At Christmastime we recorded a message for our answering machine. Sung to the tune of “We Three Kings” we trilled: “We three babes from Illinois are / Not at home, we’re somewhere afar / Leave a message after the to-o-one / Please don’t hang up the phone… Oh, o! If we like you we’ll call back / If we don’t, we’ll give you our cat / Merry Christmas, Happy Ne-ew Years / Season’s Greetings to all …”
I drove home for Christmas with Deanne. I visited with Curtis, roadie for The Colors. Curtis had always been kinda goofy and I hadn’t taken him very seriously. But we had a really nice conversation one night, he invited me to his house for dinner. He cooked dinner and we fooled around a little. I think the only reason things didn’t go further than that was because I couldn’t quite get over the fact that this was Curtis. Patrick and Heidi were no longer together but I didn’t reach out to my old crush that holiday.
On the drive home from Detroit, the day after Christmas, Deanne and I got into a wreck. She had been driving and as we hit the western part of the state it began to snow. By the point we got to Benton Harbor, the last stop in Michigan along the I-94, there were near-blizzard conditions. We needed gas and she pulled over so I could fill up and then switch drivers. As I approached the interstate, visibility was bad and the roads were slick. I merged onto I-94 slowly and the right hand lane.
After a mile of driving I realized all other drivers were using the left lane, making that lane easier to traverse. I put my left turn signal on and waited for a break in traffic. As I attempted to transfer lanes I got stuck on a patch of ice and spun around, several times. I had tried to pump the brakes, briefly, but they locked up.
I was stuck diagonally in the left lane. As I attempted to right the car, I saw vehicles coming up in my rearview mirror. The first -- a sedan -- saw us and went around us to the right. The second -- an 18-wheeler -- saw us and began to merge into the right lane.
Unfortunately, he also caught a patch of ice, began to spin, and plowed right into my back end. We were pushed off the road into the grassy median. Deanne hit her head on the pillar to her right, but not hard. I had a little whiplash. We were both wearing our seatbelts and lucky to walk away relatively unscathed.
My car was towed to a local repair shop and Deanne and I wound up at a No-Tell Motel near the freeway. The next day we caught a Greyhound Bus back to Chicago.
I would be without the car for four months. In Chicago, that wasn’t much of an issue. Just meant less money spent on parking meters and tickets.
Three days after we returned to Chicago I went to a tattoo parlor off of Belmont, under the El station. I got my first tattoo -- on my right shoulder blade. I wanted the tattoo to resemble a gargoyle. It’s actually a hawk with butterfly wings, all in black etchings. The tattoo represents my strength and my frailty. I was the first of my circle to get a tattoo. I was inspired by a similar tattoo on French actress Beatrice Dalle.
A few weeks later, Deanne got a tattoo of Betty Boop. Her Betty has brown eyes. It’s cute and sits on her shoulder.
There was some mild friction between Deanne and I that winter. At work, she was volunteering to help Sharon with things that I was responsible for. There were times when I felt overwhelmed with my new duties and had to stay late, catching up. One evening, I told Deanne that I suspected that Sharon had considered that she could train someone to take my job, but pay them less money because they were less qualified than me. I asked her if she would consider taking my position under those circumstances. Her answer was yes, that she had to pay the bills.
Nancy and Sandy visited the last weekend of January. Amy was in Detroit seeing family. We were having fun, going out to eat and shopping and sight-seeing. Deanne came along with us and for some reason I was getting annoyed with her. She was spending money like nobody’s business and being very rude, flippant and insulting to me. I think she thought she was being cute. We ditched her the last day and she wound up going out on her own, going to a vintage clothing shop on Clark. She came home with a $200 suede fringed jacket she claimed was a birthday present to herself.
My friends left on Sunday night and Amy returned home the next day. All hell broke loose the following afternoon. I learned that Amy gave Deanne her $250 toward rent the week before, knowing that she would be in Detroit when the rent was due. Deanne had spent not only all of her own rent money that past week, but also Amy’s rent money. Buying the jacket and whatever else she couldn’t seem to live without.
