Tales of a Punk Rock Nothing

by Abram Shalom Himelstein

  Michael’s latest cool move: keeping us late on Friday to clean store before remodeling, canceling work on Saturday so we don’t even get O.T. Retaliation: free shitake mushroom and teriyaki sauce.

  Me and Sean made dinner and everyone was psyched. At dinner, Sean said, “The sauce is compliments of Elliot’s deep pockets, he’s really coming along.”

  Everyone smiled and said thanks. Adda said, “Nice job, sauce liberator.”

  Nice to be patronized in your own home. At least there’s one thing that my housemates don’t think I’m a dork for doing.

  Sean is working on a theft manifesto that he’s going to make into a poster.

  Ed’s moving to Mt. Pleasant in October. I get his room. Housing dilemma solved.

  More tired after my day off than before it. Drooling on the metro.

  Hung out with Christa all day, chopped and cooked all evening, good rock show all night, up til dawn talking to Sandshark.

  C asked me to a movie, maybe I’m not superdork after all. Pretty awkward, we’d been hanging out all day. I wanted to hold her hand, is she straight? single? into me? She’s cool.

  Tina came home. Mike in the living room in underwear. Strange, everyone in the house being so nonsexual, and mostly shy. I was eating cornflakes, pretending to be reading. Tina has a road sign in her hands that says “Dingleberry Rd” and she’s trying to tell him about how she stole it in Iowa.

  Mike in his red briefs + Tina holding a sign that says “Dingleberry” = laughing, soy milk out my nose. It’s a punk, it’s a grocery store clerk, it’s…SUPER NERD.

  Haven’t laughed like that since I moved to DC.

  Then the big homecoming show. The same woman holding the dingleberry sign breathing fire. Tina rocks.

  Christa has a Riot Grrrl stencil spray painted on the back pocket of her jeans. I stare at it a lot and then feel like a sleaze for staring at her butt. Then later I do it again.

  Talking with her makes me think a lot. I can’t tell if we’re arguing or discussing. I guess we’re both just really into what we’re talking about. I always feel like our arguments are, on an unspoken level, about me being a sexist pig. I get defensive, but that could be because she’s right. I don’t know.

  It’s good to be challenged so that I think a lot about the words that I say and what they mean.

  The bad part is: it’s impossible to put the moves on someone when you are completely paranoid of them thinking you’re a pig.

  I can’t believe how much bottled water we sell. People don’t give a shit about what comes out of the faucets, as long as they can afford the clean stuff. Tough shit for the people who can’t.

  Eron invited me to work at Discontent stuffing copies of the new Colburn album, which is cool, meeting some new people, a little cash, and I’ll get to see how it works. Amazing that he remembers me from TN. He and I both know that I remember him, cause I paid to watch and listen to him. But I’m amazed that he remembers me. Strange that across the world there are people that everyone will always remember and others that have to be psyched when those people remember them.

  Came home, kids were all in the kitchen and living room Food Not Bombing. Talked to Colin on the phone. Hard to explain to someone at college what’s going on here. Zines, music, politics, three local labels, everyone is up to something. Even the show tonight is raising money for a rape crisis center, not to mention it’s all-ages. Feels like Haight-Ashbury in the 60’s, except no one’s doing drugs, or talking about sex (or doing it as far as I can tell). Plus, people don’t have lice.

  People who weren’t the homecoming royalty and don’t want to be.

  Bored. But nothing seems like fun. Every record looks foreign and unpleasant to listen to, even my faves. Sick of reading, tv, music, walking and working. Feel like it’s a Sunday and I’m dreading returning to school tomorrow. For no real reason, like it’s just my time of month.

  Haven’t talked to Christa for a week. I can’t tell if she’s avoiding me. The last time I saw her we were at her place after the Three On The Tree show. Seemed obvious (to me) that I wanted to kiss her. She didn’t say she was tired, I didn’t offer to leave, she didn’t invite me to stay, conversation wore thin. It was hard to tell what was up, or wasn’t.

  When I called tonight, Lisa said that she was out with Jonas. I wonder if they have something going. Jealous? Who me?

