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

by Lisa M. Mattson

  “I don’t want to drive,” Chris replied, sitting Indian-style in front of his stereo across the room. His baggy T-shirt pooled on the floor around him like an oversized curtain. Late morning sun peeked through the drawn vertical blinds on our sliding glass doors. It was 10 a.m. Our white living room was almost as dark as his basement bedroom at the frat house. Grateful Dead’s “Ripple” filled the room; the peaceful twang of guitars drowned out the humming air vents in our ceiling. “It’s too hot to be outside.” His eyes stayed glued to the plastic jackets of Memorex cassette tapes strung around his bare feet. Chris grabbed a pencil from the floor and scribbled on the cassette’s paper jacket. Chris’s only extracurricular activity, besides smoking and diving, was copying and trading Grateful Dead cassette tapes.

  “Too hot?” I shook my head and exhaled, looking down at my white tank top and baggy jean shorts. “We moved here to get away from the cold.” After living off cups of soup and sourdough bread at Cheesecake for a month, I’d dropped ten pounds since starting my new job, and finally felt confident enough to wear a bikini without a towel wrap (well, once I’d downed two beers). During college, we’d spent most nights curled up under a blanket on his stilted platform bed, eating pizza and listening to The Cure’s “Pictures of You” in the dark. Talk about depressing. I never wanted to be that girl again.

  Chris glanced up at his stereo speakers, ignoring me. When Jerry Garcia began singing, he raised both hands in the air like a concert conductor. His deeply tanned arms had a rosy hue from spending eight hours a day on a dive boat. He looked up at me on the couch, then tugged discreetly at his navy T-shirt. Behind closed doors, Chris always seemed uncomfortable clothed or naked. I never realized the irony: He couldn’t turn on the lights while naked with the girl he loved, but he could streak the 50-yard-line at a K-State football game in front of 30,000 people.

  “Hello?” I waved my hands at him across the dimly lit room. “Earth to Chris. Can’t we talk about this?” My eyes fixed on his wide body. Four weeks had passed in college before Chris took off his bulky shirt in front of me. He was the first guy I’d dated who didn’t go straight for my zipper, which seemed hopelessly romantic back then. We were two obese kids with surgical scars only our parents and lovers had seen: a perfect physical match. I never had to truly expose my body to Chris; I think that’s why we were so comfortable together for so long.

  Chris stared at the cassette tape in his hands. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  My body shot off the couch. “But there’s so much we haven’t seen yet.” I threw my hands in the air. Because my cultural horizons were as broad as a barn door, I’d sponged a boatload of knowledge from new co-workers, which added a dozen items to my bucket list. The sweeping waterfront gardens of Vizcaya, the walled fortresses where Sylvester Stallone and Madonna lived, the drive-up beaches on Virginia Key, Everglades National Park—all were at our doorstep. We had moved to Florida so we could be outside all year-round, exploring. Chris was acting like a spoiled brat who belonged in Alaska … in an igloo.

  “Whenever you’re not working, you’re still working,” Chris muttered, never looking up. “If you’re not studying, you’re making lists and planning a vacation day.” His voice was cold and sober. “I just want to rest. You should too.”

  My mouth fell open.

  “Work hard, play hard.” My ponytail whipped around my shoulders. “I thought that was the plan.” When I’d scored ninety-three points on the final service exam at The Cheesecake Factory, Chris didn’t even say, “Good job.” I’d spent two weeks enduring nine-hour training sessions to learn every ingredient in a twenty-page menu that was more exotic than an issue of National Geographic. I had to work harder than the other servers to memorize all the dishes. They knew what artichokes, tamarinds and calamari were, and what those things tasted like. I couldn’t believe my taste buds had gone two decades tasting mostly frozen dinners and processed foods. My tongue had finally been exposed to a new world of flavors, and my eyes were jealous. I’d earned a day trip, and a supportive boyfriend.

  “I’m cooped up inside all day.” The words shot from my lips with frustration. My hands anchored on my hips. “I wanna go relax in the sun. Somewhere. Not here.” My days were spent racing through an air-conditioned dining room that resembled a Mediterranean villa. On my day off, I wanted sand on my feet and sun on my shoulders. Sheryl Crow had just released “All I Wanna Do” and I’d made it my personal anthem. I always left my bathing suit and beach towel on the dresser the day before our day off, so Chris would get the hint. Subtle hints don’t work with guys; it would take me another decade to realize that.

