Stray City
Page 20
“Because you’re Ryan. You would never get married. It’s totally not your style.”
“Like how fucking a guy was totally not your style.” He bumped his knee against mine.
“I can’t marry. It’s too—heterosexual privilege.” I grasped at the nearest impersonal reason.
“Would it kill you to have a little extra privilege for once?”
“It might,” I said. I stared down at our feet, which faced each other on the floor, his long and bare and clean, mine small in black ankle socks flecked with dog hair. I started in about how I already had all kinds of privilege others didn’t—
“Oh my god. Stop. I’m just teasing you,” Ryan said.
“Really?”
“You’re way too easy to wind up. I couldn’t resist.”
“You didn’t mean any of it?” I said.
“Just testing.”
I kicked him, harder than I should have. “You scared me.”
“That didn’t take much,” he said, rubbing his sore shin, and though his tone was dry I detected a little sadness in the downturn of his mouth.
That evening Ryan wanted to go out for dinner, but he shook his head at every one of the usual spots I named. Nothing sounded right. Finally he said, “Let’s split town. Just get in the car and go somewhere.”
“Where? Like for dinner?”
“I don’t care, let’s just take off for a while. Portland is driving me out of my mind.”
“How? You just got back.”
“Back to all the same people, the same four bars, the same scene, the same weather, the same mediocre burritos, the same local politics and liberals fighting each other about shit they all agree on—nothing ever changes here. I didn’t notice as much when I toured all the time, but now, fuck, doesn’t the monotony kill you? Let’s get away from all this while we still can. Just you and me. Like we used to be. The good part.”
But I had work. The dog. The cat. And I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to tether myself to this house, this block, this town. I wanted to lock all the doors and windows and burrow in. I wanted it all to be irrevocably mine, mine, mine. I wanted to deepen my roots until they could not be ripped out.
“The good part’s here,” I said.
Every night now it happened when I switched off the light and Ryan put his arm around me. In the darkness, I backed into this warm body, this firm arm, and I could not shake a disembodied sense of disbelief: Is this really my life? Is this really what I am doing? I imagined I was in a neighboring dimension. My real life was in the next room, or just down the street, or just the other day.
Did Ryan feel my pulse pick up, my muscles tense when they should have relaxed? Could he sense how far away I could go inside my body? If only we could find that place at the edge of each of us, where we overlapped just enough to live this together.
Inside me, the quickening. First a feeling like carbonation, then the baby started to flick, twitch, thud. No one else could feel it yet, my skin was smooth and still. But underneath, restlessness churned. I was doubly alive. And kicking.
The first warm night in June, sheets tangled around our feet, a solid real punch woke me up. My eyes opened. I rested a hand on my belly and felt it again, from the outside as well as within. I reached under the sheets for Ryan’s hand.
“Ry. Feel this.”
“What is it?” He rolled onto his side and allowed me to set his hand on my belly.
Again: thud.
“Do you feel it?” I said.
“Is that—it?”
“It’s aliiiiive.”
“You’ve been feeling that all this time?”
“Yeah. A lot more than just that.”
From under his palm, under my skin, two more nudges.
“Knock knock,” he said.
“Who’s there?”
“The end.”
“You can’t stop there,” I said with a laugh. “The end who?”
He thought for a moment. “The end of life as we know it.”
“Apocalypse now,” I said. He took his hand off my belly and covered his eyes with it. I was about to laugh until I realized he was serious. “Come on,” I said. He didn’t reply.
I went to the bathroom, peed all of six urgent drops, and collapsed back into bed with pillows wedged between my knees and under my belly, the soft fortress I now required for sleep. I was drifting out of consciousness again when I heard him whisper, barely audible, “I do love you.”
I didn’t know if he meant for me to hear, or was waiting for me to answer. The words hung there like a fog until it was too late for me to say anything; the silence had accrued too much portent. So I let it melt into my own shame. I couldn’t say it back. I slowed my breath and pretended to sleep.