  Nov. 5, 1991

  Maureen,

  It’s really good to get letters from you. I was laughin’. Are you sure that my parents don’t pay you to write me about how great college is? You wouldn’t believe the shit they’ve been giving me lately.

  The other night I went to the Discontent House and helped package CDs and records for a big mailing. They do everything themselves, from promotion to tour, and they hire all these local punkers to work in the office and take care of various business things. It’s pretty much the coolest business I’ve ever heard of. They’re totally into documenting the DC punk scene, not putting out records just because they’ll sell. The bands have total control over the music and covers, and the CDs never cost more than $8. I got paid $6 an hour to help, and got a free copy of the CD. It’s awesome that there are people here who have gotten to the level of a nationally distributed record label, who keep going because they care about what they’re doing, not because they’re trying to make money. The idea of “rock stars” is pretty stupid, but I’m still in awe of the cool things they do.

  A couple of nights ago I went to see a show at El Pollo Negro, the big club here, and in between the bands these women (part of the whole Riot Grrrl thing I told you about) were doing spoken word performance stuff. This woman who I think is super smart did a piece about beauty. I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I can’t really summarize, but to summarize… It was about how men’s perceptions of women’s appearances, and women’s awareness of the way that men look at them, are part of the violence that happens against women in our society. I feel like it was really good poetry no spare words and the words flipped around and felt different in each sentence.

  The poem got me thinking about how annoyed you used to get when I told you that you were beautiful. Like on prom night. No matter how many times you told me, I never quite understood. I could try to remember, but then we’d end up in some situation where you looked great, and I’d be all giddy in love, and then I’d say it again.

  The poem linked concepts of beauty and a culture of sexual abuse really well, and I finally understood a lot of things that you had been saying to me. I remembered the time that we were fooling around while the Springer’s were on vacation, and I looked up after a while and you were crying. And feeling a wall that I hadn’t known before between us. And I knew, somehow, that it was a wall that neither of us wanted, but one that we were going to spend a long time trying to get through or around, trying to feel close to each other again. And when you told me about that shit with your uncle, I knew that’s what that day had been about, even though we’ve never talked about why you were crying. And now I understand a little more, maybe, about how you hated to hear about how pretty people think you are. It’s pretty awkward to be writing this stuff, but seemed better than talking about it on the phone. I don’t mean to just bring it up out of the blue, but it’s stuff that I’ve been thinking about. Maybe you said some of the same things on prom night, in the midst of the Big Talk, and I just wasn’t ready to understand. Feel like I’m starting to understand more of what went on between us. Which is cool.

  I think a lot of crazy things about us. Sometimes I think that we’ll never live in the same town again. Sometimes I’m scared that these letters are the epitaph. Sometimes I imagine our children, as they sort through our stuff, will find these letters, tied up with a dainty ribbon, and wonder if they should read them. It’s all anchored securely in reality. (I especially like the idea of you wrapping the letters, reverently, with a yellow silk ribbon, the excess of the ribbon you used to make that darling Easter bonnet.) We’re just simple country folk, do
ing the best we can, readin’ the Bible, raisin’ barns after they burn cause it was such a dry summer, and maybe a little dancin’ after we harvest the crops. But not that kind of dancin’.

  Take care, do your homework. Have fun with those kids at the grade school, Ms. Hall.

  Your contact with what you Oberliners call “the real world,” I am,

  Elliot

  Sorry if I went too far. I know we’re supposed to be excited about these growing pains.

  Got a raise at work. Think I’m supposed to be happy and go out to a big dinner with the wife.

  “That promotion finally came through, dear. We can afford our first child and the BMW.”

  “Oh love, I’m so proud of you. When you called and told me I went and put on your favorite lingerie.” Woo hog.

  Christa. I kissed Christa.

  I kissed Christa and I really want to talk to someone about it. No one here who I can talk to about this kind of stuff. The person I really want to tell is still Maureen.

