THE EXES IN MY IPOD: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country

by Lisa M. Mattson

  Enter Chris, four months later. It was hard not to notice Chris, the only person at the frat party sporting a cable-knit sweater, cut-off jean shorts and hiking boots, when six inches of snow had fallen the night before. He wanted everyone to know he’d rather be in the Caribbean than sitting in computer science lectures. He loved Pearl Jam and hated Birkenstocks—just like me. My heart had melted when Chris’s chunky bangs fell over his green eyes while he’d pumped the keg for me. It was the ultimate form of chivalry to an eighteen-year-old girl who’d gained twenty-three pounds and depleted a case of Kleenex during the mini-depression triggered by Lance. While other college guys thought beer funnels and Jell-O shots were foreplay, Chris had invited me to dinner at the Bristol on Country Club Plaza in Kansas City. He was a big city boy, who didn’t drive a pick-up truck with a shotgun rack. His dreams were bigger than the grain elevator that towered over my hometown. My myopic world would have never exploded without Chris. He was my first gateway boyfriend; if you want a colossal life change like I did, you’ll need at least one of these angels.

  My legs kicked the flippers awkwardly on the ocean’s surface. The blazing sun warmed my back. My pulse skyrocketed as I got my first glimpse of the rainbow-colored coral reef ecosystem below. Lavender sea urchins and green anemones clung to staghorn and brain corals. A school of shiny minnow-lookalikes swarmed below me, dodging the zebra-striped sergeant majors. I recognized each fish from the laminated identification card Chris had handed me on the boat. I grabbed the orange underwater camera from my wrist and snapped off more shots than the paparazzi.

  A pack of grunts and blue wrasses buzzed me, their spiny tails brushing my arms. Fish nipped at my shoulders and sides. My breathing quickened. I squirmed, turning to find the fish swarming around chunks drifting on the surface. I popped my head out of the water, then pulled off my mask and snorkel. Mushy, white blobs bobbed in the water around me.

  “What are you doing?” I coughed, looking up at Chris and Bob, standing at the back of the boat. Chris clutched a half-empty plastic bag of Wonder Bread in his stubby hands.

  Chris tossed a handful of bread chunks onto the water. “Say hello to my little friend!” His tone was more playful than sinister, a pitiful impersonation of Al Pacino in Scarface. I giggled and shook my head. Chris may have been tubby, but his personality made up for his weight. He was the Artie Lange of his frat house—resident prankster and comic relief. Nude Slip ‘n Slide was his springtime sport of choice. At age twenty-two, Chris was naked in public more often than Angel Soft commercial babies. From the grand balcony of his fraternity house, Chris often played “make it rain.” And I’m not talking throw-glitter-on-it rain, Ke$ha. I’d loved the fact that he didn’t care what other people thought. If you could bottle and sell insecurity, my family would be rich.

  “You need to get to know your new neighbors.” Chris shook the crumpled bread bag over the side of the boat, smirking at me as the last crumbs landed in the water. His XXL T-shirt hung off his shoulders like a tent. The extra weight made him cuddly, like the Winnie the Pooh bear I’d slept with until the fourth grade.

  “You said I would feed the fishes.” I slipped my head gear over my wet ponytail. “Not get eaten by them.” I laughed until I snorted, watching the fish tickling my shoulders. I raised my fingers slowly from the water like a bobbing shark’s fin and flipped Chris off. Chris always made me laugh—especially during college when studying and waitressing left no room for monkey business.

  Chris squeezed the plastic bag, his round face glowing with content. “Back in Manhattan, everyone’s buying books for the fall semester.”

  “College isn’t a bad thing, you know.” My tongue clicked. “I’m going back whether you do or not.” Putting myself through school had gotten too complicated my sophomore year at K-State. My financial aid was taken away due to a change in Federal Pell Grant policy, which said my mom could contribute half of her $19,000 salary to my college education. (Yes, our government was almost as messed up in the 1990s as it is today.) McDonald’s wouldn’t even hire me despite my drive-thru experience, which would cause serious damage to anyone’s ego. When Chris had suggested we move to the Caribbean, I’d nearly sprayed a mouthful of Keystone Light in his face. Dropping out of college would be a scarlet letter on my résumé … and conscience.

