Sound Bites: A Rock & Roll Love Story
Rachel Burke
Copyright 2012 by Rachel Burke
Smashwords Edition
Chapter 1
Going from Catholic school to public school is like living in a fishbowl your whole life, and then being dumped into the Mississippi River. The classrooms are bigger, the hallways are wider, and everywhere you look, there are cliques upon cliques of students of all different styles and genres.
It was September of 1997 when I began my freshman year at Rockland High. I can still remember staring at the mass of strange faces – preppy cheerleaders who followed the jocks, stoners in leather who smelled like cigarettes, art kids in an assortment of colors whose headphones were glued to their ears at all times - and wondering where I’d fit into the equation.
But as soon as I walked into my fifth period English class, I didn’t have to wonder for long.
I spotted her in the back corner, scribbling something on her notebook. She was wearing black combat boots and a yellow T-shirt that said, “Save a Tree. Eat a Beaver.” I was wearing a Nirvana T-shirt and the purple Converse sneakers I’d owned since junior high. I took a seat next to her and we both discreetly eyeballed each other until she broke the ice.
“I like your necklace,” she’d whispered to me. I was wearing a black choker that resembled a dog collar with silver studs. A token of one of my unfortunate, short-lived goth phases.
“Thanks,” I’d whispered back. I pointed to her notebook, where she’d written the words “J.B. 1966 – 1997” with a heart around it. “You’re a Buckley fan, huh?”
Her jaw dropped in disbelief. “You like Jeff Buckley?” She looked me up and down, then narrowed her blue eyes suspiciously. “What’s your favorite song?”
That was an easy one. The day I discovered “Lover You Should’ve Come Over,” music took on a whole new meaning. It was like Jeff Buckley had beamed down from rock and roll heaven to educate society on what music was meant to be. To turn music into more than just a dancy track that saturates the airwaves, into a life-altering event. Into something that makes you view the world differently.
I relayed this information to her, at which point a glorious grin broke out across her face. “I’m Justine,” she said.
“Renee.”
Her eyes circled the room, then she leaned forward in her seat and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you want to meet me for a smoke at the Groves after school?”
“Sure,” I agreed. I’d never smoked a cigarette in my life, but it seemed ideal for an otherwise uneventful Monday afternoon.
The Groves were located in the back of the Rockland High football field, a giant spread of woods where kids would meet at the end of the day to smoke cigarettes, get high or arrange fist fights with their opposing enemy of the week. Justine led me down to a spot that was far enough in for us not to get noticed, then took a seat on the ground and handed me a Marlboro red. When I took my first drag and started coughing like an amateur, she broke into a fit of laughter.
“Never smoked before, huh?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I just spent the last eight years in a Catholic school. The most rebellious thing that kids ever did there was sniff white out.”
That made her laugh harder. Laugh is an inappropriate word actually, because Justine didn’t laugh, she giggled. And it was contagious. No matter what kind of mood I was in, all it took was Justine’s infectious, childlike giggle to snap me out of it.
I can’t pinpoint it exactly, but there was something about Justine that I was instantly drawn to. Maybe it was her constant paradox of innocence and mischief, or the way she loved music the same way I did. All I knew was that, up until that point, I’d always felt like an outsider, but when I was around Justine, it was different. I’d found someone who was just like me.
We spent the rest of the afternoon lying face-up on the grass, Justine twirling her long brown locks with her left hand and chain-smoking with her right. We exchanged grunge fashion favorites and sexual experiences. We quizzed each other on alternative one-hit wonders and complied a list of CD’s to trade. We took Polaroids of ourselves upside down in the grass and howled over the results.
When it started getting dark, Justine walked me to the top of my street. Before crossing to head home, she removed a Polaroid of us from her purse and pressed it into my hand.
“Keep it,” she said, smiling. Then she turned and walked away.
***
After our high school graduation, Justine and I wasted no time plotting our escape out of the hells of Rockland. The small-town scene wasn’t for us, and we craved a destination full of skanky rock clubs, sweaty musicians, and lots of nightlife. So, six months after receiving our acceptance letters to UCLA, we made the forty-two hour drive west to the city of Lost Angels.
