOMFIELD, MARYLAND

  * * *

  Dear Dorothy,

  It would be easier for me to say this if I had herpes or was joining the Marines, but I feel that I must end our relationship.

  Because I have syphilis.

  And I’m joining the Army.

  Good luck to you.

  Good-bye.

  Scott

  NOVEMBER

  WAKE FOREST UNIVERSITY

  November 1, 1982

  Dear Scott,

  I have officially learned three new things about my life at college.

  1. Do not open and read your letters anywhere near my dormitory. I thought I was being safe by reading your latest letter (or letters, some might say) in the courtyard outside my dorm. However, due to your ridiculous sense of humor, I was laughing so hard that The Golper must have seen me from our window, and she came busting out the front door yelling “What’s so funny?! Did you get a letter from Scott?!! YOU HAVE TO SHOW IT TO ME!!!” At which point, I scrambled around like a spider picking up my stuff and saying something along the lines of “What? Whoa, hey, yeah, NO!” and ran away. Literally, I ran away from my roommate and am hiding in the stacks of the library, where, I am happy to report, no one is having sex at this moment.

  2. Keep up with the reading lists. I will likely be spending a lot of time here in the stacks since (a) you have driven my roommate insane, and (b) college midterms cover a lot of material. I don’t know what I was thinking when I said I might come home next weekend. Especially now that I have a job, I am way behind on everything, and I’ll need to stay here until Thanksgiving. Super boring, I know. Plus, my mom was acting weird about me coming home. Not like she didn’t want to see me, exactly, she just wasn’t really enthusiastic about it.

  3. If you have a cute, popular, fraternity boyfriend, don’t leave him alone at a Halloween party with drunk girls dressed as French maids, or you may have to break up with him the next day.

  So, yeah, bottom line, I’ll be spending a lot of time hiding out here in the stacks, not having sex. Super depressing, I know.

  I like the name Crush. You’re right, it has lots of meanings.

  Miss you,

  College Girl

  P.S. Jane picked up the new Prince album the day it came out. I agree with you, it’s fantastic. And I think you’re right that “Little Red Corvette” isn’t really about a little red Corvette. I don’t think “little red Corvette” even qualifies as a double entendre. I think it’s a single entendre.

  * * *

  AGEE’S MEN’S CLOTHING

  Where Men and Boys Shop

  EAST BLOOMFIELD, MARYLAND

  * * *

  November 3, 1982

  Cath—

  Sorry my last letter almost got you in trouble with your roommate. But you’ll be happy to know that she hasn’t called me at all this past week. Although someone keeps calling and hanging up whenever one of my parents answers the phone. Hmm, I wonder who that could be.

  Anyway, much more importantly, did you break up with Walter? Did he cheat on you at that Halloween party? Would you like me to kick the snot out of him? I will gladly come visit for the sole purpose of kicking the snot out of that weasel. Just say the word. Any word.

  I believe this is where I’m supposed to tell you that you can do better than that guy. Well, you can do better than that guy. I mean, come on. He’s a shitheel. You’re a Tornado.

  Things here are fine. We’ve been rehearsing a couple hours a night after work, and we’re starting to sound pretty good, if I do say so myself. Joe and Todd went with me to Music Land on Sunday afternoon, and I bought a used Fender Stratocaster. It’s the same model Eric Clapton uses. The one I bought has a small crack in it that they had to repair, so I got it for a good price.

  So far, we’ve mostly been playing covers of songs we like, but I’m taking a crack at writing a few songs myself. The one I really like so far is called “Sometimes, Samantha Drew.” (Yes, I used Samantha’s name. I’ll probably change it. Probably.) It’s about a guy who misses his girlfriend after she moves out. It goes like this:

  I get up in the morning,

  And go to work in the mill,

  I come home in the evening,

  And wonder if you will.

  I wake up in the evening,

  In the wee wee hours,

  Wondering if you’ll come back to

  This house of ours.

  Sometimes, Samantha Drew,

  Do you think of me?

