by Mary McCoy
He still went to church and youth group every week. He still sat on the couch with them every week when they had people over to pray for missionaries, the sick, the suffering, and the sinful. And now, at the scandalous hour of eight p.m., the party was breaking up. I see his parents standing in the doorway, waving to their guests. I duck, hoping they don’t recognize my parents’ car—a ridiculous hope, since they’ve seen it a million times, and it’s plastered in bumper stickers that say RESIST HATE and MIDTOWN IS MEMPHIS, and it really needs to be washed.
One of the church couples is parked behind me, and as they walk to their car, they make eye contact with me while I’m slouched behind the steering wheel like some kind of perv. The man scowls while the woman whispers something in his ear, and they both cringe. That’s when I realize, they know who I am, and it’s very likely they’ve spent the evening praying for their friends’ son to be delivered from me and deposited safely in Washington, DC, far from my corrupting influence.
I’m sure their prayers seem rather well justified now.
I don’t start the engine and drive off right that moment because that would be admitting guilt. There is no law against sitting in your car for five minutes after you park it. Maybe I was thinking. Maybe I was praying!
The woman shakes her head at me and I look away. A few seconds later, their headlights come on behind me and they drive off.
I’m too mortified to text Vincent now. I doubt his parents would even let him come outside if I did.
And with that thought, I have a reckoning so sudden and stark that I have to remind myself to breathe. I lose track of where I am, why I came here, as I reach for the recorder and press the button.
LEE: (in the car)
He was never going to get an apartment in Memphis with me. His parents never would have let him do that. And even though he’s eighteen and it’s not up to them, he never would have gone against their wishes.
The plans he made with me were just a fantasy. Maybe he wanted them to be true; maybe he liked the idea of them so much that he couldn’t help talking about them.
But either way, our future was a figment of his imagination.
(in the background, a phone pings)
It’s a pretty low moment, and I don’t know how I would have gathered up the dignity to flee the scene had I not gotten a text from Risa that says, Meet me in front of Burke’s after you get off work. Bring the videotape.
CHAPTER 19 Cult Flicks & Bizarre Oddities
I text her back right away, and ten minutes later, she’s sitting next to me in the car.
“You got here quick,” she says, and I hope I don’t look too eager.
“Is that okay?” I ask. I mean, I am eager. Eager to see her. Eager to be here feeling curious and excited, instead of parked in front of Vincent’s house feeling ashamed and terrible.
“Of course it’s okay.”
It’s not a long drive to the other side of Midtown, but we talk about music almost the entire way. It’s amazing the amount of space this conversation can fill:
“Have you heard ________?”
“Yes! I love ________. Let me tell you why.”
or
“No, I’ve never heard _______.”
“Let me play ______ for you. Let me tell you everything about ______.”
I bet there are people who go years and never get around to talking about anything else. We go back and forth, trading music, Risa DJing on her phone while I drive. She knows a lot more than I do, and her stories about who recorded what, and where, and with whom, and how they got that sound, come bubbling up one after the other.
She’s wearing a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and boots that lace halfway up her shins with a short skirt. I wish I was wearing something edgier than a floral sundress, but at least I like the way my shoulders look in it.
“Turn right on Cleveland,” Risa says, and a few blocks later, she tells me to park in front of a long, low storefront with the words BLACK LODGE stenciled in red above the door.
I know this place, or at least I know of it. It’s a video store, probably the last one in Memphis. I’ve heard my parents talk about it, but always in the past tense. It was a place where they used to go rent movies together, back when people still did that.
“I thought this place closed down,” I say.
“It did,” Risa said. “But they reopened a couple of years ago.”
I’m surprised my parents haven’t mentioned this. It’s exactly the kind of retro, indie Memphis-weirdo stuff they live for. Although I guess it’s been more than a couple of years since my parents wanted to go out and rent movies together.
When we go inside, it feels like traveling twenty years back in time. There are racks and racks of DVDs labeled with headings like CULT FLICKS & BIZARRE ODDITIES and GANGSTERS, SPIES, & FILM NOIR, and posters advertising the Time Warp Drive-In and Memphis: QueerAF! and the Pandemonium Cinema Showcase.
I’m gawking down the aisles, at the walls, at the movie playing on the big projection screen at the back of the store, but Risa walks up to the counter like she’s been here a hundred times, and I hurry to catch up with her.
“Hi, I called earlier about the VCR,” she says to the clerk.
“Risa from Burke’s,” he says, smiling with recognition. “And your friend with the podcast. I’m Matt. Come right this way.”
I feel like it’s the 1920s, and Risa’s just whispered the secret words to get us inside the speakeasy. Matt leads us into a back room with an old television and VCR, and a tabletop covered with dozens of old VHS cassettes.
“We use this to convert old movies that were never released digitally or on DVD,” he explains, then asks, “What’s your podcast?”
“It’s new. I haven’t put it up anywhere,” I say. I’m about to leave it there, but I feel emboldened by the special treatment, Risa and I being let into the off-limits area and given access to gear like we’re legitimate creators.