So many things I never would have imagined. Living in L.A. was like one long vacation. We oo’ed and ah’ed over all the things that we didn’t have back home, the little things that homegrown Los Angelites undoubtedly took for granted: In-N-Out Burger, twenty-four hour diners, the ninety-nine cent supermarket. We spent our days on Venice Beach and our nights on the Sunset Strip, enamored with the seedy sinkholes that lined the majority of West Hollywood. Occasionally we’d throw aside the rock gear and layer ourselves in scarves and high heels and pretend we fit in with the high-class L.A. sector, treating ourselves to fruity champagne drinks at the Ivy, Santa Monica shopping, rooftop pool parties at the Standard. California, aside from the overpopulation and traffic, was heaven on earth.
During my senior year, I landed an internship as a music columnist for Pace, a local magazine that specialized in all aspects of the über-hip L.A. scene from fashion to nightlife. It was there that I met my boyfriend, Pace’s sports editor, David Whitman, a broad-shouldered, macho-masculine jock whom I had virtually nothing in common with. However, his charm and matching dimples were a socially and ethically acceptable diversion from this relationship roadblock.
Originally, I had assumed that once our four-year UCLA stint was complete, Justine and I would move back east to be with our families. But now the thought of giving up the daily dose of L.A. excitement in exchange for bleak Boston winters and small-town gossip didn’t seem the least bit appealing. So, after several heart-to-heart discussions over martinis, Justine and I made the unanimous decision that we were here to stay.
The plan was set. We’d renew our lease and driver’s licenses. We’d land real jobs, ones that paid us in wages instead of school credits. We’d let our families know we’d be home to visit every summer and every Christmas, and make a list of all the things we loved about L.A. in case we ever got homesick.
Then one day, something happened that ruined our plan completely. It was the day that I walked in on Justine and my boyfriend in bed together.
Chapter 2
I was in desperate need of an apartment, although apartment hunting scored a pretty low ranking in the list of my favorite activities. Whatever qualities one apartment had, the other usually lacked, and vice versa. There were the expensive places in a great location, the reasonably priced places in a not-so-great location, and the dumps. And when you have a slowly dwindling post-college fund and no roommate to share rent expenses, you usually aim for something between the middle and the latter of those three options.
I had entertained the idea of a roommate for one brief, fleeting moment, but every classified ad I came across only reminded me of the outcome of my last roommate.
I opted to take the solo route and shell out the extra rent money instead.
I ended up settling for a small one-bedroom on the second floor of a
complex about three blocks away from Central Square in downtown
Boston. The hallways smelled like a nursing home and were lined with
painted bricks, like a high school bathroom, but it was one of the
only places in town that included free parking, a high selling point
for someone who loathes the public transportation system. I also
wasn’t too keen on living in a complex since I feared the
combination of thin walls and loud neighbors, but luckily it was a
small complex with about twenty apartments, not the kind with fifty
floors and elevators up the wazoo.
I could barely even get one
box settled into my new place before my cell phone rang again. When
you move across the country and land a new job and a new boyfriend,
your life becomes interesting at best. When you walk in on your best
friend and boyfriend in bed together, your life becomes tabloid
fodder.
“Hi, Mom,” I greeted, holding the phone with one hand and attempting to unpack with the other.
“Hi honey.” I could hear the pity already. It practically seeped through the phone. “How’s the moving coming along?”
“About the same since the last time you asked.”
“Sorry,” she said, unapologetically. “You sure you don’t need any help?”
“No, I’m almost done,” I said, which was a lie. I’d spent about ninety-five percent of my day thus far on my cell phone, and the other five percent moving, which meant I’d brought exactly one box of clothing and a lamp up to my place.
“Okay, well I want to you know that I’ve been praying for you,” she said. “Everything will work out for the best, Renee. You’ll see.”
Sadly, I had actually shared this same belief at one time. Now, it just sounded like my mother’s usual bible-thumping Jesus jarble.
“So…” She paused, and I knew what was coming next. “Have you heard from Justine at all since you’ve been home?”
“No. I think she finally got the hint after I ignored the first eighty-five sobbing voicemails she left me.”
Another pause. “Honey, I know this is hard for you. But don’t you at least want to talk to her about it?”
“No, Mom, I don’t,” I said flatly. “And frankly, if I never talk to her again, that would be fine with me.”
And for the first time in my life, this is the truth.