  “Stop worrying about what other people think,” he’d scoffed. I’d taken on two student loans and three part-time jobs. Birkin-sized bags had begun forming under my eyes from juggling school and work. While waddling through muddy snow in a parka and duck boots, I’d finally caved and yelled out in a freezing campus courtyard, “Fuck you, McDonald’s. I’m moving to Florida.”

  Chris adjusted the dive flag on the tail of the boat. “School is the farthest thing from my mind.” His sun-kissed cheeks plumped with an air of elation only permanent vacation can provide. “You need to give it a break.”

  When I’d met Chris, he was a fifth-year senior contemplating number six. The only time he’d actually attended class was right before midterms and finals—just enough time to score notes from a friend and speed-cram over a carton of Camels. As long as he got Cs, he was happy. The invisible tractor beams that drew me into relationships with my polar opposites must have been turbo-charged by all the Zima I drank.

  “I’m just sayin’.” My Kansas drawl rang through. “I’ll graduate.”

  “When are you going to buck up and take some real classes?” Chris hefted a black BC in the air. “This reef is practically our backyard.” He’d always dreamed of finishing his PADI certification and becoming a dive instructor, rather than following in his father’s footsteps as a successful video game designer. Chris had traveled to Mexico and became a “dive master” a few months before our big move. He’d been dogging me to get certified.

  “I don’t know.” I stared down at my wide hips below the water’s surface. What I really wanted to do together was lose weight. “I’ve got other priorities right now.” I readjusted my snorkel. I didn’t want to make excuses or take diversions. I wanted to change.

  Chris huffed a laugh. “Like what?”

  “Like I need to get my residency first.” My responsible side fired the rebuttal as I treaded the sparkling waters. Getting through college as soon as possible—with a GPA of no more than 3.5—had been my focus at K-State. The summer between high school and college, I’d worked the McDonald’s drive-thru all day, then waited tables at a fried chicken diner, Pichler’s Chicken Annie’s, all night so I’d have enough money the first semester at K-State to focus on studying rather than paying bills. I’d never skipped class. I was the girl in the front row scribbling enough notes in one semester to fill two binders. Neither my mom nor dad had gone to college, nor made enough money to help pay my tuition or rent. I was determined to beat the odds and become a successful businesswoman.

  “Why don’t you start acting like a Floridian and relax.” Chris’s threw his meaty hands to his sides then fished around his back pockets. He raised an unlit Camel Light to his lips.

  I rolled my eyes in disgust. Chris knew how much I hated him smoking. His balance between intelligence and laissez-faire attitude fascinated me. Hiding his upper-class roots behind concert clothes, cigarette butts and a skater-boy haircut was one of Chris’s talents. In college, his dad had paid for his tuition, his Ford Probe GT, his rent, even his beer money. It was hard for me to chill out when all financial responsibilities had rested on my shoulders since age eighteen.

  I watched the other snorkelers’ fins sloshing on the ocean’s surface around me. My smile returned. Snorkeling was way more exciting than buying a semester’s worth of books. Swimming in an ocean that looked endless, I felt free. Free of judgment. Free of responsibility. And more importantly, surrounded by beauty. Beauty that engulfed me as the water passed over my skin. Beauty I could never find in my life back home. I took a deep breath and plunged a foot down into the water. Yellowtail snappers sparkled around me. The surface above glowed from the sunshine. A long, skinny
fish that looked like a needle buzzed over my head. My cheeks ballooned from holding my breath. I wanted to stay underwater as long as possible, getting acquainted with my new surroundings—feeling free and beautiful.

  Leaving Kansas, and my entire family, was the most pivotal decision I’ve ever made. If I hadn’t endured a record-breaking winter without a car—and my childhood would have been filled with pool parties and family vacations instead of parental separations due to Dad’s binge drinking—maybe my decision to move would have been more difficult. Then again, I was the girl who’d sold peanut brittle in high school for four years so that I could spend a week in France with a language study group. I’d never even walked into an airport before then. There was a little spirit of Amelia Earhart hibernating inside me, and Chris had awoken it.

  I snapped another photo and thumbed the plastic wheel, then turned. My eyes widened. A wide, pointy nose hovered in my face—close enough to French kiss me. The forked tail swayed. Adrenaline surged through my veins, stiffening my body. The unmistakable hooked dorsal fin crested the surface.

