When I first met Erik, I was coming off a strange, four-month bender. I’d just moved from Virginia, where I’d spent my first semester in college with alcoholic aspirations, chasing after my high school boyfriend who wasn’t interested in me anymore (or women in general, but that’s another story). I never pulled off the alcoholism, family genes be damned, but I certainly tried, spending several nights in clubs and shady Richmond streets, popping the caffeine pills included in the school’s helpful, and probably illegal, study pack.
I hadn’t done any of this in high school, too shy for parties and too goody-goody for anything beyond a sip of some boxed wine at a dinner party. But I made up for it the time afterwards, growing my hair out long and tangled, losing weight from all vodka and no food until I was wiry and sharp and invisible. I arrived in Duluth with a body unprepared for the cold and enough experiences to harden me. I wasn’t a wild woman, by any means. 75% of the girls on my floor had been drinking beer since birth, so my short binge meant nothing, but it meant enough to keep me cocky.
But I met Erik a month into the new semester. He lived across the hall from a friend of a friend, and was rumored to be tall, Lutheran and, of all horrors, conservative. I was briefed before our first meeting, and I went in swinging. I’d once driven to DC and danced drunk on whiskey in a cage suspended from the ceiling. I was tough. I’d done things. So our first meeting was me posturing, me swaggering like a bar wench, me swigging from a plastic vodka bottle, me sitting on laps, though not his, not yet.
As it progressed, I slowly regaled him with my sordid tales, colored here and there for effect. He was charming and sweet and open-minded, not the hard-nosed Republican I’d been expecting. On our first night alone, we sat outside his dorm room, drinking Hi-C and Silver Wolf out of plastic cups. I was chugging. At one point, he took the cup from my hand and said, “I worry about this.” And I was surprised, I wanted to say - oh, I’m not really an alcoholic. Did you think I was? It was just a thing, you know? But instead, I put down the cup, and never drank like that again.
Within a week, we were spending every day together. He was strong and capable, and because of the previous months of chaos and sadness, I was grateful for his Norwegian sturdiness, the way he would do anything if asked and do it well and neat and thoroughly. I needed that, and the safety felt like love, but I wasn’t going to admit it.
It had only been two weeks, and we were spending a lot of sweaty midnights making out all over the school, our favorite spot being the ballroom floor. His religion, for a while, forbade sex before marriage (and I was never getting married! I proclaimed. Too wild for that!), so the nights were intense and wonderfully frustrating. At one point, he leaned against a window in the ballroom at 2 AM on a school night, and I leaned into him. “I really think,” he said, “that I love you, but that can’t be possible. It’s too soon.”
But I felt it, too. It was the right moment in time - the typical broken girl needing a harbor, and a sheltered boy needing a reason to explore. I didn’t tell him I loved him (wild women don’t love), but, instead, read him this bit of an Adrienne Rich poem the next day:
I’d call it love if love
didn’t take so many years
but lust too is a jewel
a sweet flower and what
pure happiness to know
all our high-toned questions
breed in a lively animal.
He said, you’re right, it can’t be love, not yet and took my hand and smiled. I convinced him it was lust for a long time, that I was unattainable, that I would leave at any moment until one evening, when the charade was too exhausting and my desire for a hard reputation was giving into something simpler, I told him I loved him, too.
But he never forgot the beginning - the way I flew in worldly, how I took a couple of nights puking in my dorm room and blew them into this sprawling epic, how I thought I needed to tell him these things to get him to protect me, when he would’ve watched over me, anyway, sordid past or not.
As it was ending, during one of the last civil conversations before everything got unnecessarily ugly, we were standing in the same spot as that night in the ballroom, the night before I sent him the poem, in my own act of protection. I was sobbing, and he was holding me, the way he had held me for the last two years, with kindness and intent.
“The thing is,” he said, “you made me believe in everything. I would’ve believed anything you said.”
“But did you know what was true and what wasn’t?”
I said the things I’d heard in movies. My entire life was a fiction. I didn’t know what I really felt or if I’d ever really loved him. Had it been lust this whole time? Had we just been niches to fill? How did you know these things, I wondered. How did you know what was the jewel, and what was the stone.
“It doesn’t matter,” he replied and that was the truth.
Oh, what is going on with us? In the past two weeks, Chris and I have bounced between all sorts of strange plans. I’ve been on this kick about moving back to Duluth for a semester, just to have one last hoorah with the town and to experience living alone, which I’ve never done. But then we’d also like to buy a house next year. (With what money, is the question. But does that stop anyone else in America?)
The house has now turned into (the idea of) a fixer-upper condo which, with the help of our expert plumbing friend (who also happens to be a lawyer), we can do up nicely and then sell with profit to buy the real house. (Is the pipe dream.)
And we’re also like, let’s get married, for real! Except neither of us can get past our personal moral quandary with marriage. Let’s do it anyway, was this week. Let’s split up, what are we doing together, anyway? was last week. And how about a new kitten? What if I got a part-time job at the coffee shop across the street? What if Chris started selling commercial jingles to studios? What if I started writing romance novels under an exotic pen name? What if we have a baby? Our biological clocks are out to ruin us, but we know now is not the time or place.
We’re insane, here. Autumn is a do-time, a happy time, and when we’re happy, things get done. But these things? When will we ever learn to keep it calm, I wonder. To stop unraveling when we get restless.
I have this idea that there’s this perfect niche somewhere for us, some cozy town by a lake that’ll take us in its lap and hold us close. Everything is always on the edge in this apartment. I hope when we look back, it seems electric and frenzied and young, and not a mess. I hope this turns into something grand. I hope we’re 80 years old, with everything we want, our minds intact, eating pizza and watching Discovery documentaries about lion cubs in our old, dusty house, with our kid (singular, for sure) grown and our rooms full of cats and dogs. I hope, I hope. Hurry up, life.