***
The walls to my new apartment were painted lime green. Apparently the gay guys that lived there before me had taken a liking to bright colors. They’d also lost their security deposit, according to my landlord, but when he offered to paint over it, I insisted he didn’t have to. If there was ever a time in my life when I needed to Feng Shui my surroundings, it was now.
I lugged the rest of my boxes up to my new pad, then plopped down on the sofa and stared at them for a good twenty minutes, wishing they would just unpack themselves. I had agreed to meet my friend Beth later that night at Noir, The Charles Hotel bar in Harvard Square, and I knew that once I started unpacking it would be midnight before I knew it. I was an all-or-nothing organizer; once I got wrapped it in something I lost all concept of time and refused to quit until everything was completely finished.
My parents had been extremely generous and donated some of their furniture to me, which I knew was just a guilt ploy because they felt sorry for me. But even though all the furniture had already been delivered, I had been staying at my parents’ house until everything was completely in. This is what I told everyone, anyway, because it was much easier to procrastinate and lie than to admit the truth.
I was petrified to be alone.
My friends and relatives had kept me occupied since I’d returned, and they’d actually done a pretty good job keeping my mind off David and Justine. But I knew that the minute I arrived permanently in my new home and shut the door, I’d be alone with nothing but my thoughts. My thoughts and I, alone at last, all shoved into one tiny, quiet room. The thought of that was beyond frightening.
I grabbed a black halter top and a pair of jeans from a box of clothes in my bedroom, threw them on, and then turned around to study my reflection in the full length mirror. I looked like hell. It would be blatantly obvious to anyone within five feet of me that I’d barely slept in weeks. My green eyes had giant bags underneath them, my skin belonged on an albino and my hair had definitely seen better days. I quickly applied a layer of foundation under my eyes and threw the blonde disheveled mess on my head into a half-assed ponytail before heading out the door.
It was a warm June day, the kind where the smell of the air made you want to fall in love, if love was even a valid concept anymore. Part of me wondered if it was even an actual, real existence, or just something that people had to believe in, so they had a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Something to look forward to.
The sun was just starting to set, and I found myself staring at it, wishing I could teleport myself back in time, back to a place where everything felt safe. Back to what my life used to be. Everyone kept telling me to give it time, feeding me handfuls of bullshit lines to make me feel better. And although I knew it was the truth, I couldn’t stop seeing David and Justine together every time I closed my eyes. The image was forever embedded in my mind, like those 3D books you toyed with as a kid, the ones you stared at for so long that the images seem to rise above the page and become a part of you.
I could feel the blood pulsating through my skull as I thought about all the buoyant clichés I had once believed in, only to have them mock me years later. Give it time, Renee. Everything happens for a reason.
“Right,” I mumbled, looking up at the sky as I shifted my car in reverse. “Well then I’d love to know what possible reason could exist for this.”
And when the impact of the crash jolted me back to reality, I was too stunned to realize that I’d already received my answer.
Chapter 3
The summer before I entered my freshman year of high school, I had convinced my seventeen year-old next-door neighbor, Pete Maloney, to let me take his car for a spin. It was a classic 1979 Cadillac Eldorado, his prized possession, no doubt. But given the fact that I had hair the color of sunlight and a newly sprouted chest, he agreed to my proposition, as long as I promised not to leave the neighborhood.
Everybody in Wyman’s Field knew that the Queenans had the nicest house on the block. Their lilac windowsills meshed perfectly with the indigo trim on their house and the display of hydrangeas that lined their front yard. Their entire garden looked like something out of a Thomas Kincaid portrait.
So, naturally, when I drove by and noticed the Queenan brothers outside playing basketball in the driveway, I beeped and waved furiously at them, feeling like the coolest kid in the world to be behind the wheel at age fourteen. I then proceeded to drive the car up over the sidewalk and onto the lawn, leaving behind a giant row of tire marks in Mr. and Mrs. Queenan’s impeccable bed of flowers.
If you can imagine the embarrassment I experienced during that ordeal, that pretty much sums up the way I felt when I realized I’d just backed into my new neighbor’s car.
I was so busy cursing my own fate that I hadn’t even noticed the giant van that had pulled up behind me, waiting to slide into my parking space once I pulled out. The guy in the van behind me was throwing his hands up in the air and mumbling to himself. I wanted to crawl underneath my seat and hide there until he was gone.