  Sometimes, Samantha Drew.

  I still think of you.

  Before you say it, I already know what you’re going to say: “Um, Scott, what do you know about working in a mill?” The answer is, “Nothing.” But if you think anyone wants to hear a song that begins, “I wake up in the morning and go to work at the boys and men’s clothing store my father owns,” I think you’re very, very wrong.

  And you’re also going to say something about me using the words “wee wee hours,” aren’t you? It’s supposed to remind you of a Frank Sinatra song called “In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning.” If you aren’t familiar with the song, I guess it will remind you of urination. Po-TAY-toe, po-TAH-toe, as my mom would say. Usually when she’s serving potatoes.

  Maybe I’ll record one of our next rehearsals and send you a cassette. Of course, if you listen to it in your dorm room, you’ll have to tell your roommate that it’s my father’s band. Because I’m still serving my country in a foreign land while tending to my disease-ridden genitals.

  (I am hereby copyrighting the name “Disease Ridden Genitals” in case I ever decide to form a punk band. So don’t go around using it, okay?)

  I have to end this so I can head off to the mill. Talk to you soon.

  Scott

  P.S. Seriously, say the word.

  WAKE FOREST UNIVERSITY

  November 5, 1982

  Dear Scott,

  I hope it goes without saying that “Disease Ridden Genitals” is the worst name of all time for a band. But, oddly, it would be a perfect name for a boy if you ever get married and have a son. Just saying.

  I really like your lyrics, but I think you should change the name. I’m sorry, I know you miss Samantha a lot, even if you don’t say it, and I know she and her boobs meant a lot to you, but she broke up with you, Scott. Having her name in the song makes you sound like you can’t get over her. People will wonder if you’re just sitting around at home fixating on Samantha. And, more importantly, she doesn’t deserve to have a song written about her. She just doesn’t. So, yeah, change the name, and send me the tape of the rehearsal because the music part can make or break a song like that.

  I’ll apologize for the rest of this letter, Scott, because I don’t have much happy news. Yes, I did break up with Walter (which, ultimately, is the best news I have to tell you). Unfortunately for him, there are professional photographers at most of the fraternity and sorority dances. They are really efficient about developing and posting copies of the party pictures so the happy partygoers can order copies of themselves having fun, fun, fun. It was hard for Walter to pretend that he didn’t have a blast without me when he’s got a different girl on his lap, in his arms, or practically sitting on his face in every picture. It was so humiliating to walk around campus the next day and see girls glance at me and then quickly look away to laugh and share those wide-eyed knowing looks among themselves. You were right about Walter-not-Walt all along. He and one of his “brothers” stumbled upon me in the library the other day and, for reasons I will explain in a minute, my eyes were bloodshot from crying. Walter tried to seem all concerned while his “brother” actually smirked and looked away. In that moment, I saw them so clearly as the shitheels that they really are—I’m stealing “shitheels” from you—and it was somewhat satisfying to just stare at them until they went away.

  The real bad news, other than my Biology midterm grade, is that the rumors about my dad and his slutt
y secretary are true. After all the months of denying it, he has now admitted that he’s the one who got her pregnant. Can you believe it? My mom waited until after midterms to tell me so I wouldn’t tank my grades. She is so torn up about everything. I’ve never heard a grown person sob like that. It’s why she was so weird about me trying to come home before—she didn’t want me there while my dad was moving out. She said he’s moved out in little bits and pieces so the neighbors wouldn’t notice. He didn’t want to make a “scene.” How awesome is that? He made a baby, but he doesn’t want to make a scene. I don’t know if your parents know or not. I want my mom to talk to some friends about it, but she is really embarrassed and hurt. She’s normally such a classy lady, and now she just doesn’t know what to do.

