So we drove around in her car for a while after that and sang along and I finally got her to admit that “You’re So Last Summer” is the best song. I know it sounds stupid but for a second just driving around with the AC on full blast and the volume up loud and all the windows open, and with my best friend and it’s SUMMER you know, and we were both singing super loud–it was the best feeling in the world. It felt like being in a movie, like it was something that wasn’t just happening–it was something we were already REMEMBERING, you know? ::smiles::
But all movies end and instead of long boring credits I had to go home and find my dad sitting there waiting for me. He got some BYU crap in the mail and he wanted to go over it with me. I wanted to yell like YOU ALREADY WENT THERE YOU DON’T GET TO GO AGAIN! But it’s like it’s the most important thing in the world to him. He said that I’d better do extra studying this summer so I get my math boards up. If I don’t he might take away my computer. It’s like, doesn’t he understand that’s like saying he’d take away my ARMS!!
Well, gotta go. Dinner time. Can’t wait to hear what he’ll say to me NOW.
[from http://users.livejournal.com/˜
MzMisery]
Time: 1:13 a.m.
Mood: Disorganized
Music: Berlin, “Riding on the Metro”
They had a going away party tonight for me at the restaurant which was sweet because up until then I hadn’t realized that I cared. But I did care–I can’t help myself. Shane made everyone blue drinks with that stuff that I love to say but have no idea how to write (curacao?). Tommy said he told all of his tables that the crab special was named after me (such a sweetheart) and after closing everyone stuck around to get drunk–or at least as close to drunk as blue drinks can get you. Hector and Amilcar took turns trying to teach me how to salsa dance but I don’t think I’m a natural.
Then I took the bus home and it took two strange looks from two different old ladies to make me realize I was crying. I swear–that’s the first and last time I’m going to be anything but giddy about this. In two days I’ll be in New York and that’s all I’ve ever wanted.
But right now I’m sitting here and my life is in boxes all around me (very nice boxes that were once filled with very nice wine–Dad picked them up for me at his favorite snooty vino store). Nothing is packed though because how can it be? What can I bring? What can I leave behind? Instead I’m sitting here surrounded by a life that is quickly becoming my old life. I’ve been reading yearbooks and the track listings of old mix tapes and then putting them back on the shelf. Just to prove that I don’t need them anymore.
When I was in middle school everyone had to do a sport after school and you know how athletic I am (I get great big purple bruises just from kneeling to tie my shoes) so you can imagine how that went. In the spring I took track and field because that’s what all the slackers did–I remember Will Webster (the hot older elf-man who did plays and made grade 5 girls swoon) used to take people (only if they were cool enough) out behind the highjump mat and share a joint with them. Track and field wasn’t serious, it was mostly waiting and wearing shorts and teaching other girls how to make grass kazoos. So that’s what I did. But everyone had to do at least one event and the one Coach (Big) Bird had me do was the 400. Why? Because it wasn’t a sprint and it wasn’t distance. It was in the middle just like I was (which was just another way of saying not quite good enough at anything). It was just a lot of running.
So why am I talking about this (other than the fact that I just read what Coach wrote in my grade 8 yearbook: “Hope to see you trying harder next year.” I mean: WTF?!? I was 14!)? Because the only thing I ever really liked about track and field was the moment just before the race started, when you’d have to dig into the red clay of the track and everyone else would just SHUT UP already. There was no more trashtalking or encouragement or people you barely knew shouting your name as if there’s any real chance you’re going to win. All that was just fucking OVER for a beautiful tangle of seconds. And the feeling, the anticipation of that gun going off, was so painful after a while it became delicious. It’s actually kind of HOT, you know? The gun is going to go off. It’s going to happen soon. You can’t move anything in your body, no twitching, no itching, nothing. You just dance on the edge of your toes until you finally hear the gun saying MOVE GO NOW. But it wasn’t the moment that you finally did get to fucking move that I got off on. It was the second just before that. Knowing it was going to happen, that there was nothing you could do to stop it. Knowing and not knowing. Being completely powerless, at the mercy of some random stranger(s). That was the best part.