Amy had zero tolerance and told Deanne she better fix the situation, that day. Deanne said that she knew her father would give her money for her birthday. Amy snapped, “Well, better get on your hands and knees and call Daddy right now.” Deanne did. I stepped out of the house, borrowing Amy’s car to go to the grocery store, at this point. When I returned home, Amy was sitting at the top of our stairway, waiting for me. She shushed me and led me downstairs so we could talk, outside, privately.
“I want her out. Her dad is going to Western Union the money tonight for our rent, but I don’t trust her. I have a friend from work who is looking for a place and he’d be really responsible. Is it okay if I call and ask him to come over, so you can meet him?”
That’s how I met Greg. Greg was tall, blond and gay. Good-looking, athletic. He had been with his boyfriend, Antonio, about a year and Greg worked with Amy at Le Chateau. He was even-tempered and funny. Deanne’s brother drove out in one of their glass-business vans the next day to pick her and her belongings up and Greg moved in the next evening. The three of us would live, drama-free, together through the fall.
High Expectations…
My issues at work seemed to blow over as I settled further into my responsibilities and communicated better with Sharon about her expectations. I was also making connections at the company. The Graphic Arts department had a small workshop adjacent to our offices. Cool art books were stacked everywhere in his office. Bob -- a hilarious gay man in his late thirties from Wisconsin -- headed the department. His assistant, Tom, was short and nerdy. The two were like Batman and Robin. Bob had an irreverent sense of humor. He loved to preface his statements with the word “Qu’elle …”
Bob always had wonderful, sage advice: Once, after a man accosted me on the subway he told me, “Lisa, if a brother hassles you, just start picking your nose or playing with yourself … Those black people hate the crazies!”
Bob introduced me to Joan, in Book Sales. Joan had just moved to Chicago from upstate New York. Joan was witty and incredibly warm. She had a curvaceous figure, had her hair buzzed as short as a boy and wore a black leather motorcycle jacket. We became fast friends. She was well-read and we shared similar musical tastes.
In April my sister Debi gave birth to a son, named Anthony. I came home to see my new nephew and visit with family and friends the following month. I finally picked up my Nova from the shop where the car had been docked at for the past several months. They should have totaled the damn thing: the whole back end was nothing but bondo.
Amy and I were companionable and Greg was cool, but I was spending more time with friends from work than with my roommates. I was also spending a good deal of time with Bill (Charlie’s friend) who lived outside of Chicago in Oak Park. I was aware that Bill had a crush on me, which I didn’t reciprocate. But I did enjoy his company and we spent many weekend afternoons, hanging out, going to movies and such.
The Colors came to play that spring and Bill invited them to stay with him. We went to their show and afterward -- don’t ask me to explain this -- I hooked up with Patrick, Curtis and Charlie all during the same day! We were in the back of their van, it was dark, and I was seated between Patrick and Charlie. Let’s just say they both reached for me at the same moment. They were each unaware the other was doing so. At Bill’s, I made out with Patrick then, a while later, with Curtis.
Don’t ask me what I was doing. I have no earthly idea. Having fun, I suppose.
Meanwhile, my mother was calling me that spring and summer nearly every day and raving
about her grandson. I began to miss my family and I knew I already missed my old gang. My life in Chicago was fun and I felt bigger, in ways, than I had felt in Detroit. But my heart was still tied to home and to Gravity.
That summer, Joan and I began hanging out at Bob’s apartment. Bob threw the most amazing parties, ever. I think the first party we attended was his Fourth of July “Beer & Brats” party. He had the most eclectic gathering of people and you knew that if you went to Bob’s parties that you would get drunk, eat really well, talk your brains out and probably pass out on the sofa. Or, manage that five a.m. walk of shame back to the train station after hooking up with one of his other guests.
Meanwhile, I was going back to Detroit every other month. My mother had my car, so I would catch a cheap flight from Midway to Detroit City airport for about fifty bucks. I’d get together with Nancy and Melissa and go hang out at the Stout House with The Generals. I hung out with Deanne, who had gotten her shit together. She was working for one of her family’s glass companies and dating Matt from The Generals. She told me that she was intimidated by dating him -- he had posters all over his walls of voluptuous supermodels. “How can anyone compete with that?” she asked, shaking her head.
