by Michael Kun
As far as what happened between me and Todd, nothing happened between me and Todd. We walked, I talked, he listened. He put his arm around me when I got cold. There was a beautiful half moon glistening off the snow and for maybe an hour, my head cleared, my stomach didn’t hurt, and it felt like 1983 might not be so bad after all. Of course, that feeling didn’t last too long.
The real question is, what the hell happened between you and Todd? Why did the band break up? I’ve never seen you as happy as you were playing with Crush. Please call or write soon. Or maybe just write since, if you call, Dorothy will hog the phone anyway.
Holy cow. It’s 4 p.m. and guess who just showed up with his running gear? Seriously, James, take a hint. I do need a run, though.
Write soon, okay?
Love,
Cath
* * *
AGEE’S MEN’S CLOTHING
Where Men and Boys Shop
EAST BLOOMFIELD, MARYLAND
* * *
January 11, 1983
Cath—
Look, I wasn’t there, but my mom says that your dad pushed my dad first. Maybe you didn’t see it, or maybe you don’t remember it because you were drunk, but that’s what she says. My dad was trying to keep your super-douche of a dad from making any more of a scene than he already was because you were out late with Todd, and your super-douche of a dad pushed my dad and told him to mind his own business. That’s when my dad pushed him back. He didn’t punch your dad—he pushed him. That’s what my mom says, and I believe her. If your dad is such a wimp that he falls down when he gets pushed, that’s his problem, not my dad’s. And if your dad says my dad punched him, then he’s a liar. But we already know he’s a liar, don’t we?
And I’m sorry, but if you think the fight was uncool, then your dad threatening to call the police was really uncool.
I’m sorry if that’s a bit rougher than what you expected to hear, but I’m not going to sit back and listen to people talk trash about my dad. Not only did my dad have to deal with that crap with your dad, but he also had to deal with crap with your old boyfriend Todd. My dad gave Todd a decent job at the store and was going to hire him full-time to keep working there. And what did Todd do? He was giving his employee discount to practically everyone who came into the store. It probably cost my dad about a thousand bucks. All Todd had to do was apologize and everything probably would have been fine with him and my dad. And I told Todd that if he didn’t apologize to my dad, the band was finished. But he wouldn’t apologize. He kept saying, “Tell your fat, stupid father that an employee discount is an employee’s to use however he wants, and I’m not going to apologize if I want to use it with a lot of people.” So my dad—who may be fat, but isn’t stupid—fired him. And now the band is finished, too. At least until we find a new drummer to replace Todd, which shouldn’t be that hard. Replacing his van might be more difficult.
By the way, if you don’t know what happened with you and Dorothy, maybe you should ask her. I know you don’t like her, Cath, but I do, and I can certainly see why she would feel that you ignored her or that you were acting as if you were embarrassed to be seen with her while you were home.
Scott
P.S. I know you and I both think your mom’s Christmas gift was pretty ridiculous, but here’s an idea. Why don’t you have your mom send it to you, and you can give it to Dorothy, who would love it. (No comment.) That way you don’t have to keep it, and you end up making both of them happy.
P.P.S. Do you have a van?
WAKE FOREST UNIVERSITY
January 19, 1983
Dear Scott,
I let some time go by before replying to your letter because I was hoping you’d think twice about some of the things you said and send me another letter, but I guess that’s not going to happen. I’ve started many different versions of a reply to you over the past few days.
There was the “I can’t believe we’ve been friends all our lives and you’d send me such a stupid letter” reply, which initially, I really liked. It went through a few iterations. (Go look up “iterations” in the dictionary if you need to. It’s all the way downstairs in the den. Sorry, that was mean.) There was the short version, along the lines of “Nice to know you’ve regressed to being a twelve-year-old boy.” And there was a longer version, like “No, I don’t really like Dorothy, but I invited her to my house over the first profoundly awkward and confusing holiday since my parents split up only to make you happy, you big dope, so maybe you should be somewhat grateful rather than thick as a brick.”