I add, “But I used to do this podcast called Artists in Love.”
“No kidding!” Matt says. “I’ve heard of that one. Didn’t they write something about you in the Flyer?”
“It wasn’t much,” I say, looking at my feet.
Earlier this year there’d been an article in the free weekly called “The Fifteen Best Memphis Podcasts to Listen to Right Now (Plus Two More).” Vincent and I hadn’t been in the top fifteen—we were part of the two more, an honorable-mention section at the end where they’d called us “passionate young up-and-comers.” Vincent had been annoyed by it. He didn’t want to be recognized for our potential, he wanted to be recognized for what we’d already done.
“That’s so cool,” he says. “After I get you two set up back here, I’m going to have to go check that out.”
I’m about to protest and tell him he doesn’t have to do that, but then I notice the bemused grin that Risa’s giving me. It’s a grin that says Get out of your own way, Lee Swan.
And so I just say thanks and hand him the videotape.
Matt opens the cartridge to inspect the tape and studies the label for a minute before popping it into the VCR.
“The Dirty South Literati,” he says. “What does that mean?”
“We don’t know,” Risa says.
“Well, I don’t want to spoil the surprise for myself,” he says, then gets up to go back to the checkout counter. “Let me know when y’all put this up somewhere, okay? I’d love to hear it.”
“He’s nice,” I tell Risa.
“Yeah,” Risa says. “He comes into Burke’s sometimes, and I come here to see shows. Midtown retail people stick together.”
That might be part of it, I think, but I think it goes deeper than retail solidarity. I think it’s because they’re both part of the art-weirdo Memphis underground. This place is part of it, and Java Cabana is part of it, and so is Burke’s Bookstore and Goner Records, and Risa and I are part of it too. I’ve always known there was a Memphis like that outside my attic, but it seemed lik
e such an exclusive club, full of people who were older and cooler and more talented than I was. This is the first time it’s ever occurred to me that I might belong to it, that the people in that world might look at me and think, She’s one of us.
I remember the other day when Risa asked me what inspired me to make my podcast. Suddenly, I want to ask her the same kinds of questions. I want to know how she got to the art-weirdo Memphis underground too. What are the places she’s been to, who are the people she’s met? Now that she’s here, what does she plan to do next?
“How’d you get into all this?” I ask.
“This?” she asks, motioning to the video store workroom.
“Not my thing,” I explain. “Your thing. Your music.”
“Sometimes it feels like the only thing I think about,” she says. “Making a record, signing to Matador Records, going on tour, playing shows. Having this be what I do with my life.”
When she’s describing it, she starts off very businesslike and goal-oriented, but when she gets to the last part, there’s a passionate quaver in her voice, and I see her eyes go someplace else, someplace familiar yet far away, like a beautiful dream.
“I want to make a record that reaches out into the world and makes people feel something real and heartbreaking and true. I want my music to make people feel less alone. I want them to know that the way it feels to them is how it feels to me, too. I want us all to feel less alone.”
I’m big-eyed and clutching my knees, hanging on every word. She’s speaking my language. And then she comes back, and the room feels charged with her words, like there’s a kind of energy crackling all around us.
“Yes,” I say, and even though I want to say more, I don’t want to add a single thing to what she’s said because it was perfect.
“Are you ready to do this?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say, and I press the play button.
All her ideas make me want to say yes.
CHAPTER 20 Don’t Tell Me What I’ll Regret
OBJECTS OF DESTRUCTION, EPISODE #2: “The Dirty South Literati: Maya & Arthur’s Engagement Party”
LEE SWAN: (studio)
I’ve heard my parents and their friends talk about the big house on Belvedere, and what strikes me right away is that it’s not big.
In the grainy video, young Greg has spiky black hair and a goatee and is wearing sunglasses even though they’re indoors. I squint, looking for any sign of a family resemblance, my features in his, but too much of his face is covered. He stands in front of the camera, and everyone else is gathered around him in a semicircle. I can see Maggie and Sage sitting together on one of the couches. Maggie has her legs thrown across Sage’s lap, her arms thrown around their neck. Sage is wearing a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off, and I can see the cereal-box shamrock tattoo all by itself on their arm.
There are a couple of people I don’t recognize, and then, of course, my parents. Dad is sitting in an armchair, and Mom is on the floor in front of him, sitting on a cushion. He’s rubbing her shoulders and she’s smiling a little half smile, her eyes closed. The only person I don’t see is Harold, which means he’s probably the person taping everything.
Greg takes off his shoe and pounds the coffee table with it.
(pounding sound in background)
GREG THURBER: (video recording)
I call to order this meeting, this gathering, this soiree, this esteemed salon. The reason we’re here one last time before we scatter to the four winds, is to celebrate Maya and Arthur, who are getting hitched. I need a drink. We should all have a drink.
LEE SWAN: (studio)
The video cuts out for a moment, and when it resumes, everyone is holding a glass of champagne, though only my parents have glass champagne flutes. Everyone else is lifting a red Solo cup.
