Hear the corresponding Spotify playlist here.
So I might’ve painted a drab picture of my living quarters - but if it wasn’t drab enough, let me finish: D-R-A-B with capital letters. Constructed in the 60s, this place had been worn like an old shoe by many a filthy foot til it landed in the hands of my slumlord neighbor who’d rent to literally anyone - which is how my dad scored it. (I mean, despite our multiple pets). ;-)
He’d drawn the line at my pet pig, Haley - who was now residing ‘on a Farm in Monterey’, but a large shedding dog, two indoor-outdoor cats and a bird, no prob. Everything about the home was on its last legs. Nothing had ever been updated - especially not the sticky aluminum screen door that we’d never manage to slide shut and that raccoons considered a backstage VIP pass to the emporium of our kitchen cabinets.
But this was our landlord-tenant honeymoon phase and we were still dripping with gratitude that he’d given us a place to unload the emergency moving van in the rain - the one that bothered to show up. (Oh yeah get this: one of the two moving vans drove off into the sunset filled to the brim with a cherry-picked assortment of our belongings.)
This was before our landlord would later hide unsolicited hand-rolled joints in plastic sandwich baggies in the front juniper bushes for us (a bit awkward coming from someone my dad’s age), before his hand-scrawled notes with sexual innuendos (more awkward), the stalkerish illegal entries (scary), or the $80k lawsuit threats over dead grass (downright terrifying).
The original 60’s accents, once rich chocolate browns, vibrant sunset oranges and pinks, had since faded into various shades I’d call maybe vomit and sadness.
Surprisingly for a rather ‘old school’ straight male New Yorker, my dad has mad homemaking skills. But let’s just say he was not applying those here. This sad crash pad was a physical representation of the disintegration of his marriage and the literal landslide collapse of his prior life. (Our family home had just fallen down in a landslide - but that’s another story.)
The decor was like this: Something to sit on, a floor lamp to see by. A shit 1980’s TV hooked up to a VCR shoved in the brick fireplace, cuz you know, no entertainment center thing to hold it. Everything ‘extra’ was in black garbage bags in the garage because no one was in the mood to unpack nor display nostalgic tchotchkes or faux-oil-painting family portraits. The whole thing felt like living inside a state of limbo that someone was trying to forget as soon as possible.
But here’s what’s awesome. Musicians don’t need decor nor even good vibes. Well, I’ll speak for myself: I don’t. We are like indestructible cockroaches with music as our industrial strength exoskeletons. This house exuded trauma and denial; it barely had light; but it had an upright piano and my guitar.
And so I invited you and Eli over for “nondate” #2. The closest thing I’d done to a ‘regular one-on-one date’ since high school was maybe the time Frank picked me up at BART for a Blockbuster VHS and Duraflame log combo.
Regarding the plan, I don’t know what I was thinking, but I might have been thinking, we just did an evening with your bestie and now it’s time to do an evening with mine?
Eli was game for it. Not only was he one of my best friends, he was also one of the only friends who remembered you - even more clearly than I did. And better yet, he remembered you fondly. He said he actually looked up to you and your right-hand man Gabe in high school because you seemed ‘above and beyond it all’. I later better fleshed out “above and beyond it all” with your stories of you guys smoking dried banana skins and drooling on the floor on ketamine.
But right now, a BFF stamp of approval on you - this glorious walking enigma - was almost too good to be true. Good thing I don’t believe in ‘too good to be true’. I believe things are truly that good. And Eli’s validation of what was coursing through my veins had me high as a kite.
So I did the only thing you need to do at 24 years old to host a gathering and bought a 12-pack. Let’s be honest, three 12-packs. No chips, no salsa, no crackers, no cheese.
First beer jitters. We all stood around the kitchen, the shocking overhead fluorescents casting shadows as we leaned on the formica in different casual bottle-holding ways and made your worst nightmare: idle chit chat. Eli had feared he might feel third-wheelish on our date, but he was relieved that you and I were still awkwardly feeling it out, and shooting the shit is what Eli and I did for a living in Dilbert-land, casually between gray cubicles and on our lunch breaks.
Second beer, the edge of that missing decade between us was dulling. We moved to the living room and spontaneously, Eli spotted the Beatles sheet music bible on top of my piano and decided it’d be fun if we flipped through and tried to sing every single one we could manage. While neither of us is particularly dazzling at singing or playing, we make up for it with enthusiasm.
Now I grew up on the Beatles like one grows up on baby food. Daily doses from the record player since birth. Turn it on and I’m crawling on the linoleum in a 1970s kitchen in rural Connecticut. But also, I’d carried the Beatles with me into puberty. My first three cassettes when I got a plastic yellow Sony Walkman Sports were White Album, Abbey Road, Sgt Pepper’s.
Turns out, you idolized John and Paul. You didn’t say anything then, but smiled and laughed, nodded along, while Eli and I rocked our way through the hits.