I decided not to send that letter. You’re welcome.
There was also the totally pissed-off reply that included something about how I have no control over how Todd uses his goddamn employee discount, and a suggestion about sticking the framed cat poster up your Rocker Dude ass. Which actually would be rather difficult since I carried it all the way back here on the bus. Why would you think that I would leave my mother’s gift to me at home? And there’s no room to stick a poster up your ass anyway since your head is already wedged up there.
But I decided not to send that letter, either. You’re welcome.
The weird thing is, though, that each letter, no matter how it started, ended up being an “I really hate it when we don’t get along” letter. Because I do. I fucking hate it. This never used to happen when we lived across the street from each other. Or if we did have a problem, it always got fixed within a few hours, and we’d end up on the couch watching TV and eating cookies.
Look, I know that everything was a shitmess over Christmas break. I couldn’t be more sorry that your family got pulled into my family’s craziness. I think I already told you that I don’t really know exactly what happened between our dads or how my dad ended up on the ground. I’m sorry if people are saying bad things. I would never say anything bad about your dad to anyone. I’m almost afraid to tell you this, but my dad is driving down here to take me to lunch next week. I’m very nervous about it. I don’t know if he wants me to testify or whatever about that night, but don’t worry. I’ll tell him that it all happened so fast, I didn’t really see anything clearly.
So please, Scott, with everything else that’s going on, let’s not fight, okay? I mean, yeah, the Dorothy visit was a bit of a debacle. But cut me some slack here. You have to admit that you fooling around with my college roommate is a bit weird. Maybe we should reestablish the Samantha Guidelines—you don’t talk to me about Dorothy or to Dorothy about me, and I’ll stay out of it entirely, unless someone’s sanity or life is in danger. (And yes, I still maintain that it was reasonable to assume that someone’s life was in danger given the noises that were coming from the backseat of your car after Homecoming last year, so let’s not discuss that again.)
It might be a little more complicated because I live with Dorothy, but, really, we don’t see each other much anyway. She’s going through sorority rush, and I’m working a bunch of shifts at the Pizza Pan, running with get-a-clue James, and trying to stay current on my new classes. And it’s not like you’re going to get married, right? RIGHT?!?!
What are you doing about Crush? I was talking to Billy, my manager at work, about how great you guys are. He listened to your tapes, and he really wants you to play in the Battle of the Bands. He runs it every year on the night that all the sorority wannabes sit in their dorms waiting for their “bids.” The boys on campus have nothing to do but come to the Pizza Pan to drink beer and listen to good music. I’ll be working behind the bar that night. You should come down, if you’ve figured out your drummer situation. (And you know I don’t have a van. Can’t you fit all your equipment in Betsy?)
So, are we okay? Because if I haven’t mentioned it before, I really hate it when we don’t get along. Should we talk on the phone? Do I need to come up there and sit under a clothes rack and hold my breath until we’re okay again? Is this worse than when I made you laugh when you were serving on the altar and Father Martin made you sweep the entire parking lot after Mass? Worse than
when I left you at the gas station because you wouldn’t stop singing “California Dreamin’” after I met that boy at summer camp? Worse than when I gave you a stale box of cereal for Christmas? Oh wait. That was you. And somehow it still wasn’t the worst Christmas present I got.
Write me. Or call. You know the number.
Your friend (yes?),
Cath
P.S. Even if I don’t hear from you, I’ll write to tell you about the lunch with my dad next week.
P.P.S. Have you seen Tootsie yet? I went to see it with Jane and her family. It’s about an actor (Dustin Hoffman) who dresses up as a woman to get a part on a soap opera, and he ends up learning a lot about himself. The reason I mention it is that, when we went out for hot chocolate afterwards, Jane’s father said he liked how the movie dealt with the duality of mankind. I swear I choked on my hot chocolate when he said “duality.”
