The Laws of Gravity

by Lisa Ann Gallagher

  After the viewing, my roommates and I returned home. Teschendorf was waiting for us in the driveway. He held a big box. He had gone to the Smoked Turkey store on North Woodward and brought over a huge combo platter of smoked lunchmeats, cheeses, mustards and fresh baked breads. He wouldn’t even stay. He offered, “I know a lot of people will be here the next few days and I wanted to help you guys out a little.” He must have spent nearly two hundred dollars on the deli tray, handed the box to us and promptly excused himself. Others started pouring in. I remember Tyler Avenue lined with cars and a minor fender bender a neighbor got into with Heidi.

  Two days later Scott’s memorial service was held at St. Dennis, the Catholic Church I had attended two years earlier. I had gotten ready at No Bev with Suzie. Both of us felt very sensitive to those who had been closer to Scott than us. We retreated to my bedroom where we tried on dozens of vintage black dresses until we each settled on a choice. In fact, I wore a dress of Suzie’s and she, one of mine.

  The church was packed. David and Gaylord sat just ahead of us. Kevin and Nicole were to our left. Ahead, near the front of the church, I saw Scott’s mother and two sisters. His sister AnnMarie was weeping audibly. He was now ashes, a simple wood box held what remained of our friend and the box was placed on a pedestal near the altar. No casket was displayed. I watched as Susie, Scott’s girlfriend, approached the urn. She wore her blonde hair in a yellow-tinted bob and was dressed in a simple black cotton dress, her shoulders exposed. She laid both hands on the stand, aside the box of ashes, and sighed. I felt that sigh go through my bones and I shivered, despite the summer heat and my wool dress.

  During the homily, the Priest spoke of differences. “Each of us mourns Scott in our own unique way. Each of us are different, and not only in our grief. Some are older, some younger. Some are taller, some shorter. Some have more hair, some have less …”

  What? I looked around and saw Jen and Suzie beside me glancing around as well. Let’s see … there was Teschendorf three rows behind us with his short brown mohawk. The Sids with their buzzed heads and Rickie from Brat with his huge, ratted mullet. Gaylord with his blond hair shorn in back and hanging wavy in his face.

  Was the priest making fun of us? We burst into giggles then solemnly stifled them.

  Oh yes, we were different. We weren’t the usual crowd for Catholic Mass, I’ll give you that. Some of us had lots of hair and some had very little at all. We were black and punk and pierced and fuzzy and yet, we were grieving and grief is universal. I think that was the day I began to resent the Catholic Church. Our brilliant boy was dead. Could that priest not have made a more respectful statement to honor the dead and comfort the grieving? Scott’s family was there. His bandmates. His many friends and fans were present. Club owners and promoters showed up. We might have been outrageous and eccentric but we deserved respect. Look at the kindness that Teschendorf had shown, two days before. The concern we all had for the surviving members of The Colors. The priest’s comments initially made us laugh but they were hurtful and unnecessary. He should have spoken about Scott’s commitment to friends and to music. His dedication to his band and his future. The two jobs he worked to afford him his dreams. Those he had loved. Damn that stupid priest.

  We left the church and made our way to Bob Evans Restaurant for lunch. When we arrived, we were of universal consensus. Jen, Kevin, Tony, Sandy and I decided to honor Scott in a way that made sense. We had fun. First, for reasons I don’t remember, the gals went into the boys’ bathroom, the boys to the girls’. Then we returned to No Bev and had a crazy water fight. We were filling bowls and empty two-liters with water from the hose and bathroom and kitchen sink and squirting one another. We chased each other all through the house and yard. Then Jen got the shaving cream and we shot the frothy cream toward the guys. Finally, I was standing in the middle of the street after creaming Kevin in the face when Tony suddenly dumped a bucket of really fucking hot water on me and cheered, “Lisa wins the wet t-shirt contest!”

  Arm in arm, soaking wet, we stumbled back into No Bev and began drinking. Because that’s the memorial service we believed Scott would have wanted. Scott was a lapsed Catholic and that joke of a mass would have pissed him off. Plus, Scott was all about the party and not to party would have been a dishonor.