  Anyway, I’m kind of a wreck. Breaking up with Walter was good timing because people just assume that I’m sad and weepy because of him when, actually, I am really upset about my dad and worried about my mom and freaking out in general about what it’s going to be like to come home to a half-empty house at Thanksgiving. I’ve been trying to call my mom more often, and I think she’s been drinking sometimes at night. She wants to just rant and rave about my dad, and it’s awkward for me because I’m sitting in the hall of my dorm with people stepping over me or waiting to use the phone. She can’t seem to keep my work schedule straight and gets mad if I don’t call her on my work nights, even though I told her I couldn’t call because of work. And of course The Golper is way too nosy about all the long-distance calls and clearly thinks that I have stolen you from her. I’ve given up trying to dissuade her. It’s just not worth the energy, and I spend most of my free time in Jane’s room anyway.

  I have to run and deliver pizzas soon. On a positive note in this otherwise sickening letter, I can say that I really like my job now. It’s nice to get paid to mindlessly walk around campus alone at night. And it tires me out climbing so many stairs and logging so many miles doing my deliveries. My mind is racing so much that I can’t sleep these days unless I’m really exhausted, and delivering pizzas all over campus does get pretty exhausting.

  Anyway, please help me at Thanksgiving, okay? It’s hard to imagine what will be worse. Seeing my dad or not seeing my dad. And if I do see him, he better not be with his slutty, pregnant secretary or wearing some new pants that he bought at your dad’s store and lied about for some unknown reason. I mean, why would you lie about buying a fucking pair of pants? Does the guy lie about everything?

  Not at my best,

  Cath

  * * *

  AGEE’S MEN’S CLOTHING

  Where Men and Boys Shop

  EAST BLOOMFIELD, MARYLAND

  * * *

  November 7, 1982

  Dear Cath,

  Holy shit.

  Or, more accurately, HOLY SHIT!

  I am speechless. I have lost the ability to speak.

  Literally an hour has passed since I wrote that last sentence, and all I can think of to say is HOLY SHIT!

  I just tried to call you, but your roommate answered. I had to pretend it was a wrong number.

  Okay, it’s been another half hour. HOLY SHIT!

  Let me share my thoughts with you in no particular order.

  Walter is a douche.

  Your dad is a super-douche.

  Sorry, but it’s true.

  When you first told me last summer about the rumors that your dad got his secretary pregnant, my reaction was that there was no way in hell and that people were just being gossipy because they have nothing better to do in this suckful town. I mean, the guy goes to church every Sunday and is always busting my chops about how I don’t go. Plus, he dresses so conservatively, and, sorry, but he’s fat and practically bald. Who would think any woman (except your mom) would find him attractive, let alone a girl in her twenties. So there was no way he got her pregnant, right? It seemed like just a stupid rumor.

  But now? Now your dad is a super-douche. He should have to wear a red S on his chest the rest of his life, like the lady in the movie The Scarlet Letter.

  I would have told you if I’d noticed anything unusual going on at your house, but I’ve noticed nothing. NOTHING. If your parents have been fighting, I haven’t seen it. And if your dad has been moving out, I haven’t seen that either. No suitcases or boxes or anything. Things looked perfectly normal at your house except for the fact that you’re not there and your mom’s been walking your dog. But now I’m looking out the window and—guess what—your dad’s car isn’t in the driveway, where it normally would be at this time.

  And the pants! It’s driving me crazy. Why would he lie about buying a pair of pants at my dad’s store? Oh my God, I just thought of it. I’ll bet he was with his secretary, and he got something on his pants, and he had to replace them so your mom wouldn’t ask any questions about the stain on his pants! And then he had to lie about it because otherwise he’d have to explain why he replaced his pants! That makes sense, doesn’t it?

  I just tried to call you again, and your roommate answered again! Does she wait by the phone all day? Does she ever go to classes? Jesus!

  I don’t know what else to say, Cath. Did I mention your dad’s a super-douche? Yeah, I guess I did. But it’s worth repeating. What a super-douche. Next time he gives me a hard time about not going to church, I’m going to tell him to go screw himself. Sorry, but I will.