Eli strummed my guitar, sitting backwards next to me on the piano bench while I fumbled through basic chord-shapes on the keys. And sometimes, we’d get too excited to even play and would just squish together on the bench, drama-singing into each other’s faces:
I’m sooooooo tired, I haven’t slept a wink. I’m sooooo tired, my mind is on the brink.
He and I are really good at cracking each other up over almost nothing. Just singing lyrics in unison was making us giddy. I could feel the heat of Eli’s wiry arms through the sleeves of his ironic polyester thrift store old-man button down.
I wonder, should I get up, … and fix myself a drink, no no no!
Ha ha ha! No really, do you wanna beer? I’m grabbing one.
You’re a little harder to crack, leaning quiet and tall against the wall, watching us, but I could see your veneer shattering. The corners of your mouth had definitely turned up and you’d not been able to stifle a giggle or two. The way you laughed despite yourself drew me in and broke my heart a little. It was as if each laugh had accidentally escaped and caught you off guard. Were you frightened of making a fool of yourself, of letting go? With each jailbreak, I was the proud and delighted accomplice.
It was kind of nerd-exciting that we all shared favorites. I mean, this sheet music book was a compilation of the world’s favorites, but with more than 100 tracks, it was pretty cool that we three had overlapping top tens. Eli would read the table of contents aloud, searching for our next song-victim.
“Birthday…?”. Group silence.
“Here Comes the Sun- hmmm, nah…”
“Come Together - maybe?” Grunts of approval.
“Maxwell’s Silver Hammer - yeah!” Group excitement.
“Oh wait - no - Oh! Darling! - Yes!”
A frenzied consensus: yes yes yessssssssss that one!
Oh Darling! Please believe me! I’ll never do you no harm…. Believe me when I tell you, I’ll never do you no harm.
Eli and I were locking eyes like bandmates on stage at the Fillmore. But as I sang these lines, I cast a not-so-shy glance over at you, to let you know I’ll never do you no harm.
Oh Darling! If you leave me! I’ll never make it alone.
Believe me when I beg you, don’t ever leave me alone.
AIR DRUMS, hands slapping our knees, heels stomping the floor like kick drums.
Bam bam bam ba da dum, bam bam bam ba da dum, bam bam bam ba da dum bam bam bam ba du du—-
YELLING NOW:
When you told me! YOU DIDN'T NEED ME ANYMORE! Well you know I nearly broke down and criiiiiied…….WHEN YOU TOLD ME…….YOU DIDN’T NEED ME ANYMORE, well you know I nearly broke down and diee—ieeee—ieed.
When we hit Martha, My Dear, I got to make use of the roughly 50 billion hours I’d spent practicing that piano part in junior high. My fingers were trembling and bouncing around, nervously double-handing the syncopated bits of bassline and trumpet solos. Belfer gave me an impressed look. He’s so supportive, it’s easy to take that look for granted.
And it hits me suddenly, how badly I’m wanting to impress you instead, standing quietly off to the side, observing. I don’t even dare look. My eyes on the sheet music, I can feel your gaze burning a hole through the back of my T-shirt.
You didn’t sing along, but you looked like you were enjoying the entertainment, the breaks from small talk. In between songs, we reminisced about junior high and high school - blurry anecdotes about acquaintances in common, or goofy tales that had become lore by this point. Around 3 am, Belfer said he better be going. I walked him to the door and he gave me a brotherly sort of look like, “Be safe, Sadie”.
Out loud he just said, “Good night!” Pause. A look. “See you at work.”
“See you!” I said.
I watched him down the front walk, shut the door and felt the sudden rush of being alone in a home with you for the first time. An entire silent empty home. No roommates, no family, no friends. Not even the slightest possibility that anyone was going to arrive. Just you and me, the eerily silent suburbs at twilight. We took our last sips and put the empty beer bottles on the kitchen countertop.
“Back here are the bedrooms” I say and lead us down the hall. An embarrassing quick glimpse into the hall bathroom - pink tub and matching tile, toothbrushes, toothpaste and towels everywhere.
At the end of the hall I crack the door to a disheveled and abandoned bachelor pad - my dad’s room, but he’s never here. An ugly brown comforter set on an antique wooden frame. Dark spindle-carved legs. Some cardboard ‘bank boxes' of work documents stacked and half-unpacked on the floor. Turning to the right, directly across the hall, I push open a door to the room of a teenage girl frozen in time. A childish metal trundle bed we’ve had since elementary school pushed against the far wall with a white lace dust ruffle.
Neither my dad nor sister actually live here at the moment because my dad is across town living with his new girlfriend and my sister’s at Chico state.
And last but not least, we turn back down the hall, to the door across from the pink bathroom, “my humble abode”.
I open the door and follow you in, switch on the tiny bedside lamp - a blue ceramic vase, single bulb with lamp shade of cream paper and a dried flower that casts dark flower-shaped shadows around the room.
