We Are Still Tornadoes

by Michael Kun

  Maybe it was easier when he was being a douchebag and I could be totally pissed off at him. But I don’t really know. I don’t remember feeling anything but sad for a while now.

  I’m sorry this is another one of my bummer letters. I was going to write you a funny letter about watching the girls go through sorority rush, wearing bowler hats with cocktail dresses and blue high-heeled shoes, waiting to get their bids this weekend, but obviously I didn’t write that letter.

  Since you don’t have a drummer yet, I assume Crush can’t play in the Battle of the Bands. It’s too bad. Judging from the band I heard at the Deke House last night, you guys would have no trouble winning. Or maybe not. I was a little drunk and did manage to dance to their cover of Squeeze’s “Annie Get Your Gun.” (Thanks for introducing me to Squeeze’s music last summer!)

  Give your mom and dad a hug for me and tell them they don’t have to worry about my dad anymore.

  And I care about you, too. I won’t say I care about you a ton, though, because I’m not sure that’s the right unit of measure for those things.

  Cath

  P.S. I’m looking forward to seeing the lyrics to “Um” because the title doesn’t tell me very much about the song. Although it did make me think of you right away because, in case you didn’t notice, you do say “um” an awful lot. Not in writing, of course, but in person. I think it’s your favorite word!

  P.P.S. Why don’t you just let Todd back in the band, already? He’s a good dude, he doesn’t overdo it with the cymbals, and the band makes you so happy. I mean, what are you doing for fun without Crush? Actually, don’t tell me. I don’t think I want to know.

  * * *

  AGEE’S MEN’S CLOTHING

  Where Men and Boys Shop

  EAST BLOOMFIELD, MARYLAND

  * * *

  January 31, 1983

  Dear Cath,

  So Dorothy told you she got all B’s and one C, huh? Well, that’s interesting, because she told me she got all C’s and one D. That’s very different, isn’t it? So either she’s lying to you because she doesn’t want you to know how bad her grades really were, or she’s lying to me because … well, you tell me, you’re the Psych student. Why would she do that? Now I need to figure out which one of us she’s lying to. I hope it’s you because lying about grades to make them sound better is perfectly normal and something I have personal experience with, as do my parents. But lying about your grades to make them sound worse? That’s just sick.

  As for your dad—the other person I thought we weren’t going to talk about anymore—I’m glad to hear he’s not going to sue my dad and not going to ask you to testify against him. I don’t know what to say about your lunch, though. Partly, it’s that I’m afraid I’m going to say something to upset you again, and God knows we don’t need to be ticking each other off again. But it’s also that the whole lunch sounds so strange, you know? I mean, I’ve never seen my dad cry. He didn’t even cry at my grandma’s funeral, and he didn’t cry that time the lawn mower blade sliced his foot. Fifty stitches, and the guy didn’t cry. So if I ever saw him crying at a restaurant in front of however many complete strangers, I don’t know what I would do. Walk out? Call a doctor? Crawl under the table? Tell him to stop being a baby? I just know it would change things.

  That wasn’t much help, was it? Sorry. I’m not good at this stuff. I’m pretty good at selling clothes, though. Ask me a question about that. I’m at the point now where I can tell what size someone is when they walk through the front door. Jeff Hill’s dad was in a couple weeks ago. As soon as he came in, I said to him, “You’re a 44 regular, 16-inch neck, 35-inch sleeve.” And I was right on the money. Impressive, isn’t it? Maybe I should set up a booth at the carnival.

  To answer your non-clothes-related question, I haven’t seen the pregnant secretary around town at all. Not that I would expect to since I spend very little time hanging around the maternity store. But if I do see her, you’ll be the first person to know.

  Hold on. Let’s go back a second. I just thought of why Dorothy would tell me her grades were worse than they really were—so she could cry on the phone and have me say a lot of sweet things to her. We had some VERY long phone calls where I was telling her not to worry about her grades, and how she’ll do better next semester, and how great she is, and how smart she is, and all that stuff boyfriends say to their girlfriends when they’re upset. If she lied to me about her grades just so I’d say that stuff to her, that’s not cool. Not cool at all. So how do I find out if she lied to me about her grades? Do you think the school would tell me what her grades were if I called up and asked? What if I pretended to be her father? Do you know what her father’s first name is in case I need to do that?