P.P.P.S. Here’s something that I know will get a smile out of you. Walter broke his leg skiing over Christmas break. He’s hobbling around campus on his crutches looking pathetic. That’s called karma, dude.
WORLD OF FLOWERS
1/22/83
Dear Cath—
Sorry I was such a dudebag.
Are we still Tomatoes?
Scott
* * *
AGEE’S MEN’S CLOTHING
Where Men and Boys Shop
EAST BLOOMFIELD, MARYLAND
* * *
January 24, 1983
Dear Cath—
“Dudebag”? It was supposed to say “douchebag.” I don’t even know what a “dudebag” is. But I’m glad it got a laugh out of you, and I’m glad we got a chance to talk last night, even if it was only for a few minutes.
Anyway, I really am sorry for being such a dudebag. You know how they tell you that you shouldn’t drive when you’re drunk? Well, apparently I shouldn’t write letters when I’m angry. And I wasn’t angry with you. I was angry with the whole ridiculous situation. Or ridiculous situations, plural. And I guess I ended up taking it out on you because I couldn’t take it out on the people I’m really ticked off at. So please forgive me. If you haven’t already thrown my last letter in the trash, please do it as soon as you can. And tear it up into little pieces first. I don’t need Dorothy pulling it out of the trash and figuring out what a dudebag I can be. Although, between me and you, I have a feeling she sometimes reads the letters I write to you while you’re out of the room. There are things she knows that she couldn’t know otherwise, unless you told her. Like there’s no way she’d know the chorus of “Have a Heart.” (If you’re reading this one, Dorothy, hello! How are you? Are you aware that reading someone else’s mail is a federal offense? Or it may be. I’m not a lawyer.)
Anyway, Dorothy gave me a full report on her first semester grades. I’m assuming you’ve already heard all about them and have tried to be as supportive as I have tried to be, whether you like her or not. I’m sure a lot of people who are used to getting straight A’s in high school don’t get straight A’s when they get to college, where everyone is just as smart and you don’t have people like me pitching in at the bottom of the grading curve. (You’re welcome, by the way.) Hopefully, she’s not too depressed and will do better this semester.
But that made me realize something—I haven’t heard a word from you about your grades for the first semester. Nothing. Not a sound. That could mean you got great grades and don’t want to brag. Or it could mean that you got Dorothy-esque grades and are too embarrassed to talk about it. Or it could just mean that you don’t want to tell me because I’m a dudebag. Anyway, I’m curious. If you want to tell me, I’m all ears.
In case you were wondering, we are still without a drummer. I see our former drummer, who shall remain nameless, driving around town in his van all the time. And I have to admit that I get a little misty-eyed when that happens because, deep down, I really, really do miss … his van. It was perfect for hauling all our equipment, as well as a case of beer. Without it, we’re stuck. I wish all our equipment would fit into Betsy, but it’s not even close. Anyhow, we auditioned a couple of drummers last week, and they completely and totally sucked balls. One was a senior over at Glendale High who talked a great game, but couldn’t keep a beat to save his life. He played the drums like a guy being attacked by a swarm of bees, if you can picture that. The other one was a guy who used to play drums in that band the Runaway Devils that you and I saw when we went down to Fells Point a couple years back. Only it wasn’t the drummer who played with them when we saw them, and we quickly learned why he said he “used to play” with them, as opposed to “is currently playing” with them—he is madly in love with his cymbals. Every song, it’s cymbals, cymbals, cymbals. Ping, ping, ping, ping, ping. It makes you want to pull your hair out. From the inside. We won’t be using either one of them. Even though the cymbal guy did have a van. A beautiful van. The type of van a guy could fall in love with. The type of van that has a beautiful stride.
By the way, I’m writing a new song called “Um.” I’ll send you the lyrics when I’m done with it. It’s a little rowdier than the other songs I’ve written, a little punkier. Kind of like the Undertones, if you know who they are. And there isn’t a single cymbal in the entire song. It is completely, entirely, 100% ping-free.