  Tuesday night every one was over here and it was late. There was still stuff going on downstairs, so I offered my room. She was gonna sleep on the floor, but ended up in the bed, big enough for two. It was a long night of poor sleep and no action. A few days of total confusion, and now we’ve kissed.

  In Wilson a kiss means this: we’re going to date, be boyfriend and girlfriend. It means that we are going to walk around the mall with our hands in each others’ back pockets. Cool that stuff here is more what we make it/ decide it to be. Not just plugging into premade roles that don’t necessarily fit.

  But being confused sucks. Maybe I’m just nervous.

  Sean’s manifesto is complete. A hard night of wheat-pasting pays off: City Paper ran a blurb about the poster. Pretty funny.

  A suit came into the store today on lunchbreak, chatted it up with Sean. Made some joke about “those posters all over that say I should steal things.” Sean said, “Go ahead.” The guy looked kind of scared. As he left, Sean said loudly to me,“He certainly is a well-programmed one, isn’t he?”

  Ed says the phones were tapped when they organized protests last year and we should watch it, even with vandalism.

  Haven’t written in a while. Spending every other night with Christa, then too tired on nights alone. Not much to write. Go to work, eat food, make out, go to sleep. I like it fine. FNB on Saturdays, see some great bands, helping to set up a show. Every time that I see Christa around other people it’s really weird, neither of us wanting to act couple-ish, or even treat each other different than our friends. So that sometimes, when we get into our bedrooms, it’s hard to remember that we’re supposed to be a couple. There are always a few minutes where I try to figure out if we are going to make out, or even hug. We never sneak into the bathroom to make out, and when we do make out it’s not the hurry-upand-touch-I-want-to-be-as-close-as-possible, it’s more this-is-the-nice-thing-that-we-do-before-wego-to-sleep. It’s cool, because I feel like with her setting the pace, I never feel pushy or gross.

  Going home tomorrow, and will see Maureen there. Christa asked “Is it going to be hard for her?” Guess that’s her way of making it clear that we’re not kissing other people. I guess it’s unrealistic to expect to feel closer to Christa than to Maureen this early on.

  Wonder what I’ll tell Maureen about Christa.

  Twelve hours driving with Jordana. We listened to a lot of seriously punk rock tapes.

  As we got closer to home, Nauseous and I rode in the same seat, one low fare. When we rolled into town it was strange to be seeing all of this again, and stranger still knowing that another pair of eyes watched me and the town. Couldn’t believe I was back; took less than two seconds to remember all the reasons that I left. Every building looked so po-dunk and stupid and third-rate, which was all right when we passed through the other small towns, but this one I knew. Knew just how rinky-dink and small the mentality is. I could already hear all of the questions (sincere) about what famous politicians and buildings I had seen. I could already hear Mrs.Bledsoe asking if I could get the president’s autograph for her. And the stories about everyone’s family trips to DC, and them acting like they know the town like the back of their hand. Not being able to explain that the only time I’ve been near the White House was to hand out food to homeless people.

  With Jordana driving me it felt like I was in high school getting a ride home from some friend who I didn’t want my parents to meet. Only I didn’t want my friend to meet my hometown. And then I started to feel like Jordana represented everything that Mom and Dad are mad about in relation to me living in DC.

  We pulled up in the driveway and walked through the door and I realized that it might be all in my head. M and D were happy to see me, I was happy to see them. Hannah and everyone was welcoming to Jordana and she smiled and didn’t say much, but it didn’t seem awkward. Little Sis was in rare form, a whole gaggle of things from school to show and various new talents to perform. When she saw Jordana’s pink hair, she said, “Wow, what color is your parents’ hair?” Everyone laughed and no one seemed to mind my new hairdo.

  She’s done this poem that goes:

  When you tell me to turn the page and follow along with my finger,

  My stomach grumbles

  And I tell myself to eat a bigger breakfast tomorrow.

  I’m so happy about the poem that I want to hug her, but I’ve got my role. Plus she’s thirteen and doesn’t want to be hugged anyway, so we both stand there, awkward and happy.

  Hannah assumes the role of interpreter and guide throughout the candle lighting. Gives play-by-play when the Guildensterns come over and all the people below the age of thirty five are required to play a game of dreidl so that Jordana can see How We Do It.

