THE EXES IN MY IPOD: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country

by Lisa M. Mattson

  My palm caressed his chest through his pinstriped tee. “You know, I would have figured things out with or without you, punk.”

  We finished off the pitcher and paid the tab. I wasn’t changing my life for him. I was changing it for myself. Looking back, I realize the importance of being with someone who helps balance me out. It was yet another lesson that Raul was sent to teach me.

  My exes could always sense when I was taken. How do guys do that? As soon as I’d settled into a somewhat stable relationship, men emerged from my past and circled me, like wild dogs hunting for dinner at dusk. First came the phone call from Matthew—on Valentine’s Day night, which pissed me off even more. Raul was in my kitchen, fishing two Heinekens from the refrigerator, while I stood by my nightstand with the phone in my hand, shaking. “Don’t…ever…call…me…again.” I snipped each word, my voice trembling. Next up was Chris, who called on a weekday afternoon. He said he’d fallen into a deep depression after our break-up and had been in therapy. Talk about making an ex-girlfriend feel like shit. He said he was finally a happy person again and living in Philadelphia. He called me because he needed closure. I apologized for being immature, for deserting him, for not explaining why I’d left. He said he was sorry for being careless with our money. When I told him a collection agency had been calling for him, he just laughed. Good ol’ Chris. A few weeks later, the phone rang again. That time, Michael’s warm voice filled the line. He asked how I’d been and then stuttered through an awkward invitation to dinner. I can’t imagine how embarrassing and hard that was after his STD affirmation. His chase was so sweet, and I might have given him another chance under different circumstances. He owned a boat and a condo in the Keys, remember?! But my heart was devoted to the skinny Puerto Rican guy whose idea of a perfect date involved the Burger King drive-thru, a six-pack of Heineken and a free joint from his buddy Manny. Raul was always more good than bad, more positive than negative, more party than pooper.

  Our pendulum of happiness and frustration swung back and forth every few months for two years. And the swings were as wide as the Golden Glades Interchange. First, Raul went to Disney World with his family the week of my birthday and never so much as called. Raul was notorious for not calling and always being late. He showed up a few days later with a stuffed dolphin and one of his big grins and playful apologies. The make-up sessions in my apartment somehow made his antics worth the irritation, and made me forget that I’d already gotten my Disney revenge by spending a night with an the exotic flower importer, who had Taylor Lautner’s face and a Chippendale dancer’s body—basically a dead ringer for Jacob the Twilight skin-walker. The greatest one-night stand of my life.

  The normal boyfriend hibernating deep inside Raul’s cave of a brain pounced around the eight-month mark. He massaged my feet after long bartending shifts. He invited me to Sunday dinner at his house with his entire family—all thirteen of them—where we shared a pot of arroz con pollo the size of a trashcan. He enrolled in my travel and tourism class, so we could spend more time together, then rarely showed up for class and bummed my notes. It was the kind of yo-yo relationship that kept me holding onto a plantain of hope that he would someday grow into my 100-percent dream guy, not just the thirty percent he was half the time.

  Raul finally asked me out on a date, a real one, which included dinner at an authentic Puerto Rican restaurant, followed by a movie, Kiss the Girls, based on James Patterson’s novel about a serial killer who drugged, kidnapped and raped talented, young women. That movie changed my entire outlook on our relationship, and my life. I lived alone. I walked on campus alone. I parked my car on the street outside my apartment building alone. I was Ashley Judd minus the kick-boxing training. A real-life Casanova could stuff a chloroform-laden rag in my face and pull me into a white van. No one would even know I was missing for days; no one, except Raul, who shared a bathroom with his grandma. You need this man, Harley. You’re a prime target for abduction, I told myself. I hadn’t felt that vulnerable since getting hit by a taxicab while rollerblading on Key Biscayne, two months before I’d met Raul. (Being single and living alone wasn’t nearly as empowering when I couldn’t walk or touch my toes.) The sooner I got out of college, the sooner I could dump Raul, find my husband and never live alone again. I bought a Tae Bo video, then enrolled in summer school to stay on track for graduation in May of 1997.