  Listen, I’m going to come visit you this Tuesday so we can talk about this. I’ve already told my dad I need to take the day off, and I had to explain what’s happened. I hope you don’t mind, but my dad wants to beat the crap out of your dad, if that makes you feel any better. And he gave me some money to take you to lunch. We might have to meet off campus or something so I don’t have to deal with your roommate, but I’ll be there Tuesday morning. You can count on me. I’ll keep trying to call you so we can at least talk a bit and make plans where to meet.

  In the meantime, take some advice from your roommate’s old poster and HANG IN THERE, BABY.

  Scott

  P.S. HOLY MOTHERFUCKING SHIT!

  P.P.S. You’re probably right about changing the name in the song. But I suspect Samantha will probably come back home next summer, and who knows what will happen if we spend the summer together. Then if she moves back after she graduates, anything could happen.

  WAKE FOREST UNIVERSITY

  November 10, 1982

  Dear Scott,

  You were incredibly sweet to drive all the way down here to spend the day with me yesterday. It was so nice to get off campus and walk around town with you. I didn’t realize how much I needed to talk. And cry. And talk and cry. I’m sorry the waitress yelled at you for “breaking up with me” at Colson’s when I was crying, although watching you try to figure out what the hell she was talking about was kind of worth it. Southern women get passionate about breakups. Maybe it’s all that country music they listen to. It seems like it’s all about breaking up and making up. It’s like you know the lyrics the first time you hear the song.

  Sorry, I’m sort of rambling here. I should confess that I accepted some pizza delivery “tips” that were offered to me tonight and I’ve had a few beers. Maybe more than a few beers. Although I don’t really know how many beers you would consider to be “a few.” What a goofy phrase that is. WHATEVER, I’m buzzed and writing a letter to a friend on a Wednesday night. Woo hoo!

  Anyway, thank you again for coming to see me. It was a big relief to be able to talk to you. You are probably the one person on the planet who understands what a total shock this is. It’s not just like some cliché, like some suave dude hooking up with his secretary. It’s my dad. My nerdy, kind-of-fat dad with a corny sense of humor and an ugly Christmas sweater. He’s the guy who’s always telling me about right and wrong. Sometimes actually yelling at me about right and wrong. Sometimes shaking his head in despair that “the world is going to hell in a handbasket!” And my poor mother. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. We talked about her yesterday, but really, what the hell is she going to
do? She hasn’t worked in 20 years! And what am I supposed to do? Should I come home? Should I transfer to the University of Maryland so I’ll be closer to home? Should I take a year off? Hey, maybe your dad would give me a job. I would need a job. My mom is FREAKING OUT about money. You and I would have fun working together, though. But we would also probably get fired if we worked together.

  Okay, I have to go to bed now. I’m sorry for that greasy spot on the page. I think I fell asleep for a little while.

  You’re a good friend for a guy. I don’t know what I would do without you.

  Cath

  P.S. I don’t know how to break this to you, but Samantha isn’t moving back to East Bumfuck, Maryland, after she graduates from college. Sorry, but she’s been itching to get out of there for a while.

  P.P.S. Also, I know you “visited” with Dorothy while I was delivering pizzas yesterday. I’m biting my tongue.

  * * *

  AGEE’S MEN’S CLOTHING

  Where Men and Boys Shop

  EAST BLOOMFIELD, MARYLAND

  * * *

  November 12, 1982

  Cath,

  It was great to see you, too.

  You’re probably right that Samantha’s not moving back here after college. I mean, why would she? There’s nothing to do here, and it’s not like she went off to college so she could just come back here and work at the grocery store again.

  As for me and Dorothy, just shut up, okay? I have no interest in talking about it other than to say that if you hadn’t gone to work a shift at that pizza place, NOTHING WOULD HAVE HAPPENED. So any blame falls squarely on your pretty, oddly small head.

  As for how many beers would qualify as “a few,” I would say four. Which, if I remember correctly, was your record back in high school. Did you break your record? And was it better beer than the National Bohemian we used to get from Duffy’s when Claire was working there?