Ryan let go of me and turned onto his back.
I heard him ease out of bed. The hush of a dresser drawer opening and closing. Then the dog’s stretch and creaky yawn before she followed him out of the room.
It was quiet for a few minutes, as I lay there in the dark, half-conscious, half-listening. A drawer in the kitchen slid shut. Front door hinges creaked. A jingle like change in a pocket—Bullet’s tags. The screen door banged. A hiss, a curse.
I heard Bullet’s claws tapping on the hardwood floor again, and the front door latch click shut so softly I could barely detect it.
“Ryan?”
No answer. Out on the street, an engine rumbled to life.
I sprawled out in the bed then and slept without pretense.
Part 2
1999
[Note on Kitchen Table]
June 10, 1999, 5:45 A.M.
A—
Trouble sleeping. Going out for a bit.
I’m OK.
R.
[Answering Machine Message]
June 10, 9:20 A.M.
Hey, it’s me. I’m in Toppenish, Washington. Had to stop for gas on the reservation because I almost ran out. But, uh, anyway, I’m out for a drive. I needed some air. So . . . I might go check out the gorge as long as I’m out here. Catch you later.
[Answering Machine Messages]
June 10, 6:45 P.M.
Hey. You still at work? I’ll try there.
June 10, 6:48 P.M.
Okay, so no one answered at Artifacts, and I can’t remember the studio number, so I’ll try again later. Do you miss me yet?
[Answering Machine Message]
June 10, 9:35 P.M.
Andy. I know you should be home now. Are you . . . just . . . not picking up? This old calling card is about to run out of minutes. Please don’t make me resort to quarters.
I’m okay, in case you’re wondering.
Come on, pick up.
Andy?
[Postcard]
[“HOWDY” FROM MINOT, NORTH DAKOTA]
6/10 11/99
Because otherwise you’d never believe where I’ve been. NORTH DAKOTA. Most human-less landscape ever. Hardly any houses for miles & miles and the rare ones you see are almost always abandoned. A post-extinction state. You could die out here and no one would know unless they found you before the animals picked your bones clean.
(I’m still alive. In case you care.)
I haven’t stopped driving yet and you haven’t picked up the phone yet. But by the time this reaches you neither of these will be true. xR
[Answering Machine Message]
June 11, 9:15 A.M.
Hey, Andy. Are you okay? I can’t help but worry. I’d call Lawrence or Summer or someone to check, but I don’t know their last names. I don’t even know if those are their first names. Uhhh . . . it’s like . . . seven there, I guess? I’m going to have some more coffee and call again at eight thirty. Eight thirty your time. I have to figure out the time zone, I’m not really sure where it changes again . . . or where I am exactly. Doesn’t matter. Just please be okay. I love you.
[Answering Machine Message]
June 11, 10:40 A.M.
Crickets?
Crickets.
All right. Okay. I don’t know where you found that recording, but I get it.
Here I thought we were just having, like, comically bad timing.
Did you get my postcaaahhh oh, no, it’s too soon. Time. I have no fucking idea of time right now. I drove so many hours and the speedometer is busted. Where are we? Where are you? Where am I? I don’t know what the fuck to do. I’m just gonna . . . Okay. The phone card is almost out. Oh, before I forget, you’ll never guess who’s with me. Goddamn Edith Head. I don’t know how she got in the van, must’ve been when Bullet got out and I went to put her back inside, but here she is. Popped out from under a seat near Spokane and wanted to spend the drive under the brake pedal. I had to hold her in my lap the whole time, and it—
[Postcard]
[“Lobo,” Giant and Cunning killer wolf who for more than 12 years roamed the Itasca and Red Lake areas in northern Minnesota killing more than 1,000 deer before a persistent farmer-trapper finally outsmarted trapped and shot him. On display at MORELL’S CHIPPEWA TRADING POST, Bemidji, Minn.]