  By the way, I’m assuming you’re joking about giving one of my songs to your poetry class. I’m not a poet like … okay, I thought the name of a poet would come to me, but I can’t think of one. Was Shakespeare a poet? If so, I’m not a poet like Shakespeare. I write songs for a band that doesn’t exist because we don’t have a drummer and we don’t have a van. And you can’t have a band without a drummer or a van. It’s as simple as that. Do you know where the lead singer of Queen would be today without a drummer or a van? He’d be working in his father’s clothing store somewhere in England, that’s where—“Ye Olde Freddie Mercury Senior’s Men’s Clothing Shoppe. Where Blokes and Boys Shoppe.” They spell things differently in England, you know. God knows why.

  Anyway, we auditioned two more drummers last week. One guy had to be 40 years old, and the other guy had long, blond feathered hair like Farrah Fawcett-Majors that he kept flipping with the back of his hand. Seriously creepy. Neither of them could keep a beat to save his life, but at least Farrah has a station wagon that might hold all our equipment if we flip down the backseat. It’s not nearly as nice as Todd’s van. It’s like my mom says—you never know what you have until it’s gone, do you? I’ll always think of that van as “the one that got away.” As for Todd, you might have already heard, but he’s back working at the gas station. That means I have to drive to Ridgewood to get gas now because I don’t feel like dealing with him and his crap. He’d probably put sugar in my gas tank anyway. And if I saw his van, I might start weeping.

  So, we’re kind of stuck now. We either have to keep looking for a new drummer with a van, or we add Farrah to the band. We’re going to decide tonight.

  I haven’t finished writing “Um” yet, but I’ll send it to you when I do. I haven’t really been in a rush to finish it since we can’t play it until we get a drummer. The chorus goes like this:

  Um, um, um, um,

  Um, um, um, um.

  I think you’d probably have to hear it.

  My mom says hi. I’m sure my dad would say hi, too, but I haven’t mentioned you or your family in a while. It’s not worth getting him upset. The January, post-holiday sales are getting him upset enough as it is. Hand on Bible, we had one day last week where the only person who came in to the store was the mailman. That’s a bad day in the clothing business, as Freddie Mercury’s father would tell you.

  Have a good week.

  Scott

  P.S. If I had to grade it, I think this letter would get a B. Although I may be lying about that. It could be an A or a C.

  P.P.S. My dad thinks Freddie Mercury is homosexual. Yeah, right. My dad thinks any guy with long hair is homosexual. Wait until he gets a load of Farrah, if he joins the band.

  FEBRUARY

  WAKE FOREST UNIVERSITY

  February 1, 1983

  Dear Scott,

  I’m coming home next weekend—not this one, but the next. I haven’t told Dorothy because I’m afraid she’ll want to come with me if I tell her, and I’d rather come by myself. I know that’s really mean since I’m sure she’d like to see you, but I’d like to get away from everything related to college for a few days, and that includes her. You’re more than welcome to trade places with me and stay in our room if you want to visit her, although, as you proba
bly know, she’s trying to get into a sorority right now, so I don’t know how much free time she has anyway. I don’t really know what the hell sororities do, other than wear sweatpants with big Greek letters sewn on their butts. Which is really hideous, by the way. Particularly when some of the girls don’t have a beautiful stride, if you know what I mean.

