This story was written between May 2007 and October 2007. It is what it is. There are a couple subtle KD references and a few symbolic things that if you don't get, don't matter.
"Those drugs you got won't make you feel better." Elliott Smith Twilight**********************************
Part 1:The words came to me half passed-out in the bathtub with water from the showerhead trickling along my naked skin. Bleeding from self-inflicted wounds on my arms and legs and high on handfuls of pills (some legal, others not so much), I heard the answer to my questions. I learned the meaning of life.
When my mind finally fell silent from the loss of blood and the hallucinogens, the words were gone. They’d disappeared and my brain was sadly incapable of latching on and holding them close. It was similar to the feeling one suffers when believing he’s found his Juliet on the subway, but loses her for good among the crowd of other straphanging partygoers. An emptiness: like so many other disappointments have left in my heart.
The incident saddened me, but I shook it off. The bleeding had ceased and my high had worn. Cold water weakly fell atop my skin and bounced to the bathtub floor. My skin felt cold and prune-y as I stood, turned off the water, and reached for my green towel. I was a mess, with opened wounds and dark bruises. I couldn’t remember exactly what I’d done the previous night and I knew that was probably for the best.
In the mirror, my reflection was that of a ghost.
“I’m still me. I’m still me.”
Turning away from the mirror, I pretended to know what the words I’d spoken really meant. The red light blinked on my answering machine and that’s never good.
“Dan!” The voice bit. “Dan!? Answer me! If you miss your shift tonight I don’t know if I’ll be able to bail you out! Get over here!” Allison was pissed and the machine went quiet.
And what was worse: I
had missed my shift. Second time this week. Shit.
I liked this job too. Working at a record store is probably the closest I’ll ever get to the music industry.
Looking over at the clock, I noticed I hadn’t managed to miss the entire day and while I may have missed last night’s shift, I can still make today’s if I haven’t already been fired. So, picking up the first clean pair of holey jeans and pulling my Fugazi tee shirt over my head, I stumbled out of my apartment and hailed a cab.
Part 2:
“Oh, this is rich,” Allison squawked. She had every right to hate me. Last night wasn’t the first time she’d stuck up for me and I have managed to let her down every chance I’ve had. “Where were you last night? Huh? You get my message?”
“Yeah, Al, sorry.”
“Sorry!? Where the fuck were you? It’s bad enough I was the one who got you this job…are you determined to get us
both fired!?”
“
You won’t get fired.”
“Oh?” she asked skeptically.
“Yeah.”
“And you know this…?”
“I know because Lucy has a thing for you and I know Lucy has a thing for you because it’s the only reason she hired
me in the first place…to make you happy. Why else would she hire me?”
After a moment’s thought, Allison grinned and replied, “Haha, well,
that’s true. It’s not like you have any qualification or redeeming characteristics,” she smirked. There was a short awkward silence and then she added, “You weren’t fired, by the way.”
A sudden ping of relief ran through my veins which carried with it a renewed cockiness in my mannerisms. If she wasn’t going to fire me last night, she wasn’t going to fire me for being a smart ass. My confidence was revived. I felt like my old self: for better or for worse.
“Lucy must really like you,” I joked.
“This is it, Dan,” she replied sternly. “This is it. You fuck up again and you’re on your own.”
“Okay!”
“No, I mean it.”
“Ohhhh-kaaaaaay.”
She gave me a disapproving and unconvinced look as she totted a pile of 45s to the “Used Vinyl” bin. Allison is
something. She’s my best friend. She’s the only woman I’ve ever trusted. She’s the personification of “New Yorker.” She’s tattooed, tough, brilliant, and independent. Yes, she’s a lesbian. She’s been there for every failure I’ve suffered through and every success I’ve celebrated, as few of the latter as there have been. She introduced me to my first girlfriend and then ate ice cream with me when that first girlfriend cheated on me and dumped me three days before junior prom. I don’t know why she sticks by me anymore. I guess out of habit…or maybe her conscious won’t let her give up on the wreck she’s been trying to fix up since middle school. She’s always looked out for me and I’ve done so little for her in return. I guess she just hasn’t needed help as much as I. Maybe that’s why we work so well together: I need all the help I can get and she needs to help people. She never does anything for approval, attention, or recognition. She just does it because she can and she wants to.
Part 3: I spend my days behind the counter of Lu’s Records. That is, at least, when I don’t forget to go in and don’t pass out before my shift. (Lucy opened the store seven years ago and thought “Lucy’s Records” sounded too “Babysitter’s Club.”) Allison met Lucy at some dingy rock club after one of her lesbian-power girl-bands had wrapped up its set. Allison, in college at the time, learned about Lu’s Records and, eventually, started working there part-time. After college, she just never left. Now, Allison is a full-time employee of Lu’s Records and Lucy lets her make a lot of managerial decisions since Lucy’s other two stores have opened and have taken up more of her time. In other words, Allison’s not doing too badly and she may find herself managing the place full-time if Lucy’s other endeavors are successful. Therefore, Allison can afford to take pity on her old friend: me.
