“What do you mean, for what it is?”
“I mean, I’m not supposed to compare it to Alice Munro, am I? If I am, you certainly win on the action/adventure/pop-culture front, but she might win when it comes to the beauty of her sentences. Anyway—I don’t think Munro’s fans are your target audience, right? You’d be nicer to Canadians if that were true.”
“And who do you think my target audience is?”
This is feeling like a trick question.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Who’s your target audience?”
He’s disappointed in me. I can see it. I have not earned my donut.
“Me,” he says. “I’m my target audience. I started writing it for me. Then it just…spread.”
“To almost four hundred thousand people.”
“I guess. Yeah.”
“That’s awesome,” I say, standing up and offering the bag of donuts back to him, letting him take first pick. “Really. It’s amazing.”
“Okay,” he says, reaching in for a chocolate-glazed.
I don’t ask him why he didn’t tell me. And he doesn’t say that he’s happy I finally know. We just let it sit there, open on the laptop, until we’ve let it sit for long enough that the screen saver rises, and we move on to something else.
* * *
—
The next day at work, I dip back in.
It’s Gabriela’s fault. We’re swapping the usual how-was-your-night pleasantries and I figure I’ll interject a hey-I-found-out-my-boyfriend-writes-stories-about-Taylor-Swift-that-a-lot-of-people-read.
“What’s his blog called?” she asks.
“The Triumphs and Something of The Fearless Miss S.”
Gabriela laughs. “No way.”
“You know it?”
“Are you kidding? I spend more time on that than Kim Kardashian spends talking about her butt.”
Gabriela is a fifty-six-year-old lesbian from Park Slope who drags me to see Toshi Reagon every time she plays the Bandshell. I had not pegged her as a Taylor Swift fan.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s pretty cool.”
“That must be hard for you, dating a writer. There must be moments when you think, God, I hope I’m not the Bieber in this scenario.”
“Well, it’s not autobiography,” I point out. “It’s not like I’m married to David Sedaris or Cheryl Strayed. I mean, he’s writing about Taylor Swift.”
“Whatever you say, Clark. All I know is that if I can think The Fearless Miss S is a lot like me, then Owen probably feels she’s a lot like him, too.”
“Oh, sure, sure,” I say. But really what I’m thinking is, Why did you immediately assume I was the Bieber in the scenario?
Which is why I dip back in. To see what I can find.
* * *
—
The problem is, I’m Canadian.
I’ve never been a pop singer, but I’m from Ottawa. I don’t listen to much Canadian pop—nothing since the heyday of Alanis Morissette, which doesn’t really count as pop, in my opinion. Nor does Arcade Fire or Feist or Owen Pallett—so nothing on my playlist should qualify me for The Secret Society of Insincere Canadians.
Unless, of course, I’ve been enrolled for membership without knowing it.
I know I’m being paranoid. Owen knows plenty of Canadians here in New York. Although, when I think about it, I realize that all of them are my friends.
The point is: I am not Justin Bieber.
For the first time, my buzz cut comes as an advantage, because there’s a lot of talk in the stories about Bieber’s bangs. There are also secret messages encoded in his tattoos, whereas the only marks on my arms are those that came with birth. He also calls people baby a lot. I don’t think I’ve ever called anyone baby. Not even a baby.
Still, the anti-Canadian undercurrent can’t be ignored. Things take a terrible twist in a flashback to the summer of ’13, when it’s revealed that the big jefe of the Insincere Canadian cadre is not, as had been expected, Céline Dion. No, in a shocker that (unbelievably) leaves me reeling, the woman pulling the strings is none other than Joni Mitchell. Apparently she is so terrified by the notion that Miss S will play her in a biopic that she hires a young Kennedy to court Miss S and spark her into oblivion. It almost works—with her faithful sidekick Abigail sidelined outside the gates at Hyannis Port, Miss S has her own Canadian missile crisis. But before the young Kennedy can banish her maidenhood to Camelot, Miss S rallies, discovering Joni Mitchell’s plan and turning the tables. The craven Kennedy is contained with the kiss-off “I drank a case of you, asshole, and I’m still on my feet.” I laugh at this, but I’m also a little disturbed, since that’s a theft from my favorite Joni Mitchell song, one I’ve crooned in much nicer tones to Owen as we’ve made dinner and driven down highways.
I shake my head and tell myself I’m being ridiculous. Since I feel compelled to tell myself this out loud, it doesn’t entirely inspire confidence. Back in my head, I determine there are dozens of reasons for Owen to have kept the blog a secret…and that an autobiographical nature does not have to be one of them. Also, it started before I came onto the scene. When he chose Bieber as a malevolent force, Owen wasn’t dating a Canadian. Unless there’s another Canadian in his past that I don’t know about.
It’s about Taylor Swift, I remind myself. Taylor. Swift.
I want to shake it off, but I can’t. I find myself meandering back to Gabriela’s office toward the end of the day. She’s finishing a report on one of our clients’ back taxes; I’m going to owe her a cursory proofread shortly.