  Mourners arrived at No Bev within the hour and joined us as we lifted a glass, a bottle, a pint to one of the sexiest, craziest guys we’d ever known. We wondered what the future faced, particularly for The Colors in the wake of their dreadful loss.

  Ship of Fools…

  We were all in a dismal funk the following week. Grieving acquaintances would come by at odd hours and plop onto the diminished blue beanbag, unnerved by the loss and uncertainty. We were all so young -- ages seventeen to twenty-four -- and for many this was a first experience with death. Our friend Kurt’s birthday (who had been playing second guitar that summer for The Mangos) had been the day before the funeral and we scrambled to make a belated gift for him. Rumors, too, began to swirl about Scott and his love life. Scott allegedly had slept with Tracy, who then faked a pregnancy just before his death. Then, we found out he had actually been seeing Laura and quite seriously. I heard rumors about gay porn found in his apartment -- although years later someone debunked that rumor.

  The three dollars Scott had left remained on the kitchen counter through the end of summer. Everyone seemed hesitant to touch it.

  My crush on Scott had not been serious but I was left reeling in the wake of his tragic accident. I felt stunned, confused and strangely self-conscious around my roommates. One night shortly after the funeral, drunk on cheap white wine, I went wandering alone through the neighborhood in Berkley. Finding my way to the middle school nearby, I collapsed in the play yard, weeping copiously. I stumbled home in a fog, minus the shirt I had worn over my tank top. We had guests at No Bev that night and I crawled into the corner of the living room, near Precious and Katy and cried my little brains out. I remember looking up, and seeing Patrick sitting across from me on the couch, and feeling deeply ashamed of my histrionics. I crept to my room and locked the door. Terese came knocking at the door, with David. “Lisa, let us in” she whispered.

  I sobbed that I was just being silly and they sat with me, Dave patting my head and Terese consoling me with murmurs. I had no right to grieve Scott. I barely had known him and felt conscious that others were present who knew him, and loved him -- particularly Patrick. I felt embarrassed and stupid. But I also realized, to an extent, that Scott wasn’t why I was crying. It was everything. The upheaval my life had just gone through the past five weeks. The loss of home and family, the uncertainty of the future as well as a sense of perhaps not really belonging at the No Bev house. I was unable to understand what I was feeling. I just cried. Scott’s death (and the alcohol) brought on the emotionality to bring my personal problems to the surface.

  Around late July, two young women started coming over to No Bev. I don’t remember where we saw them first – they merely started showing up. Nor can I recall their names. They were known by us simply as “The Ugly Sisters.” They were the least attractive, most annoying groupies ever. They were Colors fans, I think. The chatty girl had crinkly, rust-red hair and the most ungodly blackheads. The quieter one was a brunette, short-haired, with crossed eyes. I have a photograph taken that summer of Dave and Tony, sitting on the floor in front of the Pepsi machine, doing their impression of The Ugly Sisters. They’re both cross-eyed and practically drooling. A lot of weird, forgettable sycophants showed up in the wake of Scott’s death. They didn’t last long -- a party or two, a few shows -- and then disappeared.

  August 1st was coming soon and I hadn’t even looked for a job the past couple weeks. I called my father and left a message for him. Dad called back a few days later. He didn’t have any money but said my grandma would send me a couple hundred bucks. I got the money order within the week, cashed it and promptly handed most of the money to Jen. This is when I began to feel really concerne
d about my lack of an income. I was asking others for job referrals but I was also, remember, a very shy young woman. I didn’t have the skills to market myself, although I had marketable skills. I had worked during high school, off and on as a typist and administrative assistant. I had worked at Sanders, scooping ice cream just six months before. I was becoming aware that my unemployment was a topic, amongst my roommates and others. The speculation actually made it harder to ask for help. I felt self-conscious and tentative.

  The household agreed that a party would be a good diversion from the recent doom and gloom and decided to throw a Seventies themed party. We all went down to Value Village to shop for retro clothes. Tony got a pink and green satin shirt. Jen got a cream-colored shift with a faux pocket watch attachment -- something that would have looked ideal on Carol Brady. Nancy wore a sparkly silver jumpsuit. I got a simple men’s white shirt for a dollar with a huge collar and wore the shirt with a rainbow tie-dyed wraparound skirt I bought a few weeks before at the Ann Arbor art fair.