  “SHAAAUUKKK!” I yelled, a stream of bubbles flowing from my mouth underwater. I kicked and flailed like a kid on the first day of swimming lessons. My heartbeat hammered in my ears. I never thought my bad luck would follow me in Florida! I’d survived two car accidents and three tornados—only to be eaten by a goddamn shark during my first dip in the ocean? Shark attacks were my grandma’s greatest fear when I’d told her I was moving to Miami. Like my mom and dad, she’d lived her entire life in Columbus, the quaint town of 3,000 people where I’d spent eighteen long years, and she’d watched Jaws at least three times.

  I flew up the boat’s metal ladder faster than a child on a jungle gym. Chris doubled over, laughter roaring from his lungs. He raised his head and wiped his watering eyes.

  I gasped for air and ripped the mask and snorkel off my face. “I…saw…a…shark!” My chest fluttered between words. I leaned over and gripped my knees to slow my breathing. Water trickled off my body. I looked up at Chris, still wiping his eyes. “You’re a shithead.” My lips snarled. Captain Bob chuckled, deep creases forming in his weather-beaten face.

  “I’ve gotta get you out here more often.” Chris hopped up and down with the glee of a third grader. “You’re my good luck charm. We rarely see nurse sharks.”

  My lungs panted. “How big was it?” I grabbed my beach towel and speed-wrapped it around my waist.

  Chris held up his hands roughly two feet part. “Just a little fella. He wouldn’t have hurt you.” Chris bounced around the edge of the boat trying to spot the shark again. I’d never seen him so giddy. He was a laid-back type who didn’t get excited about much of anything besides diving deep-sea shipwrecks and going to Grateful Dead concerts.

  “Really?” I tugged my beach towel tighter and sat down on the bench. “He looked so big.”

  Chris plucked the snorkel and fins from my hands. A big smile rippled across his face. “Everything looks bigger underwater because our eyes are truly open.”

  Those snorkeling trips with Chris were the highlight of our new life in the Sunshine State. Living together in a one-bedroom apartment in southeast Miami-Dade County, on the other hand, blew a gaping hole in my pipe dream. Whoever designed the glossy brochure for our apartment complex must have been snorting crack. “Tropical splendor of waterfront living”? Our building backed up to a skinny canal filled with green slime and cattails overlooking Miami’s largest landfill. The ocean sunsets we’d dreamed of watching from our third-story balcony on Saga Bay were replaced by views of dump trucks and dust clouds, complemented by the stench of decomposing food on a windy day. Saga Bay was a neighborhood, not a body of water, and we were none the wiser. All moving decisions had been based on close review of two maps and a three-pound manila envelope filled with brochures and postcards. If only the Internet had gone mainstream a few years earlier! We’d never even heard of Hurricane Andrew, honestly. The twenty-four-hour news cycle wasn’t a part of daily life back then, and many people in my hometown really don’t care to pay attention to what’s happening outside of their zip code to this day. Andrew’s Category 5 winds and rains had demolished our new hometown precisely two years before we’d arrived in Cutler Ridge. Neighborhood streets were still lined with roofless homes that looked like concrete boxes. Walls were spray painted with insurance policy numbers and trespasser warnings, such as “LOOTERS WILL BE SHOT.” That moving van was the proverbial turnip truck, and we’d just fallen off.

  “This is false advertising,” I said with a snip, staring out at the swampy canal below our apartment. We’d been living in Cutler Ridge for three weeks. “The brochure said ‘Pre-Approved for Construction.’ They lied. This is a disaster zone, and we live in the only building that’s been rehabbed.” A deflated orange raft clung to the cattails. I stomped over to the kitchen table and grabbed my black work apron off the chair. My first job in Florida was waiting tables at a new sports bar next door to a Publix grocery store. More glamorous than McDonald’s, but not exactly the gig of my dreams.