And that’s how I feel right now.
Good night, Toronto. Good-bye. Don’t wait up for me.
[from http://users.livejournal.com
/˜thewronggirl87]
Time: 1:31 a.m.
Mood: Poetic
Music: Dashboard Confessional, “Carve Your Heart Out Yourself”
In blood red I
Saw you, watched you, waited for you
Crossing the street
Crossing your heart
Hope to die?
Yes, I would in a (last)
heartbeat
if it only meant
That you could see again, without
veils, or vestments, or anything other
than your naked eyes
Push them into me,
break through my skin and
bones and fragile outsides of
paper, and books, and traditions
If your eyes were diamonds
Then they’d be sharp enough to cut
Through every ounce of me
Ribbon my flesh
And leave me there to be seen by
only you
In
Blood
Red.
[from http://users.livejournal.com
/˜davidgould101]
Time: 2:55 a.m.
Mood: Drunk
Music: The Stills, “Still in Love Song”
Sometimes–on nights like tonight when I’m so drunk/stoned/high/gone that I feel like I’m looking at the city from above like a game board and I know all my moves in advance–I like to think about the way I was before this summer, before I started going out, before I started living like this. And really, what I like to think is that I was pathetic–sitting at home, always pining for something or other, always complaining. Living like an old person in these last few years of youth that I have left.
Living here and ignoring the nighttime is like going to a movie with a blindfold on–what’s the point? There are so many women, so many bars, so many songs, so many mistakes. What’s the point of worrying about things before you’ve done them? Go, go, go. Hangovers are for tomorrows, and if you never stop, you never reach tomorrow.
Tonight I DJed again at a bar on the LES–one of those secret ones that doesn’t have a name or a sign. Free drinks and free phone numbers. Making out with girls in the bathroom whose names I never caught. Soundtracking my own descent.
I never could have had any of this before. It never could have happened. If I ran into the me I used to be on the subway–before any of this, before the drinking and the drugging and the DJing, before she left–I doubt I’d even recognize him. He’d be introverted, sad, pale, and disappearing. And if he stopped me to chat I know what I’d say to him: Everything is terrific. Everything is free. Everything is finally happening.
Is it possible to be having the time of your life and not remember any of it the next day?
The day after I wrote that I woke up late again, pushed aside the empty beer cans on my desk, and read what I had written. Ludicrous, as always. I hadn’t DJed a party yesterday. I hadn’t even left my apartment. There had been a part of yesterday when I was watching TV and another part when I had been shotgunning Rheingolds in front of my computer screen and that was about it. I sighed.
I was beginning to entertain the possibility that I was depressed, but the fact that the poss
ibility entertained made me doubt it. It wasn’t that I was screening calls; I was flat-out ignoring them. And it wasn’t that I was sad or lonely. It went deeper than that—to a place where I could hear the little nags and groans and cries of sadness pinging against the roof of whatever emotional bunker I’d built for myself over the weeks since Amy had left, but I didn’t feel particularly bothered to respond to them.
Even back when I was nominally happy, my friend Bryce actually went so far as to create a superhero alter ego for me: The Amazing Sublimated Man. A catchy name, but I was no doubt the only superhero in history to have both sides of his identity be equally mild-mannered. The gist of Bryce’s argument was that if something was really bothering me, I’d always be the last to know it.
And so it was with this summer: I had barricaded myself rather handily in the days since Amy left. As an only child I was always more than capable of being alone, of entertaining myself, but this was something different. It was possible, I realized, to waste a season. You might not think so, but it’s true. Days go by whether we want them to or not. You can ride them like an escalator: Stick your hands in your pockets and hope you see something worthwhile along the way. Or you can hop on that same escalator and give it an extra push, take the steps two at a time: Don’t just give yourself over to the momentum; help it out. Get where you’re going faster and with clean intent of purpose, even if where you’re going happens to be another escalator, with another one waiting at the top of that.