  Chris threw back his head. “I don’t want any more sun.” A sigh of exasperation escaped his clenched jaw. “I get enough at work.”

  “But I don’t.” I flung my arms into the air. “You knew it was going to be sunny here. Just wear more sunscreen.” My cheeks plumped. I squeezed my hands like a valet about to park his first Ferrari. “We have money. We can do things.” I’d never been able to break $35 in tips back home, and I’d leave every shift at Cheesecake with $100 in my apron. I wanted to celebrate a life where I finally had money—and chimichurri sauce. I was too young to realize that the great weather and jobs that drew us to Florida were hijacking our time to reconnect and recharge—two things couples need to keep a relationship healthy.

  Chris groaned with irritation. “It’s not about the money.” His eyes met mine. I remembered the time I’d proudly fanned out my thick stack of tips in his face like a deck of cards. Chris had rolled his eyes and said, “It’s just money.” Now, Chris gently stacked three plastic cassette boxes on the floor. “Go to the store if you want to go somewhere.” His voice was snippy—colder than our apartment. “We’re out of ice cream and pop.”

  “It’s called SO-da.” My voice snapped with a hiss. We’d been transplanted to another world, and Chris wasn’t even trying to blend in with the locals. Pop was called soda. Supper was dinner and dinner was lunch. Thongs were flip-flops. But most importantly, perms and fanny packs were not cool.

  Chris shoved a clear cassette tape back in its jacket. “Whatever. Just leave and get some.”

  My shoulders caved, my heart pierced by his hurtful words. “Don’t be mean.” I stared at Chris in silence until he looked up at me. “You said we weren’t going to eat crap once we moved here.” I tugged at the belt loops on my saggy jean shorts. My weight loss boosted my spirits. “Why should I ‘just leave’ and buy it?” Chris and I usually played tug of war with the tub of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia in the middle of the aisle at Publix. I didn’t want all the fatty foods we’d gorged back home in our refrigerator anymore. We were living in a place where women with tanned, baby-oiled bodies sauntered down the street in bikini tops and Daisy Dukes, and my body still belonged in a burka. To lose weight, we needed the buddy system. That was our original plan, but Chris had no will power. He couldn’t drive past Dairy Queen without making a Peanut Buster Parfait pit stop. His tummy was getting wider, his shirts tighter. It wasn’t the only big promise he’d broken since crossing the Florida state line—he hadn’t quit smoking either. The guy couldn’t make it down our apartment stairwell without wheezing. But I kept reminding myself that he’d kept his word about rescuing me from a world of mounting financial aid debt, and about teaching me to snorkel.

  “Why don’t I go get some fresh shrimp then.” I laced my arms across my chest. “We could eat outside on the patio or by the pool. Where there’s shade.” I kept my eyes on his plump face, hoping he’d appreciate the compromise. Before we moved, I thought we’d spend evenings on our balcony nibbling on peel-and-eat shrimp—not sitting on the couch with a bag of Doritos and a can of Fritos bean dip anchored between us. At least our taste in beer had started to evolve—only a tiny trade up from Keystone to Rolling Rock—but we all have to start somewhere. Beer was the alcoholic drink of choice in America back then; we didn’t have access to the sea of wines that have arrived on retail shelves since
the late 1990s. I still thought Chardonnay was just a stripper name, and a corkscrew was our county fair roller coaster. My first and only wine experience had occurred my freshman year of high school. The night started with me drinking straight out of a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill in the backseat of my best friend Emily’s station wagon, and ended with me hugging a toilet bowl. I’d decided to stick with beer.

  Chris paused from writing on a cassette tape and looked up at me. “Sitting outside sweating through my shirt.” He took a deep breath. “That sounds like fun.”

  I sighed and clenched my fists. The muggy humidity hit me like a wall every time I walked out the front door of our apartment. He was right, but if I had to break a sweat while eating, Miami was the place to do it.