I climbed out of my car, my cheeks burning, and waited for the other driver to follow. My first impression was that he was sort of good looking, in an unconventional, tortured artist sort of way. His T-shirt hung loosely on his lean frame, and a mass of dark hair wilted around his face and curled right below his ears. The cliff of his cheekbones was lined with a dark five o’clock shadow that ran down his entire jaw line. He looked like someone who would play the part of Jesus in a play. I chuckled to myself, thinking of how much my mother would love him.
As he got closer, there was a certain intensity about him that almost scared me, like he was withholding some sort of dark secret. His piercing blue eyes found mine and remained there, unwavering.
“Did you not see me behind you?” He crouched down and ran his hand over the dent in his front bumper.
“Obviously not.”
He tilted his head upwards, his face a pale sheet of white. His eyes were like ice, a cold blue-gray mass of bitter illumination. “Well, next time maybe you should look behind you before backing up.” He spoke softly and evenly, but I could sense an underlying tone of patronization in his voice.
Without a word, I turned and ducked inside my car to find my registration. I couldn’t believe the nerve of this guy. I had just moved across the country and lost my best friend and boyfriend in one swoop, and this dope was crying over a dent in his bumper.
I fished my registration out of the glove compartment and gave it to him. He handed me his information in return, which I jotted down on the back of a receipt, the only piece of paper I could find in my mess of a car.
Dylan Cavallari
10 Park Place Apt. 18
Boston, MA 02111
I stopped writing and tried to figure out if his apartment was on my floor or the floor above me. I wanted to be sure to avoid him at all costs to save myself any future humiliation.
“California, huh?” Dylan asked, glancing at my license plate. “What’s the matter, they don’t teach you how to drive in Beverly Hills?”
“Funny,” I said. “Actually, I just graduated from UCLA, but I’m originally from here.”
After handing me back my registration, I heard him mumble something about women drivers under his breath as he marched back to his van. I studied his hell on wheels contraption – a frightening navy blue monster with tinted windows and dark rain guards that lined the edges – and wondered why he was so upset about it in the first place.
“Nice child molester van you got there,” I said, attempting a joke.
His eyes wandered to the van, gave it a silent appraisal, then found their way back to me. “Thanks for the input,” he said, unsmiling. His quiet confidence was both intimidating and irking at the same time. “For the record, a buddy of mine gave it to me. It’s not something I would’ve necessarily picked out for myself.” He toyed with the silver ring on his right index finger, his gaze now back on the van. “Not that it’s really any of your business.”
The flames in my cheeks had expanded, and I could feel the heat spreading to my ears, my neck, my chest. After everything I’d been through, the last thing I needed was some pompous ass giving me a hard time, especially when I hadn’t even done anything wrong. Not on purpose anyway.
Dylan was just about to open his door when he suddenly turned back around to face me, looking intrigued. “So, why’d you move back here, anyway? Cali wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be?”
“No,” I said, my blank expression mirroring his. “For the record, I moved back after I caught my best friend in bed with my boyfriend.” I started to head back to my car, then stopped and glanced back at him over my shoulder. “Not that’s it’s any of your business.”
***
I called Beth on the way to Noir to tell her I was running a little behind schedule, thanks to my impeccable driving skills. I ended up on the phone with her the entire drive there because once Beth’s mouth gets going, it stops for no one.
Beth and I had known each other since grade school, and she was a great person to confide in when you were in the midst of a crisis because she never told you what you wanted to hear. She was gut-wrenchingly, whole heartedly, one-hundred percent honest. Always. I hated her candidness when we were younger because my hormonal, sensitive teenage self didn’t exactly take well to constructive criticism, but now that I was older I really appreciated her honesty. Sure, there were certain times when little white lies were necessary, because no one really wants to hear “Yes, you really do look fat in that dress” or “You’re right, your forehead does look like you’ve sprouted a third eye.” But there were also times when you didn’t want someone to sugar coat anything; you wanted them to give you their God’s honest opinion.
This was definitely one of those times.
“So you walked in on them?” she asked, wide-eyed, leaning forward in her seat.
“Yeah, I…”
“What did you do? Did you cause a scene?”
“I just… ran.”
“You left? Why?”
I shrugged. “I was in shock. I didn’t even know what to say. I just wanted to get the hell out of there and try to process what had just happened.”
“So what did Justine say? Have you talked to her? She must’ve called you, right?”