GREG: (video recording)
Look, I don’t know what love is, but I think it has something to do with staring down the barrel of the rest of your life and saying, “I want to face this unceasing maelstrom of drudgery and obligation with you.”
LEE: (studio)
Everyone in the room is frozen in discomfort, like they’ve all just realized letting Greg give this toast was a terrible idea. From behind the camera, Harold breaks the tension.
HAROLD WASSERMAN: (video recording)
You bleak motherfucker, this is supposed to be a party.
GREG: (video recording)
Give me a second, Harold. I’m about to land the plane. What I’m saying, Arthur and Maya, is we’re counting on you. Show us how this shit is supposed to work, okay?
To Arthur and Maya.
LEE: (studio)
Everyone in the room lifts their glasses and repeats it after him. My mom touches the glass to her lips, but doesn’t tip it back, and I think, Holy shit. She’s pregnant with me in this video. I’m on this VHS tape.
The room starts to break up into small pockets of chitchat. Greg pours himself another glass of champagne and drinks it in a single gulp. He walks out of the frame, and I think that must be the end of the tape, but it isn’t.
A moment later, Greg comes flying back into the center of the room until he’s staring down at my mom, who’s still sitting on her cushion in the middle of the floor. She looks up at him and he says,
GREG: (video recording)
Maya, don’t stay here in this mosquito-infested shithole. Don’t marry this guy. Your life could be big, but you’re making it small, and in twenty years, you’ll be wondering why you didn’t want something better for yourself. Come with me to LA. If you stay here, if you do this, you’ll regret it.
LEE: (studio)
The room goes silent, as everybody in the video waits to see what’s going to happen next.
My dad doesn’t react at all. He looks like he’s giving up, or worse, like he’s secretly agreeing with Greg and he’s just waiting for my mom to walk out the door with him.
He doesn’t speak up. He doesn’t fight for her. He doesn’t tell Greg to fuck off.
My mom does that for herself.
(sound of a thump, then a crash, chairs being pushed back, a clamor of indistinct voices)
HAROLD: (video recording)
Maya! Wait!
LEE: (studio)
The next thing that happens in the video is that my pregnant mom leaps to her feet and flips over the coffee table. Everything goes flying—the red Solo cups and coasters and ashtrays.
She makes a lunge for Greg, but then Harold runs out from behind the camera tripod and throws his arms around her and holds her still.
This calms her, but only for a second.
When people say things are being recorded for posterity, they don’t usually mean it literally. I’m the posterity. I get to see the moment in the video when my mom breaks free from Harold’s grasp, sticks her finger in Greg’s face, and says,
MAYA SWAN: (video recording)
Don’t tell me what I’ll regret.
LEE: (studio)
Okay, I think, this time it’s really the end.
Greg leaves, and my mom asks everyone else to give her a minute. They all go outside to smoke on the front porch, and my mom starts tidying up the glasses and plates. She doesn’t know the camera is still running when she sinks down into a chair and buries her head in her hands.
Then I hear the slam of a screen door, and then Harold’s there. He sits next to her, takes her hand, and gives it a squeeze.
HAROLD: (video recording)
Are you okay?
MAYA: (video recording)
Yep.
LEE: (studio)
She’s not okay. He’s not okay. I can hear in their voices an iceberg of unspoken things. This isn’t a friendly check-in. It isn’t commiseration. It isn’t about Greg, and nobody is okay.
HAROLD: (video recording)
Are you sure this is what you want?
LEE: (studio)
My mom nods, but she won’t look at him. They’re both crying a little bit, their voices cracking whe
n they talk to each other.
HAROLD: (video recording)
Are we still friends?
MAYA: (video recording)
Of course we are.
HAROLD:
What about everything else?
MAYA:
We act like it never happened.
HAROLD:
Okay.
LEE: (studio)
One summer night you come home late,
caked in a dozen layers of sweat,
secondhand smoke, bar rags, and bleach.
I thought that poem was about my dad, but nannies don’t come home smelling like those things.
Harold takes her face in his hands, pulls it close to his, and kisses her once on the lips and once on the forehead. She rests her head on his shoulder, but only for a second because the screen door opens again.
In the video, I see my mom and Harold jerk upright, pull apart, and wipe their cheeks with the backs of their hands before my dad appears and sits down by her other side.
ARTHUR: (video recording)
Oh sweetie, don’t let him get to you.
LEE: (studio)
And I realize my dad thinks she’s crying about Greg.
You’re the only person I would have wanted to tell,
so I keep our story to myself.
That’s how my mom ended the poem she wrote about Harold. She wrote what she meant, and she kept her word.
CHAPTER 21 Bi Girls to Watch Out For
People think they want the truth, but they don’t. What people really want is a story that sounds like it could be the truth, something that slaps a bow on the whole thing and lets them walk away feeling satisfied.
When I say people, I mean me.
If the point of Objects of Destruction was to figure out why my parents ended up together, and the obvious answer was me, the story I’d been hoping to find had some feeling in it, some passion, some spark. Some hope.