I don’t really have anything much on display, just a low bookshelf under the window. An oval rope rug spiraling under our feet. A closet with hanging wooden doors and brass pull rings. A child-sized twin bed against the wall opposite the windows. We sit on the edge of the faded flowered bedspread I’ve had since 3rd grade. It looks like the dress on my old Holly Hobby doll - tiny microdots of flowers.
So far, other than pressing palms in my car after pool, I have barely touched you. There is a palpable surge of electricity pulsing between us. I’m scared of being electrocuted. We sit on the edge of the tiny mattress, four knees facing the window to the front lawn, the 7-foot oleander hedge blocking the view of the street, just the glow from a lamp suspended from the home’s overhang.
I’ve got my heels up on the metal rim of the casing that holds the box frame. Hand sprawled on the comforter, bearing my weight awkwardly while we talk more about books, films, directors, producers, family members. Slowly like spiders, our hands creep towards each other until finger tips are touching. Your hands are cool and damp, your nails trimmed neat and short. It feels like you aren’t going to make a move if I don’t initiate.
There’s something extremely comforting about how still you are, how cautious and careful you are being to hold back and not advance. You’re not encroaching, but you’re also not leaning away. You’re boldly holding your ground, still as a statue in the lamplight, receiving my advances unflinching. I’m a fiery star - orbiting your still moon, and anything but calm. My skin is humming with anticipation like a low voltage battery - exposed.
I want to kiss you and I can tell you’re open to it - but my breath is shallow, heart racing like a hummingbird.
I can’t take the pressure of the pull anymore. I’m jumping out of my skin. I can’t be subtle.
“Should we kiss?” I say.
“Yes.” You look serious but kind.
“I’m scared.”
“What are you scared of?”
“You? I don’t know.”
What I don’t say: I’m scared of how I’m feeling; I’m feeling too much.
Slowly, we leaned towards each other in the awkward way two people sitting on the edge of a mattress can do without lying down. As soon as our lips touched, a jolt ran through me, shattering my nervous system and sending physical shudders down my limbs. I started to literally tremble all over like a body-wide tremor. I had never had this happen before and felt minorly mortified. With anyone else, I might have run and hid in shame. But instead, I said simply, “hold on, I can’t stop shaking. Gimme a second.” I pulled away and breathed deeply, trying to slow my body down.
You looked proud somehow, that you’d elicited such a breakdown, such a shuddering reaction of overwhelm. You also looked kind, empathetic, patient, and slightly concerned. Here I am, literally overcome by the tiniest bit of physical contact. When the shaking slowed, I kicked off my shoes and pulled my legs up under me. Got on my knees and faced you. Took your face slowly in my trembling hands and - holding on for dear life, leaned in again, for a slow soft trembling kiss. Your lips felt as full and beautiful as they looked. I closed my eyes and drank them in, pressing into them and then feeling them part ever so slightly, fitting into my own, your top lip slotting beneath mine. My shaking ramped up again. My legs were faltering, muscles twitching and vibrating me from the core. In an attempt to anchor myself I leaned a shoulder towards the mattress and rotated slowly onto my back, your face still in my hands, until my head was propped slightly by the one limp pillow.
You turned your body with me, our faces pressed and linked at the mouth, as you climbed around me, like scaffolding, elbows and knees propping you up on either side, no weight upon me. Like a plank, a feather trembling in the wind you were suspended above me, hair falling from behind your ears. I took one last long look at your beautiful face in the moonlight as you descended upon me and closed my eyes, feeling my way through you by mouth. Gingerly and cautiously at first, we drank each other in. Your mouth felt both familiar and fresh as it whispered across my cheek and I cast my head back, feeling your warm breath and lips flutter up my neck. With your long fingers, you tucked my hair gently behind my ear and playfully bit my lobe.
Our two bodies melded and mashed, denim on Dockers, mouths on skin. You kicked off your converse. I unzipped your hoodie, pulled your white cotton undershirt over your head. Unbuttoned your fly, catching your waist band with the sole of my foot, pushing your pants down your long long legs as far as my toes could reach until you wrangled them the rest of the way, our eyes boring into one another. When you entered me, I was again surprised by unexplainable emotional overwhelm. Something in me felt cracked open and that mix of relief and release - of feeling seen and known and vulnerable, poured silent tears down the sides of my face. We didn’t mention it. But I know you tasted the damp salt on my cheeks.
Years later, you don’t remember any of this: my embarrassing tremors, my overwhelm, my tears. You just remember that we had sex and what I said afterward.
Apparently I was a little taken aback. I was wondering if this was like old hat for you?
But what I said was: “Do you often have sex on the second ‘date’? Cuz I don’t. That’s my first time going so fast actually.”
Your face told me that you’d likely slept with T_____ and H___ on the first encounter.
I don’t know why I blurted that out - it wasn’t a logical question. I’d had one-night stands before. I think I just wondered if you regularly went around cracking people open and making them shake and cry?
Swallowing, I said, “But then again, I’ve never been on a ‘real’ first date.”
And you said, “Yeah, neither have I.”