In addition to her honesty, Beth was also infamous for talking a mile a minute. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise when the two of us were together, and even when I was the one talking, she would constantly interrupt with one hundred questions. Beth was very analytical. Conveying a story to her was like being on trial; you had to offer up every single detail so she could analyze every aspect of the story and weigh her opinion carefully.
Beth and I met the summer before we both entered the sixth grade. She lived a street over from me and was the only girl in my neighborhood who didn’t think I was some sort of foreign reptile because I went to Catholic school. Our afterschool rituals consisted of riding our bicycles around the neighborhood and swapping stories about our daily adventures. I was always envious of her public school lifestyle, mainly because nothing exciting ever happened at Holy Family. No one ever got caught fooling around in the locker room or smoking pot in the bathroom. Her stories were like listening to the narrative of a soap opera, which, in my eyes, made her the epitome of cool. I couldn’t believe she actually wanted to be friends with someone who wore knee socks and saddle shoes on a daily basis.
“She’s called, but I can’t talk to her,” I said, answering her question. “Maybe someday I’ll be able to, but right now, I just can’t.”
Beth cocked an eyebrow. “So how did you get your stuff out of the apartment?”
“I went there when I knew she was at work. Took the basics, left the furniture.”
“Do you think they’re, like, dating? Or do you think it was just a one-time thing?”
“I don’t know, and honestly, I don’t want to know.”
“God, I really can’t believe Justine would do that to you,” she said, covering her eyes with her hands. “I really can’t. You guys have been friends for so long.”
I bit my thumbnail nervously, and then asked the question that I had been dying to ask all along. “Beth, why do you think she did it?”
Beth sighed. “Well, I think it could be two reasons. The first reason could be that she’s jealous of you.”
I shook my head. There was no way. The only time jealousy occurred was when someone felt they were being denied something they could have, something that belonged to someone else. Justine could’ve had any guy on the planet. It didn’t add up.
“No way,” I said. “I think I’d pick up on it if she was. I mean, come on, the girl was my best friend.”
Beth gave me that knowing look that told me she knew what she was talking about. “Don’t be so sure. Sometimes people hide things well. Maybe she’s always secretly compared herself to you and you just never realized it.”
I shrugged. “Maybe. So what’s the second reason?”
“Well, the second reason is that maybe she’s in love with him. And I don’t mean some sort of sexual infatuation, I mean serious love, as in marriage. If she doesn’t have jealousy issues with you, then that’s the only thing that would make sense. I can’t picture her ruining a friendship, especially a friendship like the one you guys had, unless she wanted to spend the rest of her life with this guy.”
That was the more logical explanation, the one I had been leaning towards all along. But the thing that bothered me even more than the thought of Justine and David getting married was the fact that Beth used the word “had” when referring to my friendship with Justine. The friendship you guys had.
And even when I returned home later that evening, I still couldn’t get those words out of my head.
Chapter 4
I’m not sure who came up with the brilliant revelation that college freshmen are mature enough to choose their own majors and career paths because – and I can pretty much guarantee this – eighteen year-olds do not have the mental capacity to make such a life-altering decision. And in the city of Los Angeles, if you decline to enter into the shallow world of wanna-be model/actresses, that doesn’t leave you many job options. You either end up a waitress, a receptionist, or become some soulless mutant who crunches numbers for a living.
Five years and three major switches later, I didn’t find my calling. It found me.
I was browsing the classifieds for internships when I saw it.
“Pace Magazine is looking to bring on interns to assist with our new music column, ‘Sound Bites.’ Responsibilities will include article fact-checking and assisting with weekly music reviews. Journalism and Communications majors only. All interested candidates should send their resume to Karen@pacemagazine.com.”
The words danced before my eyes. Bright lights and heavenly choir music engulfed me.
A music writer. Why the hell hadn’t I thought of this before? For all those years I’d lived and breathed music, it had never occurred to me that there were other professions inside the music industry besides solely performing music. I’d long since come to terms with the fact that, in light of the many things I was good at, singing was not one of them. Writing, however, was a completely different story.
My eagerness had clearly shown through on the day of the interview, when the entertainment director hired me on the spot. I’m not sure if she hired me because no one else had applied for the job or because she saw the undying love for music glowing from my eyes, but either way, I was told to report to the lobby on Monday at nine and bring two forms of ID.