During the time in which Al met Lu, I was also going to school and majoring in Music Theory. At least, that’s what I said I was doing. In reality, I was smoking every leafy substance I could find, drinking every bottle within reach, and swallowing anything that looked and felt like a pill while flunking out of every subject I registered to take. I worked at a convenient store near campus, but just long enough to have money for food, drugs, and booze. When the money ran dry, the food was the first thing to get cut off that list, followed by booze and drugs. When it all ran dry, I picked up a razor still laced with coke and started carving lists on my skin. It’s not that I was suicidal. I was just indifferent, which may be worse.
I graduated college, but just barely and late. I worked at random places and spent the money on the same shit; although, after grad this thing called “rent” peeped into my vocabulary. Nothing ever changes, though. I didn’t want to change. It was easier staying stuck in the same web of bullshit that kept me locked away throughout all of my high school and college years. I lived the rock-n-roll life without the fame or fans. Who says you need an excuse to live in excess? Live fully while you can, even if it kills you. That’s what I think, anyway.
Or maybe that’s just some shit I tell myself to excuse the fact that I am 28 years old, working at a slummy record store with my best friend, and haven’t grown in maturity since I grew pubes. Thinking about my future only leads me back to my addictions with fervor, rather than the usual apathy with which I live my life otherwise. You see, I can fuck myself up really well. I can get high off anything for the sake of being high. But when it’s actually about something or because of something, as a reaction to something, then emotions are linked to it and I become the mess I was last night, sitting in my bathtub, wishing I had the energy to die.
I’m sure I can’t get through life like this. I’m sure someday I’ll need to get a real job with a significant salary and benefits, but what do I know of work? This is the most stable job I’ve ever had and considering my constant inability to perform adequately at it, who the fuck would hire me? Unless she had a crush on my best friend, that is, of course. I have no idea what to do with my life, so I stay here where things are comfortable and I get by. Whether I’m happy or not has never mattered because I’m not sure I’ve ever been happy so I don’t know what I’m missing. I don’t know what it would take for me to feel happiness either, so I’ve decided it’s best not to try just to fail.
Part 4:
“Alllllllison.”
“Dan?”
“Alllllllliiiiisooooon.”
“Dan? What are you doing?” Allison asked on her end of the line.
“Oh, Alllissooooonnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”
“You are not calling me shitfaced right now, are you? Dan? Really?”
“Hahahahahaha. AlllisooooooooooOOOOOOOOOOoooooonnn.”
“Okay, what? Where are you?”
“Hoooooome,” I sang.
“I’m coming over. Stay put,” she sighed.
She hates it when I drink like this. She hates it even more when I drink alone. I’m not even really that drunk, but I want her here and when she gets here I need her to be stern, but also sympathetic. It’s time for some girl talk. I need some direction. I need to be slapped around. This is called therapy for the poor man.
I hear her fumbling with her key in my door. She has her own key to my place, obviously, so she can come beat me up when I fuck up.
“Oh my God,” she said shocked at the state of my apartment.
“How do you live in this? Seriously?” I didn’t answer and she sighed in frustration. “What did you do to yourself tonight?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are all these bottles from tonight?” she asked disappointedly.
Okay, so maybe I
was pretty drunk. I nodded and she released another sorry sigh. Then, she did something miraculous: she stood up and began cleaning my apartment. She wouldn’t talk and she didn’t ask me to help. She just started picking up bottles and pizza boxes, organizing everything into recycling piles and trash piles. She picked up the mail I’d plopped down on random surfaces and organized them into piles of bills, notices, and junk. I didn’t leave my couch the whole time. I’m pretty sure I passed out for a while and when I came to, she sat silently on the other side on the room in the rocking chair.
“You gonna throw up?” she finally asked.
“No,” I said as it seemed my nap had – more or less – sobered me.
“You can’t keep living like this.”
“I know – ”
“No! You don’t! You can’t keep living like this ‘cause
I can’t keep living like this. I can’t keep bailing you out and remaking your apartment every time you hit rock bottom. Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been up to. Don’t think I don’t worry, either – ”
“Ohh, Al, I know you worry…”
“Dan! Shut up!” I shut up. “You’re gonna kill yourself and that doesn’t work well with me. I need you too, yanno!” she blurted.
Why on earth does she need me when all I do is fuck her life up?
“Why do
you need
me?
“Dan, you’ve been the only friend who’s managed to stick by me over all these years. You’re the only one. You know that. You and me…we need each other. And I need you to be around. I need you to figure out what you want to do with yourself so you stop ending up in your shitty apartment, by yourself,
hurting yourself. This shit’s gonna kill you! Drinking is one thing, but…come on. You’re not in college anymore. You need to…I don’t know…grow up. I love you, yanno? You’re not alone, but you need to clean yourself up.”
“I know. I do. I just…I don’t know. I don’t know,” my words trailed off.
“Well, what do you want?”
“I don’t know,” I said and I sincerely thought I was being honest.
“That’s bullshit. Everyone wants something. Everyone has that perfect image in his head of how his life will be in ten years. Close your eyes. What do you see?”
“Allison, come one, don’t be some motivational speaker, telling me how I can be whatever I want to be when I grow up. I’m too old for that shit.”
“No, Dan! You’re too old for
this,” she said motioning at my slouched body sunk into a couch and, of course, she had a point so I closed my eyes. “Now…what do you see in there?”