6-11-99
A—This is me after driving 30 hrs and not-really-sleeping in the van. Fur a mess. Glassy eyes. Stiff as rigor mortis. But Lobo feels no pain. I keep telling myself I don’t either. (The first time I had Thai food, my mom ordered me a dish that smelled like peanut butter and tasted like fire. Thought I was going to die—eyes streaming, everything burning. My mom said not to think of it as pain, but just another kind of sensation. “It’s just a new feeling.” Ok, I thought, not pain. Not pain not pain not pain.) (I’m telling my legs that now. And my back. And myself.) I don’t think I can drive anymore. I miss your voice.
—R.
[Postcard]
[Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox, Bemidji, MN]
6/12/99
Dear A,
Camped out here last night in the van, at the foot of Paul & Babe. There’s a big lake and a tiny carnival. Two teenagers working the concession stand took a shine to me—stoked to see an adult in a Buzzcocks shirt. To them, I’m basically a yeti. They gave me free food and a ride ticket and held the cat while I took them up on it. I’ll never take the Tilt-A-Whirl again. I’d like to say that’s the last mistake I’ll make on this trip, but I’m trying not to make any more promises I can’t keep. —R
P.S. For the record, Edith loves hot dogs
P.P.S. Montana is beautiful, let’s go there
[Postcard]
[Beaver building its dam]
6/13/99
Beaver is the mascot of the local college. Saw an actual hair salon today called the Beaver Look. Also found a great dive bar here, HARD TIMES, decked out in old signage and shabby taxidermy and Xmas lights, you’d love it. It’s late so after this drink I’m going to sleep early so tomorrow a.m. I can start back home. Meanwhile Leah from the ticket shack lent me her old Snoopy sleeping bag. One thing I’ve learned: lone man in van = a suspicious figure, but lone man w/ cat = someone people want to help. No one fears a man with a cat.
I’m starting to wonder what happens when these postcards arrive. Starting to wonder what will happen when I arrive. X R
[E-mail]
TO: hellbox@teleport.com
FROM: jrc2000@lycos.com
SUBJ: [no subject]
DATE: June 14, 1999, 10:05 a.m.
Dear Andy,
Greetings from SURF’S UP! Internet Café. I’d have emailed yesterday but the place was closed. Sunday. Small town—almost everything closed. The day unfathomably long. Not sure how to explain it but time feels different here, now. All this unencumbered time, so large and formless I can’t figure out how in my usual life I not only filled time but RAN OUT of it. I mean there was work, of course. And time with you. Time w/friends, time alone, time reading on the couch, going out for food. So much time spent taking things out, using, putting back, cleaning, fixing, ugh. Practice time, writing songs, rehearsing. And then TOUR time. Hours of useless time in transit or waiting. Waiting to arrive, waiting for sound check, waiting for dinner to come, waiting for the audience to show up, waiting to start the show, waiting for the opener or the headliner to finish, waiting forever at the end of the night to get paid, to leave at 2 a.m. with an envelope of cash—time slashed up so no piece of it was actually usable.
But now, it’s just me and time. A totally different time. Like that Tilt-A-Whirl shook me like a cocktail and poured me out into a different place AND another time. You and Portland and home are on the other end of this long highway, but you’re also on the other side of time. A time. So far away.
The only time not going slowly is the clock at the internet café. Have to sign off or they’re gonna charge me for the next 15 minutes and I’m low on $. But I’ll check again this afternoon or tomorrow a.m. If you’re not going to take my calls at least WRITE ME.
Love, me
PS: Might not be able to actually leave today—I have to take care of one thing before I head back—will explain later
[Poster]
[ballpoint pen on blank back of community ed. flyer, adhered with duct tape to side of pay phone near Paul Bunyan and Babe]
LOST CAT
ORANGE W/ WHITE BELLY & FEET
GREEN EYES
BLUE COLLAR
FEMALE
ANSWERS TO EDITH HEAD (MAYBE)
LAST SEEN SUNDAY 6/13 @ PAUL BUNYAN PARK
ESCAPED FROM OPEN VAN WINDOW
¡¡¡¡¡REWARD!!!!