When my first day arrived, I was sitting in the lobby, pretending to be engrossed in the latest copy of the L.A. Weekly, when I noticed him. He strolled across the room steadily, his white polo hugging him just tightly enough to show off the outline of his biceps.
“You must be Renee Evans,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m David Whitman, Pace’s sports editor. It’s nice to meet you.”
I stood up and shook his hand, still stunned by the beauty of his dark, deep-set eyes and perfectly chiseled frame.
“The HR team is in a meeting, so they’ve asked me to bring you up to the conference room to get started with your new hire paperwork,” he continued. “Follow me.”
I grabbed my purse and followed him down the corridor. I had to increase my speed to keep up with his brisk pace. One of my college professors had taught us that, when in a business environment, there were three things you should always remember: make eye contact, have a firm handshake, and walk with a straight posture, with confidence, “with a purpose,” as he’d called it.
David Whitman walked with a purpose.
After recovering from the initial intimidation of his beauty, I felt instantly at ease with him. By the end of my first day, that budding feeling of lust had already started to form in the pit of my stomach, and I found myself humming on the way home from work like a teenage smitten schoolgirl.
By the end of the second day, he had already asked me out.
I can remember our first date as clear as you’d remember anything else of significant importance in your life: your first kiss, your first love, your first heartbreak. He picked me up in a black Lexus RX, wearing a white baseball cap and a light green shirt that showed off the tanned tone of his skin. He took me to dinner at Katsuyah on Hollywood Boulevard, then for a walk down the Santa Monica Pier. When he leaned in and kissed me, all I could think of was how long it had been since I’d felt like this.
Naturally, at first, I thought it was love, as everyone does when they’re blindsided in the initial relationship stages. I even held out on sex for as long as physically possible, because I was “waiting for the right time.”
“What the hell are you waiting for?” Justine had asked. “Singing angels to come down from the sky?”
“Hey, we don’t all put out on the first date like you,” I’d joked, but in truth, I really did want it to be perfect, just like everything, up until that point, had been.
But after the honeymoon stage fizzled out, I began to have my doubts. For one, if things didn’t work out between us, I knew the inter-office romance drama at work wouldn’t go over well, and could possibly cost me my newfound dream job. And I had also slowly started to come to the realization that David and I didn’t have a whole hell of a lot in common.
Pace’s entertainment director had just assigned me my first research piece, where I was instructed to review the album charts for the past decade and compile a list of the most popular rock bands of the twenty-first century. After coming up with a pathetically weak list of bands not even worthy of mention, it was of no comparison to the bands like Nirvana and Radiohead that had severely impacted the music world a decade prior. I began to wonder if the entire music scene had gone seriously downhill in the last ten years, as the only band I could think of that had emerged over the past decade and was worth adding to the list was Muse.
When I presented my frustration to David, his lackluster attitude gave way to the realization that we were definitely lacking in the common interest arena, as David’s only passion in life was sports, which was like a foreign language to me. For the first time since we started dating, I began to think that maybe our relationship didn’t exactly have the longest shelf life. Common goals and passions may not be important to some people, but they were to me.
“Cornell is still around,” he’d argued when I vented about my article.
“My point exactly. Cornell was one of the talented artists who evolved in the nineties. Name at least one of your favorite bands who evolved over the past ten years.”
Silence.
“See?” I pointed out. “It isn’t easy, is it? I literally sat my desk for hours today trying to come up with some great bands that have formed in the last few years and I ended up having to include bands that I didn’t even like. The only one worth adding to the list is Muse.”
“Who’s Muse?”
***
The lobby to my apartment building was lined with a horizontal row of silver mailboxes, each of which held a small lock in the center. Every afternoon, like clockwork, I’d spend at least ten minutes trying to force my key to unlock the damn door, which usually resulted in my fist beating it repeatedly until the door swung open.
Which was exactly what I was doing when Dylan came strolling through the front door.
“Well, if it isn’t Miss California herself,” he greeted, sidling up next to me. His mood seemed to have slightly improved since our last encounter.
I groaned and continued to toy with the lock. Dylan watched me for a good thirty seconds before reaching out and taking the key from my grasp. “Allow me,” he said, unlocking the door in one swift move. I stared at him in bewilderment.
“Try turning the key to the left and then to the right,” he explained. “Works every time.”
I nodded and scooped up the pile of junk mail into my arms.
“A thank you would be nice.”