“Do you have a sec?” I ask.
She nods, but doesn’t look up.
“What’s the appeal? I mean, of Taylor Swift. Why would you read about her?”
Gabriela looks up at me now, surprisingly serious.
“For one, the girl writes good songs. And she goes through all the drama that the rest of us go through—only when she goes through it, everyone is watching. It’s very relatable.”
“But how is it relatable? I mean, she’s an attractive, thin, rich blond girl who hasn’t had a normal life since she was, like, twelve. What’s relatable about that?”
Gabriela shakes her head. “You’re not listening. It’s the songs. She gets it in her songs. And anyway, The Fearless Miss S isn’t really Taylor Swift. She’s like this riff on Taylor Swift. She’s her own woman. And I like reading what she’s up to.”
“But why Taylor Swift? Why not Tegan and Sara? They’re much more interesting.” (And, I don’t add, Canadian.)
“Are you asking about me, or are you asking about why your boyfriend chose Taylor Swift?”
“I guess I’m asking about Owen.”
“Then maybe you should be sending the question his way.”
The way she says this, I feel chastised.
The way she says this, I feel like I’ve been acting like Justin Bieber.
* * *
—
I go over to Owen’s place and find him on his computer—openly on his computer. Usually he gets home only a few minutes before me, from his job at a FedEx office, but he looks plenty settled in right now.
“Am I interrupting?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, not looking away from the screen. “But that’s okay. Let me just finish this paragraph and we can grab dinner.”
I’m not used to our pauses being measured in paragraphs instead of minutes, but I figure there isn’t really that much of a difference. I look over his shoulder to see what The Fearless Miss S is up to.
“Can you not do that?” Owen says. “I mean, you’re literally breathing down my neck.”
I mutter an apology and pull out my phone to check my email while I wait.
* * *
—
I wonder if I should have gotten us a table for four. Because it�
��s like they’re here with us at the table.
Miss S.
Bieber.
It’s not like Owen doesn’t notice. He asks me about my day, asks me about what I’m ordering, but I can sense him waiting for me to bring them up.
“So it ends up that Gabriela’s a fan of yours,” I offer. “When I told her about the blog, she was really excited.”
I figure this will please Owen; he’s always liked Gabriela, and now she’s liking him back in two ways.
But instead he puts down his Diet Coke without taking a sip.
“Clark.” His voice is therapy-strained in its earnestness. “You can’t tell anyone. No one can know.”
“You didn’t say that. You never said that.”
“I thought it was understood.”
“Why would it be understood?”
“Because if I wasn’t even telling you, I obviously don’t want other people to know. It has to be a secret.”
“Why? Are you afraid Bieber will track you down and—I don’t know, make you listen to his early albums? Throw a little light white-boy Canadian rap your way?”
“I just like to keep it separate.”
“Are there legal implications? Taylor Swift can’t sue your ass, can she?”
“No! I just—it’s where I go to when I’m not me, if that makes any sense. And when people talk to Miss S, they’re talking to her, not me. That’s important.”
“And when you say people talk to her…”
“They send messages. They want advice. Mostly they want me to tell them what they already know they need to do. Dump the guy. Stand up for themselves. Get rid of the friend who isn’t treating them like a friend.”
“They tell you about all that stuff?”
“Yes and no. They tell Miss S about that stuff. And she answers.”
“But Miss S isn’t you? And she isn’t Taylor Swift?”
“Correct.”
“Don’t the girls think they’re writing to Taylor Swift?”
“It’s not always girls. And no—I think they understand the difference. Although obviously they wouldn’t be bonding with Miss S in the first place if it weren’t for what Taylor does.”
I can’t help myself. “So you’re on a first-name basis with her now?”
He blushes, and resents it. “Shut up. You call Florence by her first name.”
“Because that’s her band. Florence and the Machine.”
“I guess Taylor’s just a first-name type of person. I don’t know.”
“So what’s the appeal? I mean, to you.”
“Of Taylor?”
“Yes.”
“I think I’m like most people—when I see her, I see this gawky, unpopular girl who’s made good. I can relate to that.”
“How can you call her unpopular? She’s, like, the most popular girl in the world right now!”
“But she’s not like Madonna or Beyoncé, who give you this sense that they don’t really give a shit about people. Taylor really cares. That comes through.”
“Yes, that comes through her teams of publicists! Look, Owen—you haven’t met the girl. You don’t know her. You only know what she wants you to know about her.”
This is the moment the food arrives. I’ve scored my point. I’m ready to talk about something else.
“That looks good,” I say, gesturing to Owen’s burrito.
But he doesn’t bite.
“This is why I didn’t want to tell you. This is exactly the conversation I didn’t want to have with you. I knew you’d make me feel stupid. But you know what? I refuse to let you make me feel stupid. I refuse.”