On one visit to the St House, Nancy brought a gallon jug of Bacardi Rum and we were drinking Rum & Coke in massive quantities. Melissa, who was forever breaking up and getting back together with Kevin, got thoroughly wasted. We were sitting on the front porch, trying to sober her up when suddenly she began puking into the bushes beside her. I could smell the rum in her vomit -- and I’ve never been able to drink the stuff since.
As Fall approached I was spending less and less time with my roommates. I decided to move out. I had never lived completely alone -- I moved from my mom’s house to No Bev to the apartment at Ashland/Addison. I craved alone time, time with my thoughts, to figure out what I wanted. I gave Amy and Greg my notice in September and began looking for an apartment.
I found a single bedroom, third floor apartment in a building near Clark and Belmont. Just north of what we called the Punkin Donuts -- the Dunkin Donuts at the corner with all the skateboarding kids in the parking lot. Right by the Alley -- the clothing store specializing in punk, goth and rockabilly wear.
I moved into the apartment on November 1st with the help of Bill. My apartment was above a Chinese market and two buildings north of a Guitar shop. I loved the location of my place -- if I got a midnight cocoa craving I would walk down to Punkin Donuts and get two chocolate glazed crullers. I don’t know if I loved living alone, but my first solo apartment was a great experiment. I hung cool prints on the walls – like Manet’s “A Bar at the Folies Bergere” and Doisneau’s “The Kiss by the Hotel deVille.” I would make crepes with marmalade on the weekends and watch Fred Astaire movies on my little black-and-white TV in the living room. My record collection continued to grow and I bought a lot of secondhand books. I spent time with Joan, attending plays and foreign films at the Music Box Theatre.
A few weeks after I moved into my new apartment, Amy had friends visit from Detroit. One of her pals -- Matthew -- had dated Tanai, a friend of Michèle and Deanne’s. Matthew was a super flirt, attractive and we spent the weekend together. We took photos in the booth of the Excalibur. We had dinner and drinks with Amy and went shopping for the perfect newsboy caps -- his in tan corduroy, mine in black velvet. We also had sex that Saturday night. I really didn’t care who it was at that point -- I was twenty-one and so freaking sick of being a virgin. Any warm body, really, would do. Of course, waking up on Sunday morning on Amy’s living room futon with Matthew passed out beside me (one naked butt cheek exposed) was awkward. Amy walked in the room, looked at us and just raised a very high eyebrow at me.
I actually spent more time with Amy after moving out than before. We would meet at coffee shops. Between the caffeine of all-day java talk fests and the B12 vitamins I was taking, I would get so buzzed that my heart would feel like it was going to punch its way out of my chest. Work was super busy, as well and time flew right by me.
Joan was dating Eric, a photographer and she encouraged me to sit for nudes with him that winter. Eric came to pick me up on his motorcycle and take me to his Wicker Park apartment. The apartment beside his was under construction and a window was punched out, covered with plastic, overlooking the industrial skyline. We leaned a ladder against the wall beside the window and, naked, I stretched out on it. I had added a second tattoo recently -- Calvin and Hobbes -- on my upper thigh. That fall I wasn’t shaving under my arms or my legs and my hair was long and wavy and colored again my natural auburn. I had pierced my right nostril and wore a sliver of a silver hoop in it. I looked beautiful. We took photographs of me against the crumbling window frame, and beside a desiccated cactus. The juxtaposition of soft and harsh was lovely. Eric was soft-spoken and patient and made me feel very comfortable with posing nude for him. And the photographs are wonderful -- he’s a real talent and the pictures are works of art that I still cherish.