I didn’t need Bryce to tell me that something was wrong, but I had no idea in the world how to fix it.
Amy had been gone for nearly six weeks, and I had barely left my apartment and accomplished none of my work. The book seemed like a fever dream from a different life; so, in fact, did Amy. During the long mornings when I’d surfed blogs and sports Web sites and listened to Fleetwood Mac records and drunk my coffee in tiny sips to make the excitement of it last longer, I didn’t necessarily feel like I was retreating from the world. I honestly couldn’t think of anything else to do. The rhythm of life without Amy was hypnotic, easy, and lulling. I didn’t notice the quiet in the apartment anymore, the spaces where her voice would have been. The more time I spent alone, the easier it was to be alone. And then the goal became finding a way to stay alone.
There was my fake diary, of course, which was becoming more and more out of control by the day. But the things that I found myself typing into it were fantasies—a useful vehicle to imagine myself out of my predicament. But the rock-star schmoozing and the anonymous hookups weren’t the things I really wanted; I wasn’t even capable of doing them. Writing the diary made me feel vibrant and mysterious, but it was nothing more than an artful bit of miscasting. In reality, I was the good guy. I was the guy with the girlfriend, the good credit rating. I was dependable. Trustworthy. Steadfast.
Safe.
There had been times—sure, many times—when I had been tempted to be otherwise: a fleeting kiss with a sophomore theater student during a drunken visit to Bryce’s college; a few joints with Amy at the beach; an offer of an Ecstasy tablet at New Year’s. But the problem with my brain was that it always clicked a few steps ahead: I saw the potential outcomes before I even did the deed. And so nothing illicit ever seemed quite worth it. Going out and clubbing and living that life was, at its root, hollow. I knew it, so I didn’t do anything about it.
And now I just didn’t do anything at all.
I sighed again. Went to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of orange juice. Came back and read through some diaries. Leslie was moving to Berlin in the fall for a semester abroad. Paige was outlining the six rules of a guilt-free hookup. Ashleigh was fighting with her parents again, with her sister, with her life. And Miss Misery? I didn’t know; I always saved the best for last.
I knew from recent postings that she had made it to New York City safely, though the city that she described in her first few alcohol-fueled and exhaustion-drenched diary entries was nothing at all like the city I lived in. She was magical like that, transforming every scenario, every street corner, every bar stool into something distinctly her own, something vital, something alive. It was a world I tried to inhabit in my own diary entries but without success. If I was an interloper in her world, at least she was a vibrant tour guide.
Her diary filled my computer screen—a new entry at the top. I took a sip of juice and settled in to read it.
[from http://users.livejournal.com/˜
MzMisery]
Time: 1:55 p.m.
Mood: Exhausted
Music: Interpol, “NYC”
Oh yeah. THIS is why I moved here.
What a fucking night. Started innocently enough: Ben and Debra came over with bottles of wine and we ate leftover takeout Thai on the floor (Stevie sold his kitchen table–long story) and they toasted me and made me a provisional member of the VSC. Ben wasn’t even being weird to me, which was nice for a change. Then Debra got cranky because it was hot in the apt (no AC yet–must change this immediately) so we went to Hi-Fi which is so totally the rock critic nerd bar on Avenue A but it also has a digital jukebox with like 3000 albums on it, so it’s worth it.