  Jordana, the Pennsylvania anthropologist, scribbled page after page of notes, struggling mightily with the issue of how exposure was going to corrupt the authentic practices of our tribe. And a time was had by all.

  Hard to go to sleep, knowing that I see Maureen tomorrow. Wish I could have seen her tonight. Strange that Jordana will be with us. Chaperone?

  Seeing Maureen is insane. Wonderful. Horrible. Feel like I’m holding myself back from kissing her and holding her everytime no one is looking. Must be really obvious, too. I think she feels the same way. We watched Over the Edge at M’s house. Jordana was asleep by the end (she’s seen it about 100 times) and me and M were sort of cuddling.

  When we left I felt like J thought I was a smutty boy who has different girls in each town and doesn’t tell them about each other. Which isn’t entirely true and isn’t entirely a lie. I didn’t do anything with Maureen that qualifies as Something I Have To Tell Christa About. And Maureen knows that I’m dating someone.

  Looks like the house that Tomothy and I have been scheming about really might happen. There’s a meeting here tomorrow. The idea was a house that also was a community space, and when we first started talking about it, it seemed good but farfetched, but now that we’ve been talking about it for a while.

  Inga, T.K. and this guy Matt who Tomothy knows all said they might live in a place with us. I guess T.K. and Matt helped start FNB here, now they do Anarchist Black Cross stuff.

  Not really in the mood to write. Still sort of worried about last night.

  Last night in bed I asked if we should get some condoms and she seemed really flustered. Cool with me if it didn’t happen, but then I felt like a jerk for bringing it up. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” Nothing-nothing, or don’t-want-to-talk-nothing?Just a single word, a back turned.

  Awake most of the night wondering what was going on. Did I fuck up by asking about sex so soon (two months)? Did she think I was trying to pressure her? Is she afraid of diseases/pregnancy? Is she having sex with other people?

  When she woke up in the morning she acted like nothing had happened. I already felt gross about last night, didn’t want to make her more uncomfortable. Wish I could read her mind.

  Still don’t know what was going on the ot
her night. She seemed happy tonight. We had fun. Guess she doesn’t hate me. It seems like no talk is good talk with Christa when it comes to sex.

  I’m pretty sure her Mom and Dad are pissed about her dating me. Maybe it’s the Jewish thing. Says her family has “great respect for the Jewish faith” but if you have to say something about it…Maybe they think we’re having sex, which they’re probably upset about, and it looks like I’m treating their daughter like a tramp by doing it with her and then not spending the holidays with her. Like they’d be psyched if she had gone to TN with me…

  Not much fun dating a whole family. Wish Christa stood up to her folks as much as she stands up to me.

  Last night Christa and I were fooling around in my bedroom. It was getting intense. She asked where the condoms were. It caught me a little off guard, but I got them out, and asked if she was sure. “Yeah,” she said. “I mean it makes sense at this point.” (Riot Grrrl speak for “Take Me, I’m Yours!”)

  I was pretty psyched, but then had trouble with the condom and had to get out another. Then we did it and it kept stopping and starting and falling out. Seemed like a struggle. It was awkward, not in a cute, tee-hee way, but grim, let’s-take-care-of-thisbusiness. It was like she didn’t want to be in charge and get on top, but didn’t like me being on top of her.

  Psyched. Looks like Hornets Nest will happen. Matt and T. K. and I signed the lease. On the bus I felt like we were a couple who just got married and got a real “fixer upper.” Couldn’t wait til T and I got home, to tell them. So much stuff to do.

  Need to talk with Jordana, to make sure that she doesn’t want one of the rooms. To make sure that she knows that I’m sad to be leaving her.

  The tension makes you sick to your stomach, or maybe it’s not the tension, maybe it’s the disgusting grocery store cake you convinced me to buy. Whatever the reason, you don’t want to eat anymore. Now that I’m hungry, I can’t even enjoy it. Your housemates will eat the cake now, they won’t thank me, they don’t like me because I always make you cry.