“Nothing,” I said sadly.
“Dan!”
“Alright, alright! Uhhh…I don’t know. A dark club. Lights. A stage. I don’t know,” I answered, embarrassed.
“A stage?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
She stood up and walked over to the far corner of my apartment where a pile of junk lay. That’s where I put things I can’t throw out, but really have no use for anymore. She shuffled around until she found the black case she’d been searching for and lifted it out from my pile of junk. She opened the case and pulled out the acoustic guitar I hadn’t played since high school.
“Play me something.”
“No,” I said shaking my head. “No, no, no.”
“Why not?”
“I haven’t touched that thing in…like…ten years.”
“So?”
"I doubt I can even still play it!”
“Dan, you know why I vouched for you with Lucy?”
“Because you feel sorry for me?” I replied and received a hurt look from Allison.
“No! Of course not! I don’t feel sorry for you! I vouched for you because when you’re not shitfaced, you’re talking about music! You’re listing the top D.C. underground punk records of the 80s. You’re spewing out lyrics written by some guy who’s probably long dead, but who used to be in some band out of Queens that no one else has ever even heard of! You probably know more about music than Lucy does!”
“Okay, fine, so I know my shit, but that doesn’t mean
I have talent!”
“Play me something.”
“I really don’t know if I remember how. It’s been a while.”
“Try it.”
Reluctantly, I picked up the guitar and tried to play. I didn’t get far because it was horribly out of tune, but once I’d fixed that problem, I remembered an old song I’d written. The lyrics were shit. I mean, I
was in high school, after all, but the music was alright. My fingers were clumsy, though, and after battling through the opening verse and part of the bridge, I gave up.
“Keep going!” Allison insisted.
“No, really, I don’t remember the rest. The sheet music is probably around somewhere, but God only knows where,” I replied sheepishly.
I was exhilarated. Picking up the guitar for the first time in so long forced a lot of things to rush back to me: good and bad. Mostly, I remembered the youth and vigor with which I once held that guitar and I wondered where that boy had gotten lost.
“Have you written anything recently?” Allison asked, breaking my train of thought, probably for the best.
I thought for a moment and answered, “No. No, not really.”
“Not really?”
“Not music.”
“Why not?” Al inquired.
“Because. I never had much talent to begin with. I write little things now and then: just words, but nothing with any real meaning and certainly nothing good enough to turn into music or prose. Just thoughts, bullshit.”
Part 5
Allison left soon afterward, once she was confident I wouldn’t run for a bottle or a razor blade. I’m too poor for drugs anymore, but liquor and sharp objects are easy to get your hands on. I wasn’t interested in that, though. I was curious about Allison’s question: why had I stopped writing music. Why did I write things down if I had no use for them?
Maybe I thought that when my life was over, someone would find my notebooks and scribbled upon napkins, put them together, and then let the world see how brilliant I had been. Most geniuses aren’t understood or appreciated until after their deaths anyway, so why not waste away until then?
No. That wasn’t quite it.
“They’re just words,” I said to myself.
Somewhere in those notes, I knew there was something primal, something about me: my cryptic autobiography. Some were just simple, stupid one-liners about life or death or me or her or him or it: the spring sunshine, the winter’s sting, my insecurities played out through madness, that girl I cut loose, that friend who cursed me, those habits I couldn’t leave in my past. I wrote in hopes that I’d get it one day. I wrote because I know there’s something about me in between the words, something that I can’t see in myself yet, but if I manage to put it all together someday…it might all make sense.
I’ve never been one to soul-search, but thinking about all this stuff made me meditate on my life. I guess I’ve always considered myself to be too manly to look into my soul to find the meaning of my own life. (I
am 5’6” and 167 pounds, after all: I just scream “manly man” wearing my “men’s short” jeans and almost needing women’s tee shirts because my ‘muscles’ can’t quite fill out a men’s shirt.) I started listing my good characteristics as well as my bad ones; I wondered what made me so goddamn self-destructive and where that behavior had originated; I tried to figure out what I loved and what might make me happy.
I managed to pinpoint a few life-long loves in my life: beer, women, music, and words. Beer is your friend even when your friends aren’t your friends, so it’s no wonder I fell for her. Next: women. The short list of women who’ve graced me with their panties are women I have and always will cherished. There aren’t many women who would look at a 20+ year old loser and say: “Yeah, I could love you.” Women are beautiful though elusive creatures. I don’t understand them, but I do love them: every single short-skirted, high healed, curvy, luscious woman who’s ever shaken her hips in front of me.
Music is a little like beer
and women. It’s always there for you, regardless of what you may or may not have said about his mother, but good music can be flirtations and elusive. I’ve perfected the art of listening and I know what a good band sounds like. Call me a snob and I generally won’t disagree, but I also won’t bode you into a discussion about music if I don’t think you are a formidable opponent.