  Anyway, I just can’t handle being here right now. I’m really tired all the time. The days are so short and dark, and I just need to come home and sit on the couch with my mom for a few days. With Jane also going through sorority rush, I’ve been covering some of her shifts at the Pizza Pan, and I’ve also been working some nights behind the bar, which is better than delivering pizzas in the cold, but pretty hard work. There’s a lot of restocking and some relatively heavy lifting and, when it’s busy, just plain constant motion. Sometimes it’s cool to talk to guys when they are relaxed and just sipping a beer and glancing at a basketball game on the TV, and then sometimes I think I know what you mean about guys you know who come into the store and act like they’ve never met you before. There are frat boy friends of Walter’s who act like they’ve never met me when they ask for a beer. I go out of my way to use their names as I hand them their drinks and look them in the eye to let them know that I think they’re dicks. And some of the girls are masters of denial as well. Due to limited freezer space, the pints of ice cream that you can buy on the meal plan are stored behind the bar. Girls that I delivered a pizza to only two hours before will ask me for a pint of Rocky Road and stand there and tell their friends that they skipped dinner so they could finish a paper or fit into their dress for some rush event. Really? I think the fact that you’ve been reduced to wearing nothing but sweatpants is a dead giveaway on that fake diet plan. Usually I like my job, though. The other kids I work with are very cool, and I get to drink an unlimited amount of Tab from the fountain dispenser. I still think you should try to schedule a “gig” at the Pizza Pan. My manager still asks me about you guys. People love to see bands there on Friday or Saturday nights, as long as there isn’t a basketball game on TV. Baseketball is huge in this state. HUGE, I tell you.

  Anyway, I just wanted to let you know about my plans for next weekend. If you don’t come to visit Dorothy, maybe we could go out for an early birthday celebration for your 19th while I’m home. Birthday burgers, beer, and bowling?

  Much love,

  Cath

  P.S. Freddie Mercury is gay. Think about it for a second. The name of his band is Queen. Mystery solved.

  WAKE FOREST UNIVERSITY

  February 3, 1983

  Dear Scott:

  I guess our letters crossed in the mail. I’m still planning on coming home next weekend, but I don’t know if I’ll see you, and God knows I can never get the phone to call you at a decent hour, so I’ll just write you a quick letter.

  Part of your little mystery has been solved. Are you sitting down? Your girlfriend got straight A’s last semester, if you include one A-. Should I repeat that? SHE GOT STRAIGHT A’S. How do I know? Because her parents sent her a cake that said “Straight-A College Girl” on it in loopy pink icing. She tried to hide it, but come on—our room is the size of a telephone booth. Eventually, she admitted that she got straight A’s (including one A-) and said she had told me she got B’s and C’s because she didn’t want to seem like she was bragging, which might make sense if she hadn’t spent so much time acting upset about her grades. As for why she told you she got C’s and D’s, you already seem to have a good working theory on that. My head hurts just thinking about this nonsense.

  Please tell me you’re not silly enough to drive all the way to Ridgewood to buy gas. Just drop by Todd’s gas station and ask him to rejoin the band. Please? He probably doesn’t even remember why you threw him out of the band in the first place. Trust me, the guy has no long-term memory. And he’s not the type to hold a grudge. I dumped him, and he’s still nice to me.

  I read “Daddy Issues” aloud in my poetry class and a tall girl in the front row started to cry, so we didn’t have such a great discussion about it. Instead, we ended up talking about her parents’ divorce. Then we ended up talking about everyone’s parents’ divorces. Half the class’s parents are divorced. I actually felt bad for the kids whose parents are still together. They had nothing to talk about!

  My honest reaction to “Um” is “What-at-at?” You just sing “um” over and over? Maybe I’m missing something.

  You really should be out there singing “Daddy Issues” and “Have a Heart” and your other songs. If I run into Todd next weekend, do you want me to see if he’s still pissed off at you?

  I hope I’ll see you next weekend, but I’ll totally understand if you want to visit Dorothy. I’ll be home at the end of March for Spring Break anyway. The New Baby is arriving, and all that. Who would want to spend Spring Break partying in Florida when you could be hanging with the Slutty Secretary and a crying infant? So much to look forward to. Hooray for me!

  Even if you’re not home, I’ll stop by to say hi to your mom. I’ll steer clear of your dad.