  My fish tank bubbled on the plywood bookshelf next to the couch, and I glanced over to Beavis and Butthead, the goldfish Chris has given me for my twentieth birthday. Central air-conditioning vents in the ceiling hummed as I stood over Chris, wondering what to say next. The air made our closed vertical blinds dance across the sliding glass doors like keys on a self-playing piano. Little bits of frustration began snapping together in my chest. I looked down at Chris, huddled over his milk crate of Dead tapes like a hen protecting her eggs. I’m pretty sure that was the moment I started to despise the Grateful Dead.

  I marched over to the blinds. “I can’t stand it.” I tugged the cords. Sunshine poured into the room. “I can’t be inside all the time. I need fresh air. I need light.” Chris covered his squinting eyes with the back of his forearm. Leaving his cubbyhole to party with other Greeks wasn’t his preferred way to spend a Saturday night in college, and driving sixty minutes to Miami Beach to get our first glimpse at Ocean Drive wasn’t either. It finally struck me: Chris may have worked in the sun, but he really wanted to be in the dark. Vampire in a past life? Maybe Count Chocula.

  Chris pushed his pile of tapes aside. His prankster grin reemerged. “What you need is a Hot Carl.”

  “I’m serious. This isn’t funny.” My hands gripped the hips of my jean shorts. His mouth was a fountain of endless toilet humor, and he always dropped a joke bomb at the most serious moments. He’d taught me the meanings of “Hot Carl,” “Dirty Sanchez” and “Cleveland Steamer”—without demonstration, thank God. (Google these terms only on an empty stomach.)

  Chris hopped to his bare feet. “Could you do me a favor?” He pushed his hair from his eyes, exposing his round, tan face. “Pull my finger?” He began coughing uncontrollably. I rolled my eyes and stomped to the bedroom, turning up my nose as I passed him.

  Chris trailed after me. “Come on, Honey. Let me check your oil.” His voice sang in a happy cadence like the chorus of “Sugar Magnolia.” His fingers poked at the back pockets of my jean shorts, trying to “check my oil”—an urban dictionary favorite. I swatted him away and pressed my back against our bedroom wall. He continued poking at my butt with a smile on his face. I giggled, slapping his thick arms playfully. I couldn’t be mad at Chris long. Deep down, I owed him so much. Guilt and co-dependence are such a powerful pairing. They override gut instincts.

  We melted into our daily routines. Chris would crash before 10 p.m., so he could shoot down to the Keys at the crack of dawn to catch the first dive. I’d leave for my dinner shift commute at 3:30 p.m., then crawl into bed around midnight or later, sleeping with my back to Chris. I could feel his wide body filling most of the queen bed while I’d lain in the dark, mind racing. His job. His jokes. His diet. Looking back, I realize it was the only relationship I’ve ever had that wasn’t built from physical attraction. Being with someone who could push both my emotional and physical buttons should have been on my non-negotiable list, but I didn’t have one of those yet. Epiphanies just didn’t come easy to my twenty-year-old brain. My extra pounds were melting away with the hectic pace of bustling Cheesecake Factory. I wanted to celebrate a new life, and the new Harley. After each long night shift, I’d throw on a tank top and hang out at CocoWalk terrace bars overlooking Bayshore Drive with new friends who were teaching me everything I needed to know about city life. Co-workers—the lanky, blonde Christina, a Columbian beauty named Alicia, and James, a handsome Lacrosse star with a college degree—always invited me to go dancing or dining after a couple drinks. And because my friends were friends with all the bouncers, I never got carded. I’d nurse a Sex on the Beach—my idea of a sophisticated drink—and shake my head. “Sorry, I have a long drive home.” My mind was thinking, “Sorry, I have a boyfriend.” My new friends were all single. And thin. Both seemed like prerequisites to wait tables in Miami.

  Driving to and from CocoWalk, my mind replayed the two months that had passed since we’d left Kansas. Living in Florida was supposed to be my fairytale realized. I wanted excitement, passion and partnership with Chris. I wanted us to be like Bo and Hope on Days of our Lives. Back then, I thought the ultimate goal of every relationship was marriage. Taking Chris on the live-in test drive was supposed to determine if we could make it for the long haul. I didn’t want to make a mistake and marry the wrong guy. I wanted to beat the odds. My parents broke up and got back together more times than Whitney and Bobby. Growing up, Chris’s family was all smiles in our state capital, Topeka, living in their gigantic Victorian behind a white picket fence. But his parents also had gotten divorced while he was in high school. Chris was shocked. During high school, I’d been relieved when my mom and dad’s seesaw relationship finally stopped teetering. I didn’t want my kids to go through a divorce too. I had to find the right guy … and fast. My brain was feeding off the pressure of social norms. It took years to realize I could be deprogrammed. Girls back home got engaged during college and popped out all their kids before age twenty-six. My mom got married at nineteen and gave birth to my brother two months after she turned twenty-one. And I was living with a guy who asked me to smell his farts.