And yes, I play a little. Or at least I used to. I met a couple guys my freshmen year of high school who had a garage band. I’ve never really been into garage band music, but they were the only guys I knew who played anything and they were nice enough, so I joined up. We called ourselves the Politically Correct Slacks and, no, I have no idea why. Ted played bass and I’m pretty sure he was gay. Great dude: not so great bass player. Alex played drums and, on occasion,
did manage to keep a beat. Carl was the band’s singer and lead guitar player. I joined as the second guitar player, but eventually I began writing more songs than Carl. By the time our school’s talent show came up the following year, I’d adopted the roll of singer. I loved playing, even if no one was watching, even if we were only playing in front of idiotic high school kids who wouldn’t know a mandolin from a banjo. We weren’t very good, even as high school bands go, but we had a good time. Alex moved during the summer after sophomore year and the band, for all intents and purposes, broke up. It was fun while it lasted, but senior year I met my first pot dealer and I turned in my pick and sheet music.
As for words: I guess I just like playing with them. I used to pretend I was a writer in college. I did the whole newspaper thing where I saw my name in a byline and thought I was hot shit. They had me reporting sports news, though. I guess because I was the only male on staff when I joined, they tossed me over to do sports news even though I knew almost nothing about any of the sports on which I was charged to report. However, I made the best of it. I used to play a game to see how many sexual innuendoes I could squeeze into an article without getting them edited out. You’d be surprised how perverted sports can be. Still, I knew how to write and I knew how to be clever. Unlike many of my reporter colleagues, I had a pretty large vocabulary and I actually owned both a dictionary
and a thesaurus. I dabbled in creative writing: stories and poetry…shit like that, took a couple classes and did well, but always felt too embarrassed to show it to people who weren’t grading me. I guess that part’s still true about me.
Part 6: “Hey, champ,” Lu greeted me the following day when I showed up to work…
on time. “Here, take a look at these,” she added tossing a stack of quarter page flyers on the counter.
The flyer read:
Lu’s Records. September 27th. 7pm. Jacob Dunning sings and speaks on Life, Death, and Art. Q&A and signing.
“What?” I asked, quite surprised.
“He has a solo record coming out next week. Wants to make some local appearances. You work that day, right?”
“Uhh…I do now,” I said, a little embarrassed to be seen so dumbfounded.
“That’s my busy little bee!” Lu antagonized, pinching my cheeks as she went back to stacking boxes to recycle.
There are four names that if you know anything about punk, indie, underground music you probably know: Ian MacKaye, Jeremy Enigk, Blake Schwarzenbach, and Jacob Dunning. There are others, of course, but I’d say these are your four essentials. Regardless of your views on their particular talents, you have to respect their influences on music.
Ian MacKaye fronted D.C. punk band Fugazi in the 80s and 90s. They were a very political hardcore band who I only had the pleasure of seeing once when I was thirteen in the early 90s. I snuck out of my house to get my ass kicked at some club that probably got shut down soon afterward. He was also in Minor Threat and a few other bands, but I never got to see any of them play. Pity.
Jeremy Enigk still makes music and is, arguably, the most well known of the four. He fronted the Seattle band Sunny Day Real Estate, who I’ve never been a huge fan of, but I’ve grown to appreciate more as I’ve aged. He went through a big Christian phase and Sunny Day broke up. Then they more-or-less reformed under another name later, but Jeremy seems to focus more on his solo work now than on anything with a band. He has a voice. That’s for sure. I’ve seen him play solo a few times and maybe that’s where his talents are best displayed: on stage rather than on record.
Then, there’s Blake Schwarzenbach. He was Jawbreaker’s front man until they broke up in the late 90s. He started another band after that, Jets To Brazil, and they put out a few records, but I hear he’s teaching English at a college somewhere around here these days. I gotta say: that’d be pretty sweet. I’d consider paying to take some random English class if I knew he’d be teaching it.
Lastly: Jake Dunning. Along the same veins as the others, Jake was the front man of the New York band Honor’s Pearl until he had some sort of drug induced mental breakdown five or ten years ago. The band never really broke up so much as Jake lost touch with humanity and slipped out of sight.
There was always something incredible about his music for me, though. Maybe I just hold him close to my heart because Honor’s Pearl released their third (and what turned out to be their last) album at the same time I was writing songs for the P.C. Slacks. Since that was my only productive song-writing period, you might say he was a huge influence of mine. Regardless of my own attempts at musicianship, his words inspired me and clicked with me. I managed to see them a bunch of times before Jake went into hiding and I loved every second of every show. Everything made sense when I watched to them play.
Until now, I thought Jake had wound up at some mental institution gnawing on pencils and throwing oatmeal around. It’s sad, but that sort of image wouldn’t surprise me at all. You could tell Jake was heading towards disaster every time you heard him talk or saw him off stage. On stage, with guitar in hand: that was his world. That’s where he was born and raised. That was all he knew how to do. Take him off the stage and life fell apart around him and crushed him to death. He was a mess, probably addicted to more hallucinogens than I ever was. But, since he was in a band it was excused. I guess no one really saw his downfall coming.
“Yanno, I thought this guy was either hold up in some institution or dead,” I finally blurted.
“Yeah. I remember he was in some band a while back. I think I saw them once or twice.”
“I saw them a ton of times. Really great stuff. I’ll make you a mix if ya want,” I offered.
“Yeah, do that. I’d like that. Thanks,” Lucy said with a smile.
I felt like a huge geek; I felt thirteen again. Excitement is an understatement, but I decided I didn’t care. I felt like being a little girl at a New Kids On The Block concert.