  Chris peeked through his bangs. “Come on, Harley. It’s not that bad here.” The sides of his mouth drooped. He looked down at the white tile floor. “I did my best.” His bare foot traced a circle on a tile. “Can’t you just be happy?” He pushed his hair from his eyes but wouldn’t raise them to look at me. The pangs of guilt began clawing inside my chest. I pulled a hair scrunchie from my apron pocket and squeezed it like a stress ball. The open-concept apartment was sparkling white from floor to ceiling, and four times the size of my college dorm room. My childhood home had a sloping floor and sagging back porch with plastic-covered windows. I looked at Chris’s sad eyes, then down at my wide hips. Why can’t I just be grateful? I wanted to crawl into the pantry and eat a bag of Doritos to feed my guilt.

  I stepped toward Chris and wrapped my arms around him. I stood there in silence, nuzzling his thick, soft chest where all my problems could melt away. Chris had made so many sacrifices to make sure we had a good life in Miami. He’d dropped out of college mid-semester and had taken a freelance job writing computer code to cover all our moving expenses. He didn’t even complain when I’d started researching universities and had asked him if we could move to south Miami-Dade County instead of the Virgin Islands or the Florida Keys. I’d wanted to be closer to Florida International University, where I’d be enrolling in college the next fall. He’d quickly shifted gears and found a job working as a deck hand for Captain Bob in Key Largo.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered, my face tucked into the skull on his Grateful Dead T-shirt. “You know how happy I am that we’re here.” Chris laced his big arms around my back and squeezed, giving me the signal that we were okay once again. Our apartment complex beat K-State Ford Hall dormitory hands down. Beyond the tile and central air-conditioning—two things I’d never had in a home—three-story-high palm trees lined the divided driveway leading up to our complex’s entrance, graced by a three-tier fountain with a dolphin on top. Our lawn looked like an Amazon jungle, and the blue-tiled swimming pool was almost as big as a football field. We are living in paradise.

  Chris shoved his stubby hand at my face. “You’re only truly sorry if you pull my finger.” I rolled my eyes and soft-punched him in the arm. Any moment with Chris was never serious for long. I played along and reached for his index finger hesitantly, waiting for the grand finale.

  Chris ripped a huge fart and said, “I smell French fries.”

  The whale-sized dose of reality spread to our jobs. Chris didn’t expect the starting wage for a certified dive instructor to be $6 per hour, or the thirty-three mile drive to Key Largo to morph into a sixty-minute commute when “high season” arrived and tourist numbers tripled. So much for the Keys being “practically our backyard.” I’d daydreamed about wearing sunscreen as part of my uniform, serving Strawberry Daiquiris to men in Hawaiian-print shirts at a beachfront bar with sand squishing under my feet. At the sports bar, my rowdy regulars dressed and
talked like trailer park trash, and my fellow servers had the kind of life stories that get “revealed” on Maury. It was too much like home.

  So I quit.

  Such an act would have been unthinkable back in southeast Kansas, where job openings were scarce and most family and friends worked at one of three manufacturing plants for decades—if not their entire careers. But I’d been devouring data about Miami like a feeding polar bear that had just awoken from hibernation. Cutler Ridge and the neighboring town of Goulds were kind of like South Central Los Angeles. Shopping at my local Kmart on a Friday night probably increased my risk of getting shot and/or robbed by 300 percent. The place to make hundreds in tips, avoid getting car-jacked and walk along the oceanfront was called Coconut Grove. I’d hatched an escape plan and accepted a job waiting tables at The Cheesecake Factory, which was opening its first restaurant in Florida. My new job included a thirty-minute drive to an open-air shopping center in Coconut Grove called CocoWalk. The potential to double my tips seemed worth the drive. Our monthly rent was $600. No matter how many times Chris told me not to worry about money, I knew Chevron and Burger King were scarfing up a good chunk of his paycheck. It was my introduction to the one thing that puts stress on every live-in relationship when you’re low on the income totem pole: paying bills.

  “Let’s go to Key Biscayne today,” I said with a chirp, perched on his black leather couch in our living room. It was our first day off together in weeks. I’ve always had a tendency to throw myself into my work, and my first job at a corporate restaurant had me doubling down on hours. Serving Chinese Chicken Salads on a veranda felt like a vacation compared to making potato salad in the sweltering kitchen at Chicken Annie’s, so I didn’t mind picking up extra shifts. But I still wanted to sit on a beach at least once a week; it was one of the reasons why I’d moved to Florida.