  I dragged my body up our apartment building stairwell. My legs felt like tree trunks in the sweltering heat of an October afternoon. It had been two weeks since our big fight, and we both just kept working on our jobs, not on us. I loosened my checkered necktie, feeling my chest dampen under my stained work shirt. My forty-minute work commute on Old Cutler Road was taking its toll regardless of the breathtaking Banyan trees. My sweaty thighs were stuck to my white Levi jeans before reaching the second story of our building. If someone would have jumped into the stairwell and sprayed a water hose in my face, I would have danced a jig.

  I opened our front door. Slivers of sunlight peeked through the vertical blinds on our sliding glass doors, lighting the silhouette of Chris’s stereo system in the living room. An air-conditioning vent in the ceiling hummed. As the blast of cold air hit my chest, I exhaled a sigh of relief. I clicked the dead bolt behind me. The faint scent of smoke hit my nostrils. The smell was earthy like incense, which Chris hadn’t burned since college. I flipped on the light switch. My jaw dropped.

  A crushed Keystone Light can rested on a white paper plate in the middle of our round oak table, surrounded by dirty, wadded up napkins and two empty bags of chips. My shoulders caved. I’d grown up in a house where crumpled beer cans on the table were commonplace, but this looked like a very different kind of party. Little specks of ash circled the can like a trail of black pepper. I dropped my backpack and apron on the tile floor.

  I glared at the filthy table. “Motherfucker.” Since my fifteenth birthday, I’d been making money by picking up other people’s messes at restaurants. The last thing I wanted to do after a nine-hour shift was come home and clean up Chris’s shit.

  I grabbed the plate with both hands to examine the contraption. The stench filled my nose again. I coughed hard. My chest began to thump. I’d smelled that smell only once before. My hands trembled. I slowly placed the crumpled can back on the table. The memory of Chris smoking weed at a Grateful Dead concert in St. Louis raced from my head to the pit of my stomach. I gagged and covered my mouth. My fists clenched. I’d never so much as seen a bud of grass before m
eeting Chris. Back home, drugs were for scuzzballs, and we only had one of those in our entire high school. Chris knew I didn’t do drugs, so he’d never smoked weed around me except that one time at the Dead show. He’d respected my opinion about drugs. Even though we’d been together for almost two years, I’d never really seen a joint or a bong. Smoking marijuana had its place in the experimental phase of many lives—just not mine. I’d told myself the bong hits would stop once Chris had left college.

  My ears got hot. I gritted my teeth. Recent events rolled through my mind like cherries on a slot machine. First, the urgent notice mailed to Chris from World Credit Services. Chris had had a few run-ins with credit collection agencies back in college, which he’d brushed off as “misunderstandings” that had been handled. Then, the past-due letters from Florida Power & Light flashed in my head. We’d also received an overdraft notice from NationsBank. Another promise Chris had broken: handling all our bills, and paying them on time. I’d been stuffing $75 to $100 in Chris’s sock drawer six days per week for nearly a month. When I’d asked Chris why he didn’t deposit the money, he’d grinned and asked, “Can’t we just noodle?” Then he’d dropped his arms to his sides and started to shimmy from head to toe like those Spinners at Dead shows. I wanted to have a serious talk about our finances. Chris wanted to dance a jig. The bong was my boiling point.

  A deep, guttural roar left my mouth. I sounded like a bear that’d just been shot in the ass with a BB gun. I raced for an exit and threw open the sliding glass door in the living room. A wall of humidity hit my face. My heart flailed. I took three deep breaths, filling my lungs with fresh, warm air. I wanted to scream again. I wanted to rage down a mountain like Perry Farrell in “Mountain Song.” I wanted to strip the dancing bear sticker off Chris’s car bumper and stuff it down his snorkel.