Part 7: The grin would not wash off my face as I dusted off my old Honor’s Pearl CDs and revisited the only healthy period of my life. Jake Dunning was before his time. Even now, so many years after the fact, I still believe that to be true. It didn’t matter where he was playing or with whom he played. It didn’t matter if he just stood on the edge of the stage and sung a cappella. His voice mixed with his ridiculously dark and insightful lyrics were magnetic. There was so much talent built up inside this one little man and – I guess – it just made him burst.
I listened to all three records from cover to cover in chronological order by release date. I listened twice and then on the third listen, I began making lists. I’d promised Lucy a mix and I would not disappoint. I had to decide which songs made the cut and in which order they should appear. When making a mix, there are a few basic rules everyone can and should follow, regardless of genre or relation to the mix’s recipient.
Rule #1: always record the mix on a cassette tape, none of this CD burning bullshit. Everyone still has a Walkman laying around the house somewhere or a stereo system that includes a tape deck and if not, you probably shouldn’t want to give said person a mix in the first place. Now, if later on, this person wants to make your mix more accessible (say for iPod use) then negotiate a music borrowing system. Aside from the cutesy novelty of giving a cassette tape, it also shows time and thought was put into this mix. Plus, it’s easier to record vinyl to cassette tape than it is to burn vinyl to a CD in cases where using vinyl for a mix is necessary. You’d either need to have an external CD burner and know how to hook up the equipment correctly or you’d need to buy a fancy vinyl to MP3 ripper, which can be expensive and is – more or less – not worth the trouble.
Rule #2: don’t begin the mix with the song you think is the best. You can’t allow the listener to be enticed by the first track and let down by the following tracks.
Rule #3: pace yourself. You can’t use all the fast songs in a clump or all the slow ones in a clump. You also can’t surprise the listener too much by having the two extremes appear one right after the other. This may be the hardest rule to follow because it truly requires skill. You have to allow the songs to waver up and down: between fast and slow with no extremes next to each other. Putting a really loud, fast song next to a really soft, slow one is bad news. You’re setting a scene with your mix, a mood. You don’t want to break that mood. You have to identify those songs that are the extremes of each case and find appropriate songs to fill the middle spaces.
Rule #4: don’t leave a lot of empty space at the end of the mix. If you can’t fill an entire tape, you need to try harder. There are tons of short songs out there. I’d say if you leave more than five minutes blank at the end of a mix, you’re obviously an amateur.
After that, the rules of making a mix tape depend on the message you want to send. Don’t fool yourself: every mix is made with intent, even if the intent is just to get your boss into a band you liked in high school. Getting laid is not always the reason for making a mix and if you’re making a mix for your boss, you probably want to throw the “getting laid mix” on the back burner (especially if you’re a dude and she’s a lesbian). Mix titles are often useful and I don’t see any problem with using one as long as if fits, isn’t cheesy, and is to the point. A title can also help ensure the correct message comes across. For example: Honor’s Pearl songs were primarily about all kinds of bad living from drugs to booze to sex to fucking up good relationships. Obviously, I don’t want my boss to think I am a drugged up, boozed up, sexaholic fuck up. (Just because I
am all of those things doesn’t mean that’s the message I should want to send here.) So, to ensure Lucy understands the point of this mix, I peel up the stickers which the cassette tape company has so courteously inserted inside the case and stick one on each side of the tape and I write: “HONOR’S PEARL MIX for Lucy” with a fine tip Sharpie.
I would also recommend including a track list complete with – at least – band and song title. If you can fit album title in too, that’s even better. Band name isn’t always necessary: like if you’re making a mix of songs all from the same band. Mix making with songs from different bands requires the list include band and song title at the very least. This isn’t a puzzle or a game. If you want the recipient to enjoy what he or she is listening to, you should never keep this basic information out of his or her reach.
And with that, Lucy’s mix is complete.
Part 8: September 27th. I woke up before my alarm buzzed. I rested in my bed trying to figure out what people would say about me if I disappeared and then suddenly reappeared. I kept thinking that no one would have even realized I’d disappeared in the first place. I scared myself. Then, the alarm sounded and I walked to the shower. Gotta smell fresh for Jake!
Lucy, as expected, enjoyed her mix tape. She ordered extra copies on Honor’s Pearl’s three records for the store, both in preparation for Jake’s visit, but also so she could snag them. She seemed almost as excited as I on the day of Jake’s in-store, though I suspected Allison might have also been the cause for her delight. I caught them giving each other that hot lesbian sex eye over the counter. I didn’t ask. I didn’t need to. Allison smelled of sex and I was jealous, but that was neither here nor there.
Jake arrived early. Lucy greeted him. I watched out of the corner of my eye as she shook his hand, very politely, and exchanged pleasantries. I imaged what she was saying:
It’s wonderful to meet you. You’re music is really inspiring. An employee of mine, really a friend of mine, gave me some of your music. He’s a great guy; I’d love to introduce you” and then she’d walk over to me. But she didn’t. Instead, she shook his hand and he smiled. She pointed over to the stage and the storage room (slash) “backstage” area and, I’m sure, told him to ask her if he had any questions or problems.