[Answering Machine Message]
June 14, 8:40 P.M.
Hey, Andy. Today I waded out into the lake and was thinking about that time we went to the coast. It was so fucking good to get out of town and just have some space to ourselves, you know? As much as it sucked being your secret, some of those times together were also like—I don’t know, like capsules. This space where just the two of us existed. I miss that feeling. I wonder if you do too.
[long sigh]
I don’t know why I’m still calling.
[Note in Glove Compartment]
My name is RYAN COATES
If something bad should happen to me
please contact ANDREA MORALES of Portland, OR
503-275-8355
[E-mail]
TO: jrc2000@lycos.com
FROM: fendermgmt@spiritone.com
SUBJ: where are you????
DATE: June 14, 1999, 10:56 p.m.
Ryan, what’s up?!? You bailed on rehearsal yesterday AND today and no one can get ahold of you. CALL ME!!!!
BIG NEWS: I got you guys on the bill with Everclear at the Roseland. July 4. You’re welcome. Now get your punk ass in line before Donovan fires you!
Sean
[E-mail]
TO: fendermgmt@spiritone.com
FROM: jrc2000@lycos.com
SUBJ: RE: where are you????
DATE: June 15, 1999, 9:07 a.m.
Sean,
Everclear? Is that a joke? If so, HA HA HA HA HA HA.
If not, I’m out.
Actually—I AM out. Tell Donovan I’m firing him from my services. For a drummer more suited for this band, tell him to look in Beaverton.
Ryan
[E-mail]
TO: hellbox@teleport.com
FROM: jrc2000@lycos.com
SUBJ: hi
DATE: June 15, 1999, 9:11 a.m.
Andrea,
I’m back at Surf’s Up! to see if you wrote. But you didn’t.
Also checked the news to make sure Portland hadn’t been nuked or something. Still standing. Guess you are too.
Ryan
P.S. I quit the bad band. It felt like a victory. Now neither of us has to be embarrassed when someone asks you what I do.
P.P.S. The other day the junior punks asked me about the Cold Shoulder—they’d never heard of us but they saw the sticker on the van. I thought about telling them some stories, dropping some names for them. They’d have loved it. But man. That person, that edition of Ryan, is like a character in a story I’m done reading. I thought, if I bring that guy into the van now, I’ll
never be rid of him. That’ll be my identity.
I said we were nothing, we just played for fun.
Then I had to go be by myself for a while.
[Postcard Never Sent]
[BLACK BEAR, BROWN PHASE]
6-15-99, Hard Times
(not self-pity, the name of the actual bar I’m at)
OK, A, I’ll give up on getting an answer. I think maybe this postcard is you: a black bear I caught in a brown phase. My mistake. First of ma—
Forget it. Fucking metaphors.
[Letter Never Sent]
Tuesday, June 15
Dear Andrea,
When I was a kid, I used to practice Not Needing. Like, I wouldn’t eat for 24 hours, just to prove I could. Or I would not sleep, staying up two nights in a row. School would feel very strange. The floor tiles shimmered like a mirage, I was always a step ahead or behind, out of sync with the plan in a way that revealed how inconsequential it all was. Or I would not talk for a day, practice no eye contact, make myself invisible. When we lived in Tucson I turned off the A/C window unit in my room, in August, and let the full heat of the day fill the room and swell, brutally honest. First the sweat just, like, gleamed its way out of me, and then it rolled down my shirtless boy body. All I’m saying is, I was good at it. I’ve been good at it.
I never wanted someone to need me until I met you, who doesn’t. Maybe I want it because you don’t. There have been times when I think you do. But they’re rare. More often, you’re deep inside yourself. Always opening your notebooks to draw or write, or to look at things you already drew or wrote, endlessly researching yourself as if there were a mystery to solve. I can’t solve it.