29. 11:00 p.m. - 11:30 p.m.
in Scott Spencer's book Endless Love, there is a line that's always stuck with me: "Romance had taken a wrong turn within me and led me into mayhem."
why did my brain decide to memorize this passage without any effort? the answer's long, so i'll just give you the shot list:
a classroom at york university. boys and girls of various ages. i'm 25 and dressed like it's 1993.
S--- is 20.
she looks older.
short, dark brown hair.
brown eyes.
no freckles.
a nice nose.
venezuelen blood.
she laughs at another student. she looks at me and i'm laughing with her.
20 minutes later. her dorm room. we're both on the floor trying to reach her ring, which has rolled under the bed.
she gives up first and stands up.
determined, i stretch farther, grasp the ring, and get to my feet.
i catch her checking out my ass. i call her on it.
quick denial. quicker blush.
her open palm. i give her the ring.
a picture in a frame on her desk. her boyfriend. i say he looks much older. she says he is.
we sit on the bed and talk.
i ask why i'm here if she has a boyfriend. she says she's been trying to get away from him since January. it's April. i ask what the problem is.
possessive. obsessed. jealous. crazy.
four words that get my feet moving.
still april.
charles street. toronto. on my way to lee's palace (mystery machine / polvo / fIREHOSE).
"Dobbs!"
i look up.
a green car. a shitbox. scooting.
open passenger window. S--- hanging out of it, arms spread, my name on her lips.
brakes slam. driver door opens.
possessive. obsessed. jealous. crazy.
i stop in my tracks.
he's three feet in front of me. i realize she forgot a word: monster.
she's at his side. says she thought i was someone else.
disbelieving, he pulls his arm out of her hand. storms back to car.
she mouths "sorry". leaves.
lee's palace. mystery machine rock. polvo sucks ass. fIREHOSE tear it up. i'm dancing like a mad man. on a table.
show's over. lights come on. cute girl tells me she came to see fIREHOSE but watched me instead. the only compliment i've ever gotten on my dancing. i don't get her number.
my home. high as a kite on fun (seriously). i write S--- a letter.
3am. my street. envelope into mailbox.
20 minutes later. my imagination: her dorm room. we're rolling around on the floor.
days pass.
may 5th. my phone rings. it's her. "happy birthday." snippets of my letter come back to me. "lunch?"
maccheroni on bloor. (r.i.p.)
2 pm. she's there already.
a paper table cloth. birthday messages in her beautiful crayon scrawl.
antipasti. pasta. bread. singing waiters. dessert.
standing on the subway going to my place. a metal pole between us. she says 'come here'. i lean in.
she moves closer. puckered lips. i close my eyes. she licks the left lense of my glasses.
i look around. people on my left are blurry.
every woman on the train is blushing. every man is in love.
my bed. our shirts on the floor. giggling children outside at the pool.
a perfect breast. two of them.
a sure hand. two of them.
luna on the stereo.
her navel; my tongue.
her ribs; my fingers.
her lips; my mouth.
the space between her jeans and her panties; my hand--slow circles.
her neck; my teeth.
her left breast; my sincere attention.
her voice; my name.
dusk.
a parting kiss.
the best sex of my life and neither of us naked below the waist.
i write her a letter. daily.
our envelopes pass in the mail. mine are typed and free flowing. nice words. hers are on large rolls of paper, napkins, cardboard, whatever's handy. nice drawings.
love.
lunch at her parents. i cut the grass. wonderful lemonade.
days pass. nothing.
i worry. a letter arrives.
possessive. obsessed. jealous. crazy. monster.
i can defeat him.
words. lots of them. i write her a book's worth. i get it bound. i get a friend to deliver it. i watch from the bushes.
a figure in the doorway almost kills the messenger.
threats on my answering machine.
a pounding on my door.
knuckles.
broken teeth.
cracked ribs.
a hospital bed.
lots of visitors.
no S---.
i can defeat him.
i write.
return to sender.
months pass.
ribs heal.
heart doesn't.
mayhem.
^^^
Laur found an early draft--snippets, really--of this on the floor of a subway car and looked me up on the web. Coincidence: she knew the boyfriend. A few years after my connection to him, he threw himself in front of a bus. They found a little black book in his pocket. S--- was the only person listed. The number was old and the people who used it now had never heard of her. Laur had a question. "Did I want to go to a party?"
home | the bands | next
Thanks to Jason for allowing me to temporarily steal his css.