By now, a small crowd had become to form before the makeshift stage. They were all in their late 20s and early 30s. Some were wearing suits and ties, just coming out from work or an important dinner. Some were dressed more casually, but still clean and successful looking. These were my peers. These were the guys I played music with in high school and the girls who let me fuck them. This was my youth all grown up. This is how I should have turned out.
Jake was low-tech tonight. I’ve seen him play almost any way a musician can play. I’ve seen him play solo acoustic, solo electric, with his band, with various members of the band, with various members of other people’s bands, and so on. Each setting has a different feel, making the music feel constantly refreshing and different. I wondered if he’d indulge us by playing one or two of the “oldies,” but I didn’t labor of the question too long. He set up his guitar, plugged her in, and set her still on his guitar stand. Then, he walked off the stage to wander among the commoners: peering into CD racks and taking particular care to sift through our used vinyl bins. Lucy interrupted his search. She spoke to him and his yes lit up. He laughed in response to her comments and she laughing in return. He nodded his head, turning back to the vinyl, and she walked towards the stage.
Grabbing the mic and clearing her throat, she said: “Welcome to Lu’s Records!” and there was a polite applause. “Thank you all for coming. We’re always glad to have musicians grace our little store and tonight, as I’m sure you all know, we have Jake Dunning with us,” and the crowd’s applause grew slightly louder. “I just wanted to take a moment to thank Jake for coming in today and to let you all know that Lu’s has copies of Jake’s new CD by the counter, so be sure to pick one up before you leave!” more applause, yeah, yeah, get on with it, Lucy. I watched from the back, right corner of the store where I pretended to work. “Well, without further ado, please welcome Jacob Dunning!” Lucy finally spat out as the crowd gave another round of applause and Jake made his way from the used vinyl bin to the stage.
“Hey!” he said smiling. The crowd had not stopped clapping. “Thanks so much for having me here today and for coming out,” he continued as he picked up his guitar and situated his rear end of the stool Lucy had provided. “Umm, I think I’m gonna play a couple new songs and then a couple old songs, if that’s cool,” the crowd, still clapping, now clapped in great approval. “Alright,” he grinned and began to play.
He began with a song I didn’t recognize, but took only about fifteen seconds to realize I loved. He didn’t talk much in between songs and he kept his eyes focused on his fingers or maybe the carpet or maybe just the air. I watched his fingers fuck the strings. The crowd nodding their heads in quiet contemplation. First, he played three songs I didn’t recognize. New works of art. He finished the third and grabbed his capo from the head of his guitar. The crowd smiled and clapped. I knew what he was going to play. “Ship The Sea.” It’s the second track from the first Honor’s Pearl record.
“Thanks, guys,” he said. “I think I’m going to do…this one,” and his fingers placed themselves of the opening chord to “Ship The Sea.”
He followed it with “Uniforms And Accents,” “Shouting Mexican” and “What Stars?” before pausing for a few more words.
“I think I have time for one more?” he asked looking for Lucy’s approval.
“Sure!” she said, watching from the check out counter with Allison.
He ended with another new song and, again, thanked the crowd for coming out and being so polite. Lucy came up to the stage, playing MC for the night, and explained that the crowd could now ask questions. Most of the questions were ridiculous and arbitrary. Most of the questions I already knew the answers to, so I found myself actually working. No one seemed to want to ask what really happened to Honor’s Pearl or to where Jake had disappeared. I couldn’t blame them. I didn’t want to ask either.
Once time was given for the crowd to mingle and buy Jake’s record, a short line formed to have him sign his new work. He seemed gracious and patient.
“You going up there?” Lucy asked, breaking me out of my little world.
“Me? Ahh…I don’t know.”
“Have you ever met him?” she asked, surprised with my nervousness.
“A couple times, a long time ago, but I’m sure he was far too high at the time to remember me.”
“You should go up there,” she encouraged. “He’s a really nice guy. He might even be nice to a jackass like you!” she joked.
I stayed behind, though. What could I say to Jake Dunning that wouldn’t be totally inappropriate and a little gay? The store began to clear out. He’d played for about forty-five minutes, done Q&A about half an hour, and then hung around talking to fans for almost an hour. By 9pm, the store was quiet. Lucy helped Jake with his gear and took the stage down. Jake stayed, though. He returned to his used vinyl bin and selected a few records. The store doesn’t close until10pm, but it was opened only to him now.
Part 9:
Allison and Lucy had disappeared to the storage room, leaving me in charge of the register. Eventually, Jake strolled up with three records under his arm and a stack on seven CDs in his left hand; his right struggled to grab the wallet in his back pocket. I held my hands out to take the CDs from his hand.
“Thanks,” he said, placing the records on the counter and rescuing his wallet.
“No, it’s my pleasure,” I smiled.
My pleasure? That’s the best you can come up with, chump! “I mean: I’m a fan. Thanks a lot for coming in today. The new stuff sounds great.”
“Oh, thanks, man. I mean it,” he seemed sincere.