Oh man, I love fall. The past few years have been Indian summers, so it’s nice to have jacket weather the second week of September. I don’t do summer, really. I ooze around the city in little clothing as possible, cursing every degree over 70. I don’t like the fried-egg feeling, and I have an existential crisis each July. Why do I live here? Isn’t Minnesota to be cold, goddamnit?
But then! The first gray day, the first sweatshirt morning, the first chilly wait at the bus stop. Cozying up in coffee shops, armed with scarves and cute little hats, hedging bets on whether the sky will drop rain or early snow. I can finally breathe again, battle over.
Yesterday we went to a friend’s (Tim) wedding reception. The reception was delayed two weeks because Tim’s Dad was in the hospital. It was outside and meant for warmer weather, but we did well in the cold, cuddled up against each other with hot drinks. In the backyard was a large vegetable garden, with a dozen rows of tomato vines being the centerpiece. I lingered around the garden because I have the burning secret desire to be a hobby gardener, something I think most people wouldn’t expect.
Tim’s mother noticed my glances and immediately jumped in with me, party clothes and all. She loaded my arms with green tomatoes, cat-sized purple eggplants, prickly cucumbers, dirty green peppers and squash. She said, “Well, the kids are out of the house now, and I’ve been alone these past few weeks…this will go to waste…” We left the party with a trunk full of organic produce.
The night was colder, and our thin pullovers weren’t doing the job. Halfway to our next destination, driving down long, dark farm roads, the whiskey I’d been drinking came back up my throat and we had to stop so I could be sick in a cornfield. I pulled my hood over my head, and ran into the stalks, the moon lighting an X-Filesish path. The air had the Christmas smell to it, and even though I was sick, holding on to skinny corn to keep my balance, there was the feeling of, ah-ha! Life begins again. I lingered in the field a few moments longer, calming my stomach, then ran back to the car, its headlights like two brilliant planets.
Hello, autumn.
You know, I originally posted this on it-which-shall-not-be-named (Livejournal!), but I’ll open a vein here, too. Why not? I suppose I’m not ashamed about things as I once was. It’s the internet! Why not spill everything so I can guarantee completely embarrassing Googling in the future?
The story of why school has taken me seven years to complete, by Zosia Blue:
Read More »
Also, I just noticed my archives are down. I’ll fix that.
EDIT: Fixed!
An hour before doors, Mary and I decided to catch Cat Power at the Varsity Theater. The show was nearly sold out, and when we arrived, the line snaked around the block. Luckily, Dave was the 10th person in line, and let us cut in for tickets.
I’m over the Varsity as a venue. It was a gorgeous, expensive-feeling place when it opened - candlebras, soft lighting, gold furniture, satin beds - but it managed not to sacrifice the hometown feel of a local venue. It was like being at a costume party thrown by your best friends from college - you knew the glamour was an act; you knew your ex-boyfriend was on his hands, doing a kegstand somewhere - but it was nice to pretend.
Somewhere in the past year, the Varsity jumped the shark. Small, depersonalized touches have started appearing - the free water pitchers disappeared from the corner bar, and overpriced bottled water took its place. Looking for earplugs? Two dollars at the bar. Looking for a drink? Better stick to one or break your bank. Gruff security men now search bags. One even dumped the contents of my purse on the front desk and loudly listed them off. Much of the staff, with an obvious few exceptions (Todd!), are rude and unfriendly. The door to the mezzanine and the sound booth is now locked during shows, cutting off the old easy feel of wandering onto the balcony, chatting with the soundman and watching the show for a few minutes from the best seat in the house.
The light show’s still beautiful as ever, and the muted, classy ambience remains, but there’s no heart in it. The Varsity went from a high-class Turf Club to the feel of an impersonal, no-eye-contact venue like the Target Center. After pairing with Mr. Chan Presents, the Varsity’s obviously trying to align itself with the bigger venues in town, and with that comes such things as security and higher drink prices. But I so wanted the Varsity to be the vision owner Jason MacLean seemed to have for it - a collaborative arts space, where people would feel welcome and inspired. I wanted the Varsity to become a hang-out, a place I went even if I didn’t know who was playing that night. It’s now slowly falling into the category of venues I visit only if a favorite band is playing (400 Bar, The Quest included).
Cat Power is known for her strange, self-conscious shows, and last night was no exception. She played for two and half hours straight, stopping a few times to complain about the sound (last night’s sound was perfect). At the end, she delivered a stream-of-consciousness monologue that hardcore fans loved and left passerby fans (such as myself) scratching their heads. Mary, Dave and I managed to snag chairs, so we weren’t smushed in the sizeable crowd.
On the way out, Todd poured me a shot of an unnamed blueberry substance and we chatted about ex-lovers and alcoholics. Todd is a showman, a sweetheart, and he’s all that saves the venue for me at the moment.
We made an escape to the Hexagon, which was near-empty and silent. We ordered a pizza and some whiskey, and the bartender let me turn on the ancient jukebox, laughing that he only allowed me because I was a beautiful girl. Rosie swept by and talked for a few minutes. I kicked off my heels while the bartenders cleaned glasses for the night under a low murmur of conversation. I relaxed. Aaron and friends joined us, and we stayed until 2 AM, when Rosie gently kicked us out. Across the street, a fire hydrant was shooting water, and Mary stood underneath it, holding a black umbrella and creating a striking silhouette. The Hex’s lights started to dim, and we got in our cars.