Let’s talk soon.
Again, my apologies for being a dudebag. You know I care about you a ton, right?
Scott
P.S. I feel like I used “dudebag” one or two times too many in this letter. Your thoughts?
P.P.S. Dorothy, if you’re reading this letter, when I said “I care about you” to Cath, I meant I care about her like a family pet, like a dog or a cat.
P.P.P.S. Cath, I am not saying that you’re actually a dog or a cat.
WAKE FOREST UNIVERSITY
January 26, 1983
Dear Scott,
I did throw away your last letter, but I will forever keep the “dudebag” note from the florist. The thought of you saying “Sorry I was such a douchebag” over the phone to some little old florist lady just about kills me every time I think of it. (And, yes, we are still Tomatoes!)
Dorothy is being dramatic about her grades. What a shocker! And why are we talking about her? I thought we had agreed not to talk about her. She maybe got one C sprinkled in amongst her B’s. I think she’ll live. My grades were fine, under the circumstances. I’m cutting myself some slack. I’m trying to take courses this semester that I’m really interested in, like Art History and Abnormal Psych, because it’s easier for me to concentrate when I like the subject matter. Not being able to concentrate was my major issue last semester, and I expect it will be more of the same for a while. I mean, my mom is a little more stable now that we’ve gotten through the holidays and she is more in the routine of working again, but there’s still a lot of drama swirling around the divorce (my dad got a lawyer and had divorce papers served on my mom at the card store) and money and the big fat pregnant secretary waddling around town. Maybe you’ve seen her?
Speaking of school, though, I’m taking a poetry class with this cool professor named Sally Bishop, and I wanted to ask you if I could share some of your lyrics in class. Don’t worry, I’ll give you full credit. The Honor Code is a huge deal here, and I don’t want to get thrown out of school over “Daddy Issues.” Anyway, do you mind? You are a much better writer than the geeks who have volunteered their stuff so far, and I think that song would generate an interesting class discussion.
So here’s the latest on my dad and what I have come to think of as “That Night.” He drove down here to have lunch with me yesterday. It was a beautiful sunny day, and he took me to a nice resort-type restaurant with a view of Pilot Mountain. We sat looking out at the pine trees, and it reminded me of our family ski vacations. I was really sad and really nervous that he was going to ask me to testify against your dad about the “fight” (or whatever you’d call it). We talked about my grades and school in general, and he was surprisingly mellow about eve
rything. Eventually he brought up the “scene” with your dad That Night, and I braced myself to be tough, but then he just started crying. I couldn’t believe it. I’d never seen my father cry before. I’d never seen any grown man cry before. He started apologizing for everything. The affair, hurting my mom, hurting me, all his recent “jack-ass behavior.” He said that falling on the ice knocked some sense into him. He was very ashamed about having a shouting match in the front yard, and about dragging your dad into it, who he said is someone that he’s “known and respected forever.” Then he sort of veered off course and rambled about what it’s like for a man his age to “have a baby on the way.”
I didn’t know what to say or do. I mostly just stopped eating and stared hard out the window. I drank his beer, and he either didn’t notice or he didn’t care. I hope this doesn’t sound cruel, but I didn’t feel sorry for him at all. I was embarassed that he was crying in a nice restaurant. I wanted him to stop talking and blow his nose. I needed my mother. The whole thing was so far out of my depth. I kept thinking, “I’m just a kid. Isn’t there an adult you can talk to about this stuff?”
Anyway, he’s not going to sue your dad, so that’s good, right? But the rest of it, man, Scott. It should be good, I guess, that he apologized and talked about real stuff, but thinking about it just makes me feel flat and tired. Like, was it all just a waste? He ruined our family and now he’s crying about it? I feel like he doesn’t have the right to cry about it. He’s the one who fucked everything up! I get to cry about it. My mom definitely gets to cry about it. But I don’t think he gets to cry about it. Not to me, anyway.