I rang up his selections. The CDs he found through scouring between the new and used CD racks: Jets to Brazil
Orange Rhyming Dictionary, José González
Veneer, Iron And Wine
The Creek Drank the Cradle, Kevin Devine
Make The Clocks Move, Jeremy Enigk
World Waits, Elliott Smith
From A Basement On A Hill, and Bruce Springsteen
The Seeger Sessions. The vinyl albums were all from the used vinyl bin: The Smiths
The Queen Is Dead, Fugazi
Repeater, and Fugazi
Embrace.
“I can’t believe anyone would ever want to sell this back,” I lamented, holding
Repeater in my hands.
He laughed, “That’s exactly what I was thinking, but…hey, one man’s trash.”
“This record came out when I was, like, ten or eleven I think. I heard a cassette playing in a friend’s brother’s car, scrounged up a couple weeks’ allowance for it, and wore it out.”
“Yeah, I had it on cassette for a while and then I just bought the CD. I’ve never owned it on vinyl. I’m really psyched about it,” he handed me his Visa. “Have you ever heard this?” he asked, pointing to
The Creek Drank The Cradle.
“Yeah, actually. It’s good, kinda folk-y.”
“Awesome. That’s what I was hoping for; that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve really been getting in to that shit recently: bands with weird instruments who play more than three chords, yanno?”
“Yeah,” I laughed.
I chatted, pleasantly, for several minutes with my hero before he asked, “Hey, sorry if this is weird, but have we met before?”
I couldn’t imagine him actually remembering me, but I answered, “Kind of. I saw Honor’s Pearl a lot when I was younger, talked to you a few times, but I doubt I’m that memorable,” I laughed nervously.
“You wore that black Fugazi shirt to a show I played at The Bitter End,” he stated plainly.
“Wow, yeah.”
“I hit bottom soon after that, not to imply that was your fault,” he explained. “I remember you, though. I remember wishing I could hear music with the same enthusiasm you did. You seemed to have an intrinsic understanding of music. I could see in your face you knew exactly what my music meant, maybe even more than I did. I was envious.”
I wasn’t sure what to say, but before thinking my mouth blurted, “Your music was in my life during the only healthy period of my life. Everything since then has been downhill.”
I hadn’t intended for that to come out as pathetically has it had.
“You can’t think of life as good or bad, though. It’s both. All the time. Plus, the bad wouldn’t be bad without the good and – likewise – the good wouldn’t be so good without the bad. Bad days suck, but they only make the good ones all the better.”
Amazing. Even a guy who managed to get himself so fucked up, he disappeared from the scene just before he could have really taken off somehow,
somehow, he manages to be more optimistic than I.
“Listen, you wanna grab a drink? I’ve sensed since I walked in that you’ve been trying to say something. I’ll beat it out of you if I have to,” he looked at me with the same all-knowing eyes with which he peered upon me as a teenager.
“Yeah. That’d be awesome,” I accepted the invitation. I’m a fuck-up, not a fool. “The store’s pretty quiet. Let me just make sure Lucy doesn’t need me,” I handed him a plastic bag with his records and CDs inside, locked the register, and went in search of my boss who had no reason to cut me any slack and let me leave early.
I knew she would, though. And she did.
Part 10: Jake’s car was parked outside the store and he locked up his gear and the Lu’s Records shopping bag in the truck. The bar two blocks from Lu’s Records was loud and busy. We sat at the bar, but he ordered a soda. Not wanting to be the lush between us, I did the same.
“You want to know what happened, right?” he asked.
“It’s none of
my business, but, yeah.”
The bartender looked at us displeasingly, leaving our non-alcoholic cheapo drinks. We paid him and tipped well to keep the death stares to a minimum.
“It doesn’t have to be your business to be curious,” he took a sip of the fizzy brown cancer in his glass. “Most of the rumors were true,” he admitted, “except the one about the straightjacket,” he laughed and I did too.
“So, what? Rehab? Mental institution? What happened? What caused it?”
“Rehab
and a short stay at the Riverside Mental Health Facility in some middle-of-nowhere town,” he corrected. “Imagine,” he paused. “Imagine having the life you’ve wanted since you had the ability to want and
still not being happy. Imagine living the life you always strove for, even being in love for a while, and
still finding fault in yourself. You begin to realize you can’t win. You begin to convince yourself it’s impossible and that happiness is this unrealizable goal no one ever truly achieves. You obsess over it. You won’t accept that you’re unhappy because of what you do to yourself. It’s not totally your fault, though. You’ve been raised to assume you’ll fail and you constantly wait for the other shoe to drop. You begin to wonder what the point is of God putting you here if you’re just going to suffer for 60 or 70 years. That’s when you try to kill yourself, the first time.”
“Suicide?”
“Attempted. Twice.”
“Mental institution?”
“Mental institution,” he confirmed and took another sip. “You get it. You’ve got that cynicism that even the ‘reformed me’ still has. I like you,” he nodded in contentment. “I wasn’t there long. They knew I wasn’t crazy, but they didn’t know what to do with me, my band, that is. They thought the label and fans would be more sympathetic if I wound up at a mental health place than rehab, but my mental problems were caused by being drunk and high for four years.”
“Yeah. I know how that feels,” I said staring straight into my glass.
“I know you do.”
“So, then, how’d you get out of it? How’d you find yourself back in the studio and playing shows?”
