by Michael Kun
Well, I’m exhausted, how about you? It was a long story, but admit it, you’re kind of proud of me right now.
I can’t wait to hear about YOUR weekend! Please tell me something fun!
Your very curious friend,
Cath
P.S. There was a note on our door from Cindy down the hall saying that you called to wish Dorothy a Happy Thanksgiving. She was really happy when she got it. I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but I’m sorry that I’ve been mean about her. I’ve been joking. Mostly. The nightly pizzas were a total, smelly drag. You gotta give me that one. But I actually sort of missed the snoring while at my aunt’s house. I should make a tape recording of Dorothy snoring to listen to when she’s not around. It helps me sleep. Go figure.
DECEMBER
* * *
AGEE’S MEN’S CLOTHING
Where Men and Boys Shop
EAST BLOOMFIELD, MARYLAND
* * *
December 1, 1982
Cath,
Okay, that was a long letter. That’s the longest thing I’ve read since I read Middlemarch junior year. Or, more accurately, since I read the Cliff’s Notes to Middlemarch junior year. But even the Cliff’s Notes were long.
I don’t know what to say in response to your letter. I mean, the whole thing sucks, and it sounds horrible, but I don’t know what to say other than that. The part where you threw up in your dad’s car was funny, but the rest of it just sounds terrible. Whatever else you would like me to say, can we just assume that I actually said it? And can we also assume that I called your dad a super-douche exactly as often as I should in response to that story? I know this is important to you, and I don’t want to say the wrong thing. And I don’t want to say too much or not enough. Okay?
If it makes you feel any better, I lied to you about Thanksgiving. It was horrible, but I just didn’t feel like telling you. The party may have been the worst night of my life. Everyone was home from college. They were all wearing their college sweatshirts, and they’d all brought their new college boyfriends or girlfriends home for the weekend. And they were all shrieking when they first saw each other, and hugging each other because they hadn’t seen each other in months. Well, I grew up with all of them, I went to high school with all of them, and they hadn’t seen me for just as long. But no one shrieked when they saw me, and no one came over to hug me.
No one. Literally, no one. The most anyone could do was to nod in my direction, and not many of them did that.
They made it very clear that I’m just the guy from the clothing store now. I’m just the guy in the band. All these people that I grew up with, that I went to school with, that I played baseball with, that I went to parties with and hung out with after school—they’re all better than me now. Just because I don’t have a fucking college sweatshirt. I hate them all, Cath. I hate every last one of them. I hadn’t been feeling like a complete loser lately, but I do now.
As if that weren’t bad enough, we then had to try to entertain them. But no one was listening to us. We might as well have been Muzak playing in an elevator. They had their backs to us and were talking the whole time, and no one seemed to notice when we would take a break. And when we did take a break, we stood off by ourselves and no one talked with us.
Samantha was there with her college boyfriend. They were both wearing their college sweatshirts. I thought she would at least come over to say hello, maybe bring him over and introduce us so we could all pretend to be adults, but all she did was nod once in my direction and that was it. After all that time together, all I got was a nod. And then it hit me what was going on—she didn’t want to tell him that I used to be her boyfriend! She was too embarrassed to tell him that she used to date the guy in the band!
If you’ve heard from anyone from school, you may have already heard what happened next. But let me give you my version of it, okay? We were all getting pissed off that no one was listening to us play, and Joe just wanted to leave. But Todd and I said no, and we kept playing. And we sounded really good. But because no one was listening, we decided to stop playing covers and just play some of our own songs. We started with that song that originally had Samantha’s name in it. I’d changed it from “Sometimes, Samantha Drew” to “Sometimes, Jeanie Blue.” But when I got to the chorus, I accidentally started singing “Samantha Drew” instead of “Jeanie Blue.” And it ended up that at least a few people were listening because, before you knew it, everyone had turned around and was listening to us. They were listening to me singing, “Sometimes, Samantha Drew, do you think of me / I know, Samantha Drew, that I think of you.”
I thought they were enjoying it, so I kept going. But as soon as the song was over, they all started laughing. Everyone. Including Samantha and her boyfriend. It was horrible.
I just put my head down and walked out with my guitar and waited for the rest of the band by Todd’s van. We left the drums and amps there, and Todd picked them up later.
If anyone tells you I was crying when I left, they’re lying. It’s a lie. I felt like a complete idiot, but I wasn’t crying. I swear.
All weekend, our old classmates came into the store to buy clothes before going back to college. None of them even called me by name, or introduced me to their girlfriends, or asked how I was doing. None of them. I had to wait on them and act like we were strangers, like we hadn’t grown up together and hadn’t gone to the same parties just six months ago. That’s right, Stan Meara, we don’t know each other. I didn’t play Little League with you forever, and I certainly didn’t sit next to you in Spanish class for three years. And you’re right, Billy Donovan, we don’t know each other, either. We weren’t in the same Cub Scout troop, and our families didn’t go on a camping trip together when we were 12. No, that must have been someone else named Billy Donovan who just happened to look exactly like you, you little motherfucker. Here, let me help you find some new Levi’s. Here, let me measure your waist and inseam. Have a nice day, guy who doesn’t know me, and thanks for shopping at Agee’s.