  No Bev supplied Pringles, Boon’s Farm strawberry wine and other groovy snacks for our guests. We tried to charge tickets to people parking on our lawn. One guy -- Renneker -- really got into the act. He wore a white leisure suit and entertained us with his Tony Manero dance moves. Some of the guys tried to grow out their sideburns. A good time was had by all – except for me. I felt out of place. I hung out with Suzie, Tom, Donna (who came back in town for the party), Ian and Terese.

  Meanwhile, all four Gravity bands were suddenly splintering. Scott was dead. The Colors were debating whether to invite David to join as bassist. Gaylord left Just Born for Brat, embracing his glam side. (Brat subsequently changed their name to the Trash Brats and got even draggier). Eric announced that he had decided to join the Army, leaving The Mangos without a front man. Alien Nation was disintegrating in fights between Kevin, Tony and Matt. Everything was changing, so quickly. I had fallen in love with the life I was living that summer, but I could feel it all changing after Scott’s death. I was panicked. I wanted the excitement to continue.

  Without regular practice, Patrick was spending a lot of time with us at No Bev. He would come by, often with Laura, and hang out for hours. David too, in flux with Just Born, spent many evenings at No Bev and particularly with me. He was kind, funny and encouraging. He used to terrorize me by chasing me around the house while the song “Ace of Spades” was playing at full volume. He would literally be jumping off the sofa and bouncing from the walls, air-guitaring and head-banging. I loved it. But I could feel the wary eyes of my roommates on me even in my happiest moments. I felt they were becoming disenchanted with me, and fast.

  The following weekend Karen from Inside Out had a huge bonfire party out in Rochester, at her vacationing parents’ home. Everyone was drunk, with forty-ounces of beer being passed around. Couples were making out by firelight and firefly. As we prepared to head home, Patrick hitched a ride with us to No Bev.

  When we returned to the house it was after two a.m. and we were all exhausted. Patrick and I had sat together in the back of the car and he whispered in my ear “Is it okay if I crash in your bed?” Sure, I nodded, too drunk to think about anything.

  I changed into pjs and climbed into bed, where Patrick lay with his eyes closed. We cuddled up together, spooning. We fell immediately to sleep.

  It was now the second week of August and still, no job prospects. Nobody warned, “Lisa, you have to find work” but rather I would walk in on conversations that suddenly turned silent and gossip was spreading along the Gravity Grapevine and being reported to me by concerned pals. I knew I needed to find work and I really wanted to find work. I had walked up to 12 Mile Boulevard twice in the past week or two, asking around at various shops if anyone was hiring (nobody was). I didn’t know what had become of the opportunity at Sanders. I felt uncomfortable but I was so damned clueless about how to find a job. I called people, I applied to a few ads, but nothing was panning out.

  One early morning that week I saw Flip’s boots outside Nancy’s closed bedroom door. Theirs was a brief reunion, driven perhaps by grief and a need for connection.

  Mid-week, Patrick called the house. He often called during the day. The first month I lived there he would mainly chit-chat with Jen. But lately, he and I would sit on the phone, talking for hours. He mentioned something to me that day about “falling in love with every woman I get to know.”

  That weekend, The Colors came to No Bev to discuss the future. They brought Irene (a pharmacist who helped finance their first record) and Curtis (their roadie) and several bottles of hard liquor. The evening started off as a business meeting but with everyone quickly getting wasted, not much business was conducted. The Colors weren’t sure what to do but I think they even early on they decided to keep going, find another bassist. Replacing Scott would be a challenge but giving up would be tragic. They had asked Dave to sit in on the meeting.

  Tony, Jen and Nancy were there that evening, and Sandy as well. Records were played and everyone was talking, drinking. Late in the night, Patrick came and sat beside me in the big chair and ottoman. He requested that The Who’s Quadrophenia be played. Quadrophenia was a favorite album for both of us. We sat together, cheek to cheek, passing a bottle of Tanqueray back and forth, listening.