I feigned a smile and mumbled “thanks” before turning to walk away. I could feel his glare as I began to ascend the stairs.
“Why are you such a bitch all the time?”
I spun around to face him, but said nothing.
“Christ, I know we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot,” he continued. “But I’m trying to be cordial and say hello and you act like a stuck-up snot and walk away.”
I felt like I had suddenly teleported back to middle school, back to when the class bully would poke fun at you in front of everyone, and instead of coming up with a wise comeback, you’d be too frazzled to think of a good response. I remember racking my brain for something clever to come back with, but I always ended up sputtering off at the mouth and sounding like a complete idiot.
Which reminded me that in most circumstances like these, it’s better to keep your mouth shut.
Without another word, I turned around and stomped up the stairs to my apartment. Somehow, I could feel Dylan laughing at me as I made my way up the stairs. I couldn’t see him, I couldn’t hear him, but I could feel him. And the bastard was laughing.
Chapter 5
Being unemployed whisks you into this magical world where you lose all concept of reality. You never know what day it is, what time it is, and can’t understand why you’re still constantly late for everything when you have no job. People have a tendency to blame everything on work: the reason they’re behind on chores, the reason they’re late to events, the reason they need to go home early after a few cocktails. Ironically, all these things still take place when you’re jobless, except now, you have nothing to blame it on.
My life, up until a few weeks ago, had consisted of cramming in school work, actual work, and time with my then-boyfriend and then-best friend.
My life now consisted of sleeping until noon, checking my email, applying for jobs, watching reruns on Soapnet, fielding calls from my long lost friends and relatives, and running the occasional food shopping or laundry errand. I’d lose count of how many days it had been since I last showered until someone actually invited me out into the real world.
I came to the realization it is not impossible to become extremely busy doing absolutely nothing.
I also came to the realization that I was in desperate need of a job.
***
Surely there are worse things in life than going from a music writer to a resume writer. When I find out what they are, I’ll let you know.
With my minimal experience, the only job that I could find was writing resumes for Staffing Pros, a recruiting firm that occupied the fourth floor of the Fiduciary Trust Building in South Station. In addition to the fact that I had now been demoted from an entertainment industry expert to a corporate suit, I was also forced to take public transportation, since ninety-nine percent of places downtown didn’t provide on-site parking.
When I arrived, Elaine Curtin, my new boss, barely said two words to me before leading me to a cubicle-infested room and pawning me off on my co-worker. The girl, a short brunette who didn’t look much older than me, pulled up a chair beside her and motioned for me to take a seat.
“I’m Angela,” she said, peering up at me through her purple Vogue eyeglasses. “I’ll be going over your job duties with you, but they’re pretty easy. You’ll speak to candidates over the phone, ask them about their job responsibilities and put together a nice, formatted resume that highlights their experience.” She handed me a stack of sample resumes. “You’ll also need to provide them with a cover letter, as well as a thank you letter that they’ll send to clients post-interview.”
She wheeled her chair towards the computer screen and opened a resume template. “Basically, you want to make sure to emphasize how the candidate’s role affected the business as a whole, instead of just listing their individual responsibilities. I always recommend searching for similar resumes and job postings online to get ideas.”
I nodded. “Sounds easy enough. Is this what you do, too?”
She shook her head. “I’m a recruiter. Basically, after you’re done with the resume, it’s my job to find the candidate a job with one of our clients.” She pointed to the row of cubicles to our right, where two middle-aged women were typing on their computers. “That’s Nancy and Linda. They’re the other recruiters. And over there,” she said, pointing to our left, “is where Kerry sits. She’s the other resume writer.”
“What about the girl in the front?” I asked, motioning to the six-foot tall Asian woman who was seated at a desk in front of the entrance. She looked like she weighed about ninety pounds, and her hands were the size of my entire head.
“Oh, that’s Kim. She’s a temp who’s working as Elaine’s assistant.” She leaned in closer to me and whispered, “But we call her Shanghai Surprise.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because we’re convinced she’s really a man.” She grinned, then looked over her shoulder at the clock. “Do you want to go grab some coffee before we get started? There’s a great little café downstairs.”
I grinned back, stood up and followed her to the door. And for the first time since I’d moved back home, I got the feeling that things were starting to look up.