So I was drinking beer because it was going to be a quiet night and I put 7 bucks in the jukebox and was taking forever to pick out songs (they have every New Order album on there–EVERY ONE) when I noticed this guy sitting in one of the booths, totally checking me out. Now this does not happen all the time but when you are a young lady in the big city it happens SOMETIMES right? But not like this. This was so brazen. He was not my usual type (kinda skinny) but had cool hair and big brown eyes and he was just boring holes into me with them. I kept trying to stare him down but he wouldn’t even blink, so I ended up blushing and turning back to the jukebox. I was taking so long up there that Debra came up to me and was like “that dude is totally checking you out.” But she didn’t know who he was either. Finally when I ran out of credits I took a big drink and turned around and walked right over to him. He was just sitting there, staring at me as I walked over, with this totally cocky lazy smile–the kind you just want to smash either with your fist or your lips. I didn’t know what to say so I was like “do we know each other?” And he just keeps smiling that lazy cat smile and says something like “I dunno but I’m pretty sure I know you.” And I don’t know what came over me but something about his confidence or his assholeishness (same diff) was so overwhelming I was just like “you are very cute.” And he was like “you’re not so bad yourself.” I felt kinda queasy but kinda turned on and I felt–fuck it, right? This is NEW YORK CITY. This is where I live now. So I sat down with him just when my songs started on the jukebox.
The night took a different turn from there. The VSC wanted to leave and I didn’t even notice them go because I was still talking to this guy–I’ll call him “D.” And the thing about him is that he’s SMART but he’s also older. He’s a writer–about music and he’s working on some kind of book–but not a dorky, trainspotting shut-in like most music writers. This guy was vibrating on some sort of crazy frequency and we just clicked but in a totally fun and confrontational way. We were arguing about movies and records and he got all my references and he laughed at all my jokes. We kept taking turns running outside for cigarettes because we didn’t want to lose the booth. At midnight he ran out of money so I bought him two more drinks–he was drinking vodka on the rocks which seemed kinda cool and writerly–and then he asked me to go to the bathroom with him and I was kind of loaded at this point so I said sure.
We got some funny looks but the place was crowded and people were hammered so no one stopped us. He locked the door and broke out drugs and gave me bumps and then grabbed me just so and I let him kiss me for a while, pushed up against the flimsy wooden door, then we did some more and then I kissed him, harder this time, trapped him up against the sink. His tongue tasted like tobacco and I liked the way he held my head and hair while he made out with me–like it was a project for him, something he was working on. Like I was som
e sort of human canvas. And then I don’t even remember the rest. We went back to the apartment and did more and drank more and listened to records until we woke Stevie up and took cell phone pictures of each other and made out more and…
I know you’re not supposed to sleep with strangers in the big bad city and there was something about this guy that wasn’t entirely…right. But I couldn’t help it. He just left like 20 minutes ago–my whole futon smells like him now. I smell like him now. Crazy. Too crazy. But sometimes I like crazy. And I think I liked this guy.
Ten bucks (Canadian) says he’ll never call me again. I gotta get some sleep.
I read the entry three or four more times with my mouth open and my head shaking back and forth. She lives here for less than a week and hooks up with someone who could have been me. Perfect.
I sat back, took a breath. Really, I thought, as the photo of Amy tacked to the wall caught my eye, it’s probably for the best. I never actually wanted to meet Cath Kennedy. I wanted to meet Miss Misery, lose myself in her daze and in her nights. But she was a fantasy—an online construct—that existed on the Internet and maybe in my head as well. No different from my own journal. Fake, fake, fake.
Still, though. I had a catch in my throat and a weird tinge of jealously. I knew where that bar was, what the jukebox was like. I’m a writer (supposedly). I have the same taste in books and music as her, not that guy. I could have been sitting there. I could have swept her off her feet. I could have, but I wouldn’t have. Story of the year.
I leaned forward again and redirected my browser to my own diary. Time to check in on my exciting life. The truth is, I was running out of things to write about. How many times can you pretend to make out with anonymous younger girls, drink until you slosh when you walk, and vacuum up drugs that you’ve never really had any interest in trying? When does a fantasy life become mundane? Maybe today would be a quiet day for me online. Maybe I wouldn’t have anything to say at all.
Miss Misery Page 5