I also slept with a friend of Bob’s that winter -- a classical pianist named Jim. We met at one of Bob’s parties – maybe the French onion soup party. Jim was in his late twenties, divorced and owned an historic home that he was renovating. He picked me up, brought me to his house and made me angel hair pasta with Brie and tomatoes and then we had sex all over the house, including underneath his grand piano. When we woke the next morning, after he had showered, I watched him delicately put moisturizer on his face, like a chick. Ugh. I saw him again at one of Bob’s parties but ignored him. Got what I wanted … Thank you!
I did still have feelings for Patrick and saw him here and there. I went to Detroit, sometimes The Colors came to Chicago. When The Colors played the Metro that March, I was really nervous and excited for Joan to see them. Jen, Nancy and Sandy had come out and were staying with me at the apartment. I wanted to impress, that night. I looked adorable -- my hair was getting long and I had a cute black top on, jeans and these awesome buckle shoes that I got at the Alley. I wore Cherries in the Snow red lipstick and big silver hoop earrings. But when we arrived at the Metro I proceeded to plow my way through six gin-and-tonics and was standing/blacking-out midway through their set. Joan had to keep dragging me outside for fresh air, to revive me. Not so cute.
I had also recently self-published my first book of poetry. The poems were heavily influenced by the experience I had with Michèle in Ann Arbor. That eerie drive with the possums, the fog and the headlights had set in motion a series of strange dreams, almost prophetic in feeling. The Serpent and the Sea was something I printed on Bob’s Xerox and gave out to close friends.
In May I flew to Hawaii to visit with Michèle, who was stationed with the Navy at Barbers Point on Oahu. I’ve always been a nervous flyer and the idea of flying above the Pacific gave me the willies. The day before I departed, Bob gave me a paperback to read on the flight: Alive by Piers Paul Read. “You want me to read a book about people eating each other after a plane crash?” That was Bob. “Qu’elle Bon Voyage …”
I had a nice week-long visit with my friend. She had to sneak me into the barracks to stay with her and neither of us had much money to spend, but the vacation was fun. I got to stop by briefly to visit with my uncle John, who had lived in Honolulu since 1979 and I met Michèle’s boyfriend, Van. Van was a thick-necked bruiser from the south side of Chicago. He seemed nice, but wasn’t into the kind of music Michèle and I liked. He was a heavy metal guy. He was her first boyfriend, though, so I wasn’t going to bug her about it.
It was as I was returning home to Chicago from Hawaii that I realized I wanted to move back to Detroit. I had placed such high expectations on my first venture away from home. I think I succeeded in what I really wanted to accomplish: not the job or the living on my own or getting around such a big city. It wasn’t even in finally popping my cherry or the new friends I made. It was the new worldview I had and the improved self-esteem. I knew I was more than I had been, at eighteen, at No Bev, at the mercy of
those who influenced me at such an innocent age. I wanted to go home and show off the woman I had become. So I tended an early notice at my apartment and a two-week resignation at the job I had worked for several years. I rented a moving van and Bill helped me load up my belongings and drive to Michigan.
Can’t Go Back…
Melissa and I had stayed in contact and she had suggested that we find a place together. I suppose I could have inquired about my old room at No Bev – a third roommate had not moved in there. But I was ready for something else. Melissa and I found a house for rent in Ferndale, on Ardmore Street, south of 9 Mile Road. In a quiet, suburban neighborhood, our portion of the rental was the first floor, which included two bedrooms. A divorced mechanic in his forties rented the second floor space with a backyard entrance.
My old pals and my family happily welcomed me back to Michigan. My mom hosted a barbeque at a park in St Clair Shores, where I played with baby Anthony. My sister Laura had just graduated from high school and was living with a guy she was dating. She was attending cosmetology school. Anthony was just over a year old and Debi and her husband were expecting their second child.
Dave had recently quit The Colors and there was a young kid from the east side sitting in on bass with them that summer. The kid was a high school dropout. During a visit to No Bev during my first week home, Patrick and Charlie were there. Pat was explaining that their new bassist needed to borrow an amp from a buddy of his, who was also a high school dropout. But the kid with the amp had a mom who was so pissed about her son leaving school that she refused to even give him phone calls from anyone else she knew had dropped out of school.
The Laws of Gravity Page 10