Thank God for Crush. They might not be the greatest guys in the world, and we might not be the greatest band in the world, but at least they call me by my name and aren’t ashamed to know me.
So, that’s a long way of saying my Thanksgiving sucked.
Let’s talk soon.
From,
The guy from the clothing store,
The guy in the band
P.S. I am no longer a Tornado.
WAKE FOREST UNIVERSITY
December 3, 1982
Dear Scott,
I’m really, really sorry to hear about how you were treated by our classmates over Thanksgiving. The part about them not really listening while you were playing at the party didn’t sound that bad, at first. I mean, I could see how they would be all excited about seeing each other and sort of treating the band like background music, but it was very uncool of people not to even say hi to you guys. And the part about Samantha. Oh, Scott, I’m just sorry that I wasn’t there to slap her stupid face. I know you guys had a pretty solid thing senior year, but I have never liked her. Not one bit! You know that. She’s totally self-centered and arrogant, and she gets away with it because she’s pretty and wears tight shirts. She probably hadn’t even told her new boyfriend that she dated you for a long time and then was surprised by the song. Not that there’s any excuse for her acting like that. What a bitch. She makes me furious.
Oh, and by the way, you have a college girlfriend, too, if anyone cared to ask. Dorothy fell for you like a ton of bricks the first time she laid eyes on you, so Samantha can stop thinking that she’s the center of the universe now.
Speaking of Dorothy, she came home from Thanksgiving with a copy of the new Michael Jackson album. It’s called Thriller, and it’s amazing with a capital A. The best song on it is called “Billie Jean.” How do I know it’s the best song? Because Dorothy played it 50 times in a row, and I still wasn’t tired of it. You need to check it out.
Anyway, back t
o Thanksgiving weekend. Who came by the store over the weekend? Was it just Stan and Billy, or where there a lot of guys? Stan and Billy are sort of dorky guys, but I’m really surprised that they didn’t even give you a “Hey, dude, what’s going on?” I guess you have to expect a little awkwardness, especially if you’re measuring their inseams or whatever—aren’t you up in their business for that? But none of them even tried to be nice, at all? Man, Scott, I feel so bad. I don’t want you to feel like a loser. You’re such a great guy. You are. I’m not just saying that to try to make you feel better. You’ve always been the first person to watch out for me, to sit with me on the bus after a bad day, to talk to me when I was standing by myself at a middle school dance. You are always taking care of other people. I hate the thought of you being treated badly.
I’m really glad that you have your band. Todd might not be the best at putting things into words, but he will always have your back. And Joe’s always been a good dude. (I don’t know about the other guy, but I’ll assume he’s cool, too, until I see evidence to the contrary.)
I have to run to a review session for exams. I’m trying so hard to focus and it’s not easy with my mom in hysterics over my father’s shenanigans—she was NOT happy about the TV, let me tell you—or with the lyrics to “Billie Jean” swimming around in my head. (“Billie Jean is not my lover / She’s just a girl who says that I am the one.”)
Anyway, take care, best friend. Keep your head up and keep writing songs. There’s a lot more to you than selling clothes (even if that is an honorable profession and nothing to be ashamed of!).
Give my love to your mom and dad, and I’ll tell your college girlfriend that you said hello.
Much love,
Cath
P.S. Not to sound too much like Donnie Dibsie, but you’ll always be a Tornado, Scott. You couldn’t change that now if you tried.
* * *
AGEE’S MEN’S CLOTHING
Where Men and Boys Shop
EAST BLOOMFIELD, MARYLAND
* * *
December 6, 1982
Dear Cath—
I hope this doesn’t sound strange, but I had nothing to do tonight and ended up rereading a few of the letters you sent me a few months back. Remember when you called me “underachiever guy”? I’ve been trying to figure out what that means and how it happened. My dad was always on me about studying and trying to get good grades so I could go to college. That was his big thing, that he wanted me to be the first person in our family to get a college degree. So what did I do? I didn’t study, I didn’t get good grades, and I didn’t go to college. I didn’t even take the SAT exams. Now I’m thinking that maybe I went out of my way not to do what he wanted me to do. Do you think that’s what I did? Why would I do that? It makes no sense. It’s like I went out of my way to make a point to him, but I don’t know what the hell the point was, and now I’ve screwed up my life. (Hey, maybe I’m the one with “daddy issues.” How funny is that?) I screwed up my life to make a point to my dad, and I’m not even smart enough to know what the point was. And my dad’s a good guy. He fought for his country, he works hard to provide for his family. Why wouldn’t I want to do well in school if that was important to him? Why wouldn’t I want to make him proud of me?
Maybe you should run that last paragraph by your psychology class. They teach you about things like that, don’t they? And whatever the answer is, please let me know so I can dwell on it for the next 50 years as I sell clothes to people who pretend they don’t know me.