  “When are you going to declare your area of concentration?” I asked Raul at a table in the campus cafeteria. It was September 1996, and our senior year had just begun. I could almost see the light at the end of the collegiate tunnel, but time was running out. To graduate on schedule next spring, I needed to squeeze sixteen hours of an “area of concentration” into my schedule. These courses had to be outside of my major in mass communications.

  He emptied our bag of Doritos into a paper napkin between us. “Mind your own business, Miss Responsible.” Raul sneered, brushing crumbs from his hands dismissively. “Why are you getting on my case?” He wore a Corona T-shirt and gym shorts, reminding me how little he cared about his appearance.

  I stuck out my tongue. “Because we need to graduate, smart ass.” I’d just changed my area of concentration to hospitality management due to familiarity, enjoyment and geographical convenience. All Environmental Science and French classes—the other areas I’d considered—were offered on FIU’s main campus more than one hour from the communications school campus in North Miami. And if you’ve ever driven in Miami, you know that traffic on I-95 and the 826 sucks big time. I’d dropped my Ecology and French classes and had loaded up with hospitality electives, which included a course that had me giddy: Wine Technology 101. I’d had no idea such liquid treasures existed in the FIU curriculum. Finishing my degree by sampling wine and studying vineyards sounded like the ideal fit for a waitress/bartender hell-bent on getting great grades without slaving over books everyday.

  He slowly chewed a mouthful of chips before speaking. “Next summer? That’s like a year away.”

  I turned away from him in my chair. “You have nine months. That’s only two semesters.” I looked down at my sundress and wedge sandals angled in the aisle, then back to his grubby T-shirt.

  His face flashed red with frustration. “I might switch majors.” He crumpled the empty bag of chips and tossed it across the table. “I don’t know if I’m cut out for this shit. You know, there’s a lot more writing than I thought.” I nearly coughed up a Dorito. His grandfather had worked as a reporter for a major newspaper in San Juan before moving to the States. I knew Raul wasn’t crazy about studying or writing classes, but I thought he’d always buck up and follow in his grandfather’s footsteps.

  I slammed my palm on the tabletop. “You’re insane.” My head jerked back in disgust. “Don’t you want to ever graduate?” I’d dreamed of becoming a writer since sixth grade, and I’d wanted to work in public relations since my first semester in college. My focus was sharp. I had goals to achieve and only a window of time shorter than a pregnancy to get the job done.

  “I can always wait until next fall,” he mumbled, fondling his Coke bottle.

  My eyes practically shot from their sockets. “Are you for real? That’s another semester.”

  “You’re doing it again.” His voice harped. He reclined in his chair. “You need to chill out.”

  I gripped the edges of the Formica table. I’d been living by his laissez-faire rules for about ten months. It had been a blast, but I was now a senior in college. The party was almost over.

  “I’m doing just fine.” I folded my arms across my chest. “I’m not like you.” I stared at the unruly whiskers on his unshaven face. “I like my classes. I get good grades. I wanna get outta there and have a career.”

  “And you want to do this by next summer?”

  I bit my lip. I loved having deadlines and goals and over-delivering on both. “If I’m going to work in the wine business, then I need to get moving.” During my first wine class lecture, Professor Chip Cassidy talked about
a monk named Dom Pérignon who accidentally created Champagne. He made us squeeze a red grape and watch the white juice come out on a white paper towel. His passion was infectious. I was inspired and hooked.

  “You wanna drink wine for a living? And you think I’m a slacker?” He shook his head with a scoff. He didn’t bring up my family, and I appreciated his rare expression of couth. I wanted to spend the rest of my life surrounded by wine—a refined beverage that combines agriculture with alchemy—even though my dad, stepdad, grandma and grandpa all had drinking problems. Deep down, I think I wanted to prove to the world that children of alcoholics can have stable, fulfilling lives centered around the drinking culture. What could possibly be better than drinking responsibly for a living?