  Love,

  Cath

  * * *

  AGEE’S MEN’S CLOTHING

  Where Men and Boys Shop

  EAST BLOOMFIELD, MARYLAND

  * * *

  February 6, 1983

  Cath—

  I have to work on Saturday, but I don’t think I would have wanted to swap places with you and visit Dorothy this weekend anyway. This whole thing with her grades is so stupid, but I have to admit that it’s bugging the hell out of me. At first, I thought that maybe she told me she got C’s and D’s because she wanted me to feel sorry for her and tell her how great she is, which is exactly what I did. Then I started to think that maybe she told me she got C’s and D’s because she thinks I’m a moron who isn’t even going to college, and she thought I’d feel uncomfortable dating a smart girl. Anyway, I ended up talking with my dad about it at work today while we were waiting for anyone to come in, and his response was today’s Quote of the Day: “Maybe you’re just dating a nutbar.” Then, for the rest of the day, he kept calling her “Snickers.” Because Snickers bars have nuts in them, in case that wasn’t clear. Maybe he’s right. Maybe she’s just plain nuts.

  Also, I am NOT going to beg Todd to rejoin the band, and I am more than happy to drive to Ridgewood for gas just to avoid dealing with him. While I understand that he still talks to you even after you dumped him, you had a very different relationship with Todd than I did. Very different. Very, VERY different. I could draw pictures if you’d like. Anyway, he can kiss my ass. We are more than happy to have Farrah playing the drums for us—and our stuff fits in his station wagon after all. It looks like we may have a couple gigs later in the month, and we’re actually going to be rehearsing in our garage on Sunday when you’re home visiting. Maybe you can stop by and listen to us. I really think you need to hear “Um” to appreciate it. Plus, you can meet Farrah and his incredible, lifelike hair.

  By the way, the secretary is finally going to give birth? Is it just me, or does it seem like she’s been pregnant for a couple years now? Isn’t there a nine-month statute of limitations on those things? Is it possible she’s faking it and just has a couple pillows shoved up her sweater?

  See you this weekend. Burgers, beer, and bowling sounds great. You can call me at the store to set up the time. Just don’t call when we’re busy, which is … never. And if my dad answers, just hang up. He’ll assume it was Todd calling.

  Scott

  P.S. Please don’t call Farrah “Farrah” when you meet him. His real name is Robert. He doesn’t know we call him “Farrah.”

  P.P.S. Please don’t tell Dorothy that my dad calls her “Snickers,” either.

  P.P.P.S. Hey, Dorothy, if you happen to be reading Cath’s mail again while she’s out of the room, guess what—my dad calls you “Snickers”! Because Snickers have nuts, in case that wasn’t clear.

  WAKE FOREST UNIVERSITY

  February 9, 1983

/>   Dear Scott,

  I don’t know what to say about Dorothy and why she would lie to you about her grades. But I have to tell you that if she tells you that she didn’t get into any of the sororities that she wanted, she won’t be lying. She’s not just trying to get your sympathy. She’s the only girl on our hall who went through rush and didn’t get a bid from the one she wanted. It was really awful to see the other girls jumping up and down and hugging each other while she ducked into our room to cry. I totally don’t get it. She really wants to do all that girly-girl groupy stuff and would be so into wearing the letters and all that jazz—why won’t they let her in?

  Jane got into her first choice and was very sweet to Dorothy about how stupid and random the process is, but Dorothy was crying too much to hear most of what Jane had to say. Dorothy’s parents are so worried about her that they are flying her home for the weekend. Selfishly, I’m glad of that so you don’t have to deal with her legitimate blubbering while still wondering about the fake grades thing, and I would’ve felt awful about not inviting her to come home with me. I do feel sorry for her, but I also really need a few good nights’ sleep. I’ve become a total insomniac here lately and end up most nights sleeping from around midnight to 2 a.m., when I wake up with my mind racing and no hope of falling back asleep. I usually migrate to the commons room to do some reading or writing, and I’ve found that 5 a.m. is a really peaceful time to fall asleep on the couch down there. I still usually have time to run and shower before my first class, so it’s not terrible, but when you see me, you’ll probably notice that I could use a good night’s sleep.

  As for the Slutty Secretary, I try not to obsess about the details, but if you count back 9 months from her March due date, I’m guessing she got pregnant sometime last summer. Our Spring Break is the last week of March, and my dad has made it very clear that he expects me to be home to meet my “little brother or sister.” This whole thing is so weird. It just doesn’t feel like how my life is supposed to be happening. And I really don’t feel like having a little brother or sister right now. I’d rather have a beer.