  We started making toasts. “Here’s to Keith Moon – Moon the Loon.” “Here’s to good friends!” “Let’s hear it for music …” By the time “Love, Reign O’er Me” came on we were both drunk and maudlin and without thinking, I raised the bottle and whispered “Here’s to never being lonely.”

  He looked at me carefully and took my hand. He looked like he was going to start crying. He muttered something, in agreement. I don’t remember his exact words.

  By this point we were practically in each another’s arms and my roommates were watching us closely. We ignored them. When the song ended Patrick whispered, “I’m gonna go be horizontal” and stood up from the chair. Minutes later I went to the bathroom to wash my face, brush my teeth and then joined him in my bed. This night, we did not drift right to sleep.

  I’m Not a Loser…

  I woke in a state of bliss the next day. Patrick had been so affectionate, sweet and needy. I knew he was grieving and I felt moved and gratified that we could find solace together in some small way. We didn’t have sex. I was teased in the days to come by Nancy and Eric and others, deflating my happy bubble, but I didn’t tell my roommates any details. I confided a few things in Lynda and Terese, only. I felt of comfort to him and that made me feel happy.

  For a brief moment in time I didn’t think about finding a job. It was the third week of August. My father had not returned my recent messages. Sanders had not asked me for an interview. I could feel my roommates’ disapproval. I have a photograph of Jen from late summer. She is sitting on the ugly yellow chair, her elbow on the armrest and she is looking at the photographer (me) with eyes narrowed, in anger. I felt like an outcast in my own home. No, I felt like I was an interloper in someone else’s home. I tried to keep my thoughts on happy things, like Patrick. Was he in love with me? I definitely had a crush on him and hoped that something would come of it.

  One evening, less than a week after Patrick and I hooked up, I answered an incoming phone call. The caller didn’t identify themselves. They asked “Is this Lisa?” and then proceeded to ask me a question about Patrick -- a very personal, very private detail of the night we fooled around. I was bewildered and hung up, crying. I went to my room, Nancy knocking at the door to ask if I was okay. I swallowed my tears and muttered “yeah” (the caller was not connected to Patrick, fyi).

  The next afternoon, Nancy called the house. She asked me to go in her bedroom to find a notebook she needed for class. I set the phone down and went to look.

  I glanced on her bed, her nightstand and dresser. I looked on the floor near her closet but couldn’t find the book. I nearly returned to the phone, then paused and crouched down beside the bed. A pink cardigan stuck out from under the mat
tress and box spring. I looked down to see if the notebook might have gotten pushed under.

  I didn’t find the notebook. I found two other things, though. A pack of Marlboro Lights (Nancy was not openly smoking, this was my first clue about her secret habit). I also found a piece of cardboard, folded in half. I opened it. It was a homemade board game. The title of the game was The Lisa Game: or How to Survive the Month without getting thrown out by your Roommates. I stared at the board. Suddenly, remembering Nancy on the phone, I went back to the line, tried to control my voice and told my roommate “No, sorry – not there.”

  When she hung up, I walked unsteadily back to her room and looked again at the game. Set up like Monopoly, with squares running around the edges. Each square represented a Lisa-ism, shall we say. Something about me considered stupid or ridiculous. From drinking milk with ice cubes (the thought of milk turning warm revolted me, so I always plopped two ice cubes in a glass of milk) to my crush on Patrick, my wardrobe, musical tastes, inability to hold my liquor, the fanzine and of course my joblessness, wretchedness and complete failure as a housemate. Every square was a resounding slap in the face. Every square was shame.

  It was late afternoon on that August weekday and I felt so defeated by what I had found not to mention the call from the night before. The last two months came hurtling at me like a freight train. The snotty comments, the funeral, Patrick, the Gravity Grapevine, the upheaval since leaving my mother’s home. The isolation from my family. The parties, loud music, dark clubs, booze and brawls. I went in my room, curled into a fetal position and began to cry. But not for long. I got up twenty minutes later, washed my face and put on a nice shirt and pair of jeans. I walked outside, up the block and turned right on Twelve Mile Road. I walked into several businesses and inquired about work. After the fourth or fifth stop, a 24-hour convenience store did indeed have an open position for cashier. I applied and was called that night to come in the next morning to interview with the owner. I walked up the next morning and was hired on the spot.