  I folded my arms tighter. “Hey, you’re the one who said life should be fun. Jobs are a big part of life. They should be fun too.” I’d decided that the key to having both career success and job happiness would be applying my skills (communications) in an industry that fascinated me (wine). It sounded way more exciting than writing press releases for a hospital. “Now that I’ve got my area of concentration locked in, I can work an internship next semester.” My voice barked like a CEO. My wine professor hired interns every semester and had a deep network of contacts throughout the South Florida wine community. And because I hailed from a world where the only Justin was a boot maker—not a Paso Robles winery renowned for its red blends—I needed a jump-start on my wine career.

  Raul dropped his nose. “You’re going to work full-time, go to school full-time and do an internship?”

  “If you think I can’t, then I guess you don’t know me.” I pushed my metal chair into the long table, then returned to the library to study.

  Raul tugged both my hands. “Just come with me, Baby.” It was a Friday night in February, and we were standing right outside Cheesecake in Fat Tuesday’s open-air bar. I’d just finished a server shift; Raul had been slurping Rum Runners with his bestie for hours. Raul’s grin was big and his eyes cloudy. Whenever he hung around Manny, smoking weed was the especialidad de la casa. They always spent an hour trying to figure out the safest place to roll a joint in public, and usually settled on the CocoWalk parking garage.

  My hands pushed his away. “You’re a mess.” I slung my work apron over my shoulder and loosened my tie. “I’ll just stay here.” I pulled the scrunchie from my hair and let the straight layers fan around my shoulders. Smoking pot reminded me of the bad times with Chris and Robert, yet Raul had convinced me to smoke with him on two occasions. I’d gained five pounds from caving into the munchies. Those days were over. I grabbed a barstool and sat down. With graduation in my sights, I’d said adiós to such immature, illegal behavior.

  “Come on, Bro.” Raul stared at me, grinning. “Don’t leave me hangin’.” It was the same thing he’d said that first night in his car after an hour of making out.

  “I’m not doing it.” I glanced over at Manny on his cell phone. “I can’t, and even if I could, I don’t want to.” I crossed my arms and my legs, so he knew I meant business.

  After getting the highest grade in my wine class, I’d approached Professor Cassidy about pursuing a career in the wine world. He’d helped me land a part-time gig at The Cellar Club, a members-only wine bar, located at the swanky Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables. I wrote membership welcome letters, helped track membership dues, fielded phone calls, and helped set up private tastings, and still worked for Cheesecake at night. I definitely didn’t need the money or the extra stress of a second job, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to get some wine business experience on my résumé before graduation, and to prove Raul wrong. Random drug tests were standard at The Biltmore Hotel. I had to keep my distance from potheads.

  “You don’t have to smoke.” His tone was low and hurried. His eyes darted around the bar, as he sized up the people slurping frozen drinks around us—as if someone was an undercover cop. “I just want to be with you, Baby.”

  His eyes fixed on mine. I looked at him in silence, letting the buzz of bar conversations fill my ears. Raul turned to the bartender and ordered my usual White Russian.

  A deep sigh left my chest. “Okay, fine. I’ll go.” I peeled myself off the barstool, watching the crush of Saturday night partiers swallow our empty seats. Raul nibbled on my ear down the escalator, then pulled me through a pink metal door into the parking garage.

  I stood at the top of the flight of stairs in my white jeans and button-down shirt, while Raul huddled over Manny in the stairwell landing below. I rested my head against the metal railing and looked down at my wristwatch. Manny fished a Ziploc baggy from his jeans’ pocket. I scoffed, looking up at the empty stairs above my head. Hurry up, slackers. I tapped my white sneakers on the concrete floor.

  The heavy metal door between stairwells flew open. Two men in dark uniforms charged in and yelled, “Police! Put your hands up!” My body froze, as my worst nightmare unfolded. Adrenaline surged through me.