I resent this accusation deeply. “Good for you, Miss S,” I reply. “I’m glad that whenever I have an opinion you don’t agree with, it gets filed under condescension. And I’m glad that the reason you didn’t tell me about this huge thing in your life was because you thought I would be a jerk about it. I’m glad that’s what you assumed. That paints an extraordinarily generous portrait of me. And it doesn’t even take into account any, I don’t know, embarrassment you might feel about this thing that you don’t even put your name on.”
“How much of it have you actually read?”
“I’ve read all of it. So at least grant me that my opinion is an informed one.”
Owen throws his napkin on the table. “No,” he says, standing up. “I can’t do this. I’ve had this nightmare before, and I have no desire to have it again while I’m awake.”
“Sit down,” I say, trying to take the edge out of my voice. “Seriously. We are not going to have our first major fight be over Taylor Swift. Let’s at least wait until we’re trying to figure out which neighborhood to move into together.”
He doesn’t sit down. “It’s too late,” he says. “I’m going.”
“You’re being melodramatic.”
“No, I’m being real.”
He says it like it’s in quotes, so I figure it’s from a Taylor Swift song. Then I make the mistake of asking, “Is that from a Taylor Swift song?”
“No,” he tells me. “But this is: Why you gotta be so mean?”
“Seriously?” I ask.
The answer comes from his leaving.
* * *
—
I tell the waiter to bag up the burrito. On the way to Owen’s apartment, I buy another Diet Coke. His housemate lets me in and I leave the meal outside his closed bedroom door. Taylor Swift is blaring from inside, nearly drowning out the sound of typing.
I wait until I’m out of the building before I text him and tell him where his dinner is waiting. I wait for the thank you that will let me know everything’s moving back toward okay. But I don’t hear from him for the rest of the night.
* * *
—
“Being boyfriend or girlfriend with someone doesn’t mean loving every single thing they love, right?” I ask Gabriela the next morning over break-room coffee.
“No,” she says. “But it sure as hell helps when you do.”
* * *
—
As soon as I get to my computer, I conjure Miss S onto my screen. I’m afraid to read what she did last night, but I can’t avoid it, either.
It isn’t pretty.
The Fearless Miss S is about to perform at the Grammys. This should be a triumphant moment for her—she might not have won Best New Artist the year she was nominated, but now she’s the favorite to win everything else. She’s going to debut a new single, and her fans are tuning in by the millions. At least seven of her exes are in the audience, and she’s made sure they all have aisle seats. As soon as she takes the stage, cameras will be set up right at their sides, to catch every moment of their reactions as she performs. If they so much as grimace or sneer, the whole world is going to see what she had to deal with when she was trying to love them.
Only—there are some things even The Fearless Miss S can’t control. As she’s finishing her vocal exercises in her dressing room backstage, an ex named Johnny Guitar comes sauntering in. Her best friend, Abigail, has run off to get her a Diet Coke from Target, so Miss S is trapped alone with him.
“I told you not to talk to me again,” she protests.
Johnny Guitar smiles, but doesn’t say a word. He just takes the guitar from his back and starts to play.
Miss S is suddenly not so fearless.
“No,” she tells him. “Don’t do this.”
He continues to play. He’s a master at the guitar, a master at sounds that aren’t words. She still hears them as conversation. And she knows what they’re saying: As adored as she is, she’s still not an artist. She needs producers and stylists and (every now and then) a little overdubbing or Auto-Tune. She’s not authentic. She can play the guitar, sure. But she can’t do anything particularly new with it.
She
knows she needs to leave the room. She knows it’s almost time for her to go out there and perform.
His guitar catches that thought. Perform, it says over and over. Diminishing her into a show pony. A hack. A TV contestant.
He doesn’t have to say a word to make her feel small. He knows this.
The smile doesn’t leave his face as he pulls chords from the air and mangles them into brilliance.
She puts down her own guitar. Why bother holding it? She’s not going to make it to the stage….
I stop reading. Not because I want to stop, but because there isn’t anything else to read.
I want him to be here. I want to ask him: Is that really how you see me? Is that really what you think I do?
It’s not fair. I wasn’t smiling last night. I’m not smiling now.
I text him. I’m not smiling. I’m upset.
I know he’s at work. I know I can’t go there, can’t have the conversation right this moment. I also know there’s something else I have to do right away.
I go into Gabriela’s office. I don’t even bother to close the door.
“I think I need to go home and listen to a lot of Taylor Swift,” I tell her.
She gives me the nod. Says she can cover things.
If people ask, she’ll tell them I’m having a family emergency.
It doesn’t feel so far from the truth.
* * *
—
I get home and acquire every song Taylor Swift has ever released. I even pay for them, just in case Owen checks.
I decide to go in chronological order, which requires some fortitude. The cover of her first album isn’t promising—she looks like she’s auditioning for the role of a sultry mermaid in a low-budget shampoo commercial. The songs themselves don’t do much more for me. It’s like there’s no difference between the sweetness and the sorrow—they’re all sung in the same tone. I can only take so much adolescent sincerity. After listening to the first album, I need to blast Fiona Apple’s “Criminal” just to find my bearings.
19 Love Songs Page 16