“My unhappiness wasn’t caused by my band. I loved all of that. Traveling from coast to coast, seeing the world, just being on stage? There’s no better rush. Writing your life out in chords and confessing your sins every night is the best form of repentance –”
“You found Jesus?” I asked skeptically, cutting him off.
“God, no!” he exclaimed. “
You have to forgive yourself and knowing other people get it makes you realize you’re not alone, you feel less ostracized. But you have to realize when you’ve fucked up and put your foot down to do something about it and you can’t get there until you’ve hit bottom. You can’t hold it over your own head either, though. You have to know how bad you’ve gotten before you can realize you need to stop. I would have killed myself had Ralphy (you know: Pearl’s bass player) not brought his concerns to our manager. The band was the most sacred thing in my life and the realization that my actions were fucking even my band up was what lead me to understand the depth with which I’d fallen. I wanted to change and I had no idea how hard that would be. You never realize when you start something how tough it’s gonna be to quit. You know it’s bad. You don’t even like the taste of liquor and you choke every time you take a hit, but you smoke ‘til your throat bleeds. It’s not the action itself; it’s the way your body reacts afterwards. You can’t help it. It’s an addiction. That’s no excuse because you can still overcome addiction, but you can’t hate yourself for it. Humans are idiots. We fuck up in really creative ways sometimes,” he finished his soliloquy and took a long drink of soda. “So, how’d you fuck up?” he asked. “Confess! Confess!” he joked, but seriously.
Then, I needed a
real drink, but I picked up my soda, disappointedly, and swallowed the bubbling tar.
“I am an alcoholic, drug addicted cutter,” I stated.
“Ohhh, juicy. Go on,” he leaned in, obviously not a stranger to stupidity.
“I am 28 years old, working at a record store with the only friends I have. And – for the record – I only got the gig because Al put in a good word for me. I live alone in a tiny shit hole apartment. I’ve never been in love. I get paid just enough to afford rent, utilities, and booze.”
“What about drugs and razors?”
I laughed, “I have a supply of razors and the drugs are only for special occasions, like Christmas ‘bonus’ time.”
“So, what do you want to change?” he asked.
“Is ‘everything’ an option?”
“Sure, but it’s not the right answer,” he paused. “Your friendships with Lucy and Allison seem pretty healthy.”
“What do you know about that?” I asked confused.
“Lucy told me about your mix tape. Cassette, by the way, was a ballsy move. I approve. But she had nothing but good things to say about you.”
“Really? Okay, fine. I love them both. They’re great and I owe them both my life for several reasons, but I need to treat them both better.”
He nodded, “That’s fair. Sounds like a good place to start. Do they know you’re an alcoholic, drug addicted cutter?”
“Al does. She baby sits me sometime to make sure I don’t, but she can’t keep her eyes on me all the time.”
“Well, one thing I learned is that if you can’t do it for yourself, find someone else you could do it for. I stopped because I had friends I was really hurting. So do you.”
“I wish that were enough. I feel guilty – ”
“But not guilty enough to do anything about it.”
“Right.”
“Well, what do you
want?” the question sounded eerily familiar. “What gets you going?”
I thought this time, knowing my idol would hear my answer.
“I’ve always had a knack for writing, but no outlet for my writing and no encouragement or confidence. I love music, but have no talent.”
“Oh, you play?”
“You could call it that, but I wouldn’t,” I replied and he chuckled hardily.
“Well, then I have a solution for you.”
“Oh?” I asked, amused.
“Write about music. Find a magazine, a blog, anything. I know you know your shit. You know who
I am for Christ’s sake: you must know a decent amount of punk history to be familiar with my tiny blurb and – trust me – publications that write about music and claim to have some kind of cred in the music industry are in desperate need of people who can both actually
write and talk music.”
“Ehh, I don’t know. I doubt I could get hired for that kind of thing. I haven’t been published since college.”
“I didn’t say it’s be a walk in the park. I’m only saying it’d be good for you; it’s what you want. Plus, I hear chicks go for writers.”
I laughed loudly. I couldn’t help it. He did too. This man who – for all intense and purposes – has never had a conversation with me before knew me better than anyone else, including myself. He knew my fears and he was able to discern my greatest desires. Was I he? He was right about everything, of course, though it’s not as if I hadn’t thought about it before. I just thought no one would ever take someone like me seriously enough to let me think it out loud.
Jake finished his soda, “I need to get back home. My wife’s seven months pregnant and I promised Chinese food.”
“Oh, congratulations!” I exclaimed. “I had no idea.”
“Yeah,” he laughed. “Our first: a girl,” he said.
“That’s fucking awesome, man, good luck. I hope she’s happy and healthy.”
“Thanks, man,” he said, slapping me friendly on the shoulder. “It just proves there’s life after all this shit,” he paused, “and you’ll find it too.”
“Thanks. Really,” I said, “for more than I could ever tell you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Oh…hey. I never got your name?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s Dan. Dan Crenshaw,” I said sheepishly.
“Well, Dan Crenshaw, I’ll be keeping my eyes out for your first big article in
Rolling Stone!”
“You may be waiting a while,” I laughed. “I’ll start small.”
“That’s okay. I’ve got time. See you around,” he smiled and vanished among the bar hoppers and drunken frat boys.
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