  One officer glanced over his shoulder and spotted me sitting one flight above the drug bust. “You! Get down here!” Oh, fuck. Not me too. I sulked down the stairs,, legs wobbly with fear. The officer pushed me up against the cinder-block wall and dumped my purse on the concrete floor. Tampons, lipstick, ink pens and spare change rolled around my feet. I looked away, my face flushing red with anger and embarrassment. The only thing worse would have been a vibrator flopping out and buzzing on the floor. The officer pressed my cheek against the cold wall and frisked me. The stairwell smelled of smoke, stale beer and dirty water. Shame spilled over my helpless body. From the corner of my eye, I watched the other cop frisk Manny, then Raul. The disgrace felt sharper and deeper than the time I’d gotten arrested in high school for skinny-dipping. I kept reminding myself of the disclaimer at the beginning of every episode of Cops: I was innocent until proven guilty by a court of law.

  “She doesn’t have anything to do with this,” Raul said over his shoulder, as the officer kicked his feet apart. “She didn’t do anything wrong.” Raul’s hands were laced above his head.

  I shot Raul a death stare. My blood was boiling, but my tongue was paralyzed. I’m not like him, Officer. I was still wearing my Cheesecake uniform! There must have been hidden security cameras, and my boss might see the tape. I couldn’t believe I’d gotten myself into such a piss-poor situation.

  The cop finished rubbing his hands over my jeans’ pockets. I kept my eyes closed and my right cheek pressed against the cold concrete wall. My jaw trembled. I could hear his fingers shuffling through my belongings on the floor.

  “She’s clean.” The man’s voice rang out in my left ear. “You can go.” His tone was stern and curt like a high school principal.

  I turned and watched the other cop pulling Manny out the door in handcuffs.

  My eyes locked on Raul’s, like lasers burning holes in his head. I took a deep, quivering breath and shook my head, before leaning down to grab my purse.

  Raul threw his big hands in the air. “I have to help him, you know.” His eyes were wild and pleading. “I can’t let him go through this alone. He’s my best friend.”

  My chest thumped wildly, as I watched Raul scurry out the door after the cops, leaving me alone in the stairwell to pick up my tampons.

  Hours later, a fist banged on my front door. I rubbed my eyes and looked at my alarm clock. It was 4:06 a.m. I dragged myself out of bed and peeked through the peephole to see Raul pacing in my hallway. I flipped the dead bolt and opened the door slowly. He blasted past me.

  “How could you desert me like that?” His voice wailed; his eyes were buggy and bloodshot. “My best friend is being taken to jail and you run in the other direction. I needed you.” My back was pressed against the wall where he’d made love to me a dozen times. I looked down at my silk sleeper shorts and matching top, then wrapped my arms around myself. I needed a robe, and didn’t own one.

  “You’re turning this on me?” My hands shot from my sides. “You almost got me arreste
d!” I looked at his bewildered face, then rubbed my cold arms. My air-conditioner in the window hummed while we stood in silence, looking at each other. “How could I possibly get a real job with a misdemeanor on my record?”

  “All I’m saying is that I needed you to be there for me. You’re my girl. You weren’t.” Raul shoved his hands in his pockets.

  “Why is it always one step forward and two steps back with us?” My mind raced from Christmas with his family to the pot bust. “Why can’t we just have a normal night out that doesn’t involve a fucking tow truck or a cop car?” I’d recently bought a used Honda Civic because my Pontiac sounded like it had black lung disease, and Raul had convinced me to let him drive it to South Beach the night I’d brought it home. He’d talked me into parking it in a residential neighborhood, which led to the car being towed and me spending two days and $300 to get it out of the impound yard because I only had temporary tags.

  “I said I was sorry,” he said. “Why can’t you let it go?”

  “It was your fault, and I had to pay.” I turned my back to him and looked at my unmade bed two feet away from us. “I’m always the one that ends up paying.” My tiny apartment was never a good place to have an argument with a boyfriend—especially not while wearing lingerie.