By the way, it wasn’t just Stan and Billy who came into the store over Thanksgiving weekend. It was 5 or 6 guys, and they all acted the same—Mark, Danny, Bob, Pete, J.J. I don’t think I mentioned this, but they didn’t say hello to my dad either, even though they’ve known him for years, too. My dad was either their Little League coach or the den leader for their Cub Scout troop, but none of them even said hello to him. The weird thing about it is that it didn’t bother him. I asked him about it a few days later when the store was quiet and we were just hanging out, and he didn’t say much more to me than, “You can’t ever let anything a teenager does bother you, because they don’t know what the hell they’re doing.”
Anyway, I’m fine. I really am. I decided to write a song about what happened. It’s called “You Don’t Know Me.” The lyrics are a little rough still, but I hope you’ll think it’s at least a good start:
As boys we played on the playground seesaw,
We went to parties in our teens.
Unlike you, the only A’s I ever saw,
Was dressed as Fonzie on Halloween.
Your grades have taken you away from our town,
You’re in college, ain’t that nice.
And me, no choice but to stick around.
I took our guidance counselor’s advice.
“Young man,” he said ’cause he didn’t know my name,
“The smart ones, they all go away.
And guys like you, well, it’s a damn shame.
Guys like you they have to stay,
And get a job at the supermarket,
Maybe the car wash by the mall.”
“Here’s my Vette, be careful where you park it.
And shine it up with Armor All.”
Me, I’m just the guy at the gasoline station,
Me, I’m just the singer in this band.
I wasn’t asking you to make a donation,
I just thought you’d shake my hand.
But now it seems that you don’t know me,
You don’t know me
Anymore.
When we were six we were both Cub Scouts,
And we were both in the same troop.
We went camping and we each caught brook trout,
And our dads made brook trout soup.
When we were ten we both played baseball,
I played second, you played short.
When we were twelve we turned to football.
At fourteen, we said good-bye to sports.
Now I’m just the guy at the gasoline station,
Now I’m just the singer in this band.
Don’t say what happened was an aberration,
That I just don’t understand.
I understand that you don’t know me,
You don’t know me
Anymore.
You hear our song on the radio station,
“Hey, I know the singer in the band!”
Maybe it’s getting played on heavy rotation,
Maybe we’re on American Bandstand.
You can get on your feet and cheer us,
You can get down on your knees,
You can stand real close so you can hear us,
You can yell, “Look here, please!”
But I’m just the guy at the gasoline station,
And I’m just a singer in this band.
And this song, if it’s sweeping the nation,
I’ll bet you still won’t understand,
If I say that I don’t know you.
I don’t know you
Anymore.
I think I used the word “aberration” right. And I think I spelled it right, too. If not, please let me know.
On a different note, I don’t think you should call Dorothy my “girlfriend.” I haven’t even called her that yet.
And on another different note, I’ve heard Thriller, and I agree that it’s great. The radio station’s been playing one of the songs on it called “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.” Hand on Bible, I thought he was singing, “Wanna Be Donna Summer.” (“Wanna be Donna Summer / Gotta be Donna Summer.”) Either way, it’s a great song. I could see us dancing to that. Maybe you could even take a picture of me dancing to it. (Sorry, but I was thinking of that letter where you said you could prove I liked Tony Orlando and Dawn because you have a picture of me dancing to it. I’m still waiting for you to explain that to me, college girl!)
Good luck with your final exams.
Scott
P
.S. Your mom and my mom went to the mall together today. Wait until you see what you’re getting for Christmas! I’m laughing my ass off just thinking about it. I’m not going to tell you what it is, but you’d better pray your mom keeps the receipt.
P.P.S. We’re playing at Duffy’s tomorrow night. If we can set up the tape recorder, I’ll send you a tape.
P.P.P.S. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! (Sorry, but I was just thinking about your Christmas present.)
* * *
AGEE’S MEN’S CLOTHING
Where Men and Boys Shop
EAST BLOOMFIELD, MARYLAND
* * *
December 8, 1982
Dear Cath,
Here’s the tape from Duffy’s last night. The quality’s not great because you can hear one of the waitresses standing by the tape recorder talking.
But you will still be able to tell that we rocked!
We TOTALLY ROCKED!
Let me know what you think, but if you reach any conclusion other than that we TOTALLY ROCKED, then there’s something seriously wrong with you! Why? Because we TOTALLY ROCKED!
Scott
P.S. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! (Sorry, but I was just thinking about your Christmas present again.)
WAKE FOREST UNIVERSITY
December 8, 1982
Dear Scott,
I have to start by telling you about the study guide that Jane made for me that is supposed to rule my life for the next few weeks. She helped me make a chart for the finals reading and exam period with blocks of time color-coded on each day to indicate which subject I should study during which block of time. (I know, I know, I’m a huge nerd, but calling me that during finals would be a compliment, so go for it!)
I tell you that because I am writing to you during the last part of a GREEN time block, which is reserved for Psych 101. And don’t feel bad about cutting into my study time, because I am feeling slightly cocky about my Psych exam. I like the class and, even with everything else going on in my life, or maybe because of everything else going on in my life, I’ve been able to concentrate in that particular class. I’ve taken really good notes all semester, which over the past few GREEN periods, I have rewritten and organized to go along with the textbook, so I think I am in good shape.