***
After my first day on the job, I arrived home from work a little after six, just in time to catch Dylan bidding farewell to his sleazy girlfriend in the parking lot. Her hair was a tornado of poorly bleached curls, her shirt looked like it was laminated to her breasts, and her jaw line was sporting a fresh trail of orange facial concealer that went along nicely with her giant layer of black eyeliner. A walking Halloween party.
I hustled through the parking lot, trying to pretend that I didn’t see them, but I could feel Dylan’s gaze on me. I always felt it. Even when I wasn’t looking at him, I sensed his stare burning a hole in the back of my head. I kept my eyes focused on the ground, hoping that he would ignore me.
“Hey, California.”
Damn it.
“Hi, Dylan.”
“Who’s that?” God, even his girlfriend’s voice was annoying. She sounded like a whiny four year-old.
“Some girl who just moved into the building.”
“Oh. How do you know her?” A certain suspiciousness crept into her voice.
Oh boy. Not only was his girlfriend tacky and whiny, but she was also insecure, which I assumed was probably because he cheated on her. No, he definitely cheated on her. Of course he did. What man didn’t cheat?
Note to self: all men are cheating, lying scum.
I spent the remainder of the evening unpacking what was left of my things, which was really just one box, the box I had been avoiding since I’d moved in. I sat cross-legged on the floor and sliced open the cardboard with a pair of scissors, removing the contents one by one.
Justine’s passion, ever since we were teens, had always been photography. I’d listen to her rant for hours on end about the evolution of technology and how no one bothered to develop photos in print anymore.
“They’re going to lose everything,” she’d say. “Everyone just saves their pictures to their computers or to websites instead of developing them. Sooner or later, their computer is going to crash, or another social networking site will take over, and somewhere down the line those pictures will be lost.” She’d hold up a giant photo album for emphasis. “But no one ever loses these.”
To prove her point, every Christmas, I’d receive the same gift: an album of all the pictures we’d taken in the past year.
And now, here they were, laid out in front of me. Smacking me in the face with reality.
I knew better than to sift through the recent albums, the ones that would make my eyes bleed, reflecting back on my beautiful lie of a life in L.A. I stacked the albums on the top shelf in my closet, a safe place where they’d never block my path or catch my eye. But when I got to the bottom album, the archives from 1997, I opened it.
Maybe I was hoping to discover some clue, some inclination of where it had gone wrong. But all I found was a series of Polaroids of two fourteen-year-old girls, laying side by side behind the football field, whiling away another fall in Rockland. Justine had always been a boy-magnet, with her small frame, giant blue eyes and teeny nose that crinkled when she laughed. I had a blonde shoulder-length bob and short bangs that looked like they belonged on a first-grader. We were both fashion disasters back then, Justine constantly wearing dark lipstick that contradicted her pale complexion, while I was caught in the middle of a grunge versus goth identity crisis.
I stood up and relocated to the couch, my head propped against the armrest as I flipped through the pages. There was the freshman semi-formal, the dance that Justine and I dressed up and pretended to go to, but instead snuck out the back door to get drunk in the woods with the senior boys. There was my first boyfriend, Ethan Blackwood, the typical high school bad boy who was notorious for his crass humor and irresistible charm. There was the time Justine and I MacGuyver’ed a bong out of a Sprite bottle and tin foil and spent the night blowing hits out of her bedroom window and laughing hysterically.
Ah, high school. How I missed it…
I hadn’t realized I’d fallen asleep until I was awakened by a familiar melody coming from directly above my living room. It sounded like it was flowing from the vents, but it was hard to tell. I listened to the words as they drifted through the walls, like some sort of distorted lullaby.
It's never over,
My kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder
It's
never over,
all my riches for her smiles when I slept so soft
against her
It's never over,
All my blood for the sweetness of
her laughter
It's never over,
She's a tear that hangs inside my
soul forever
I couldn’t believe it. Someone, somewhere in my building, was playing “Lover You Should’ve Come Over.” The Jeff Buckley ballad that had altered my entire perception of music.
As I haphazardly transferred myself from the couch to my bed, I realized that something about the song was off. It sounded almost identical to the album version, only it was softer. An acoustic version, maybe. I couldn’t place it, but whatever it was, there was something brilliant about it.
***
Two nights later, it happened again. I was in the midst of a dream where I was working back at the Pace offices. Karen had assigned me my first profile story on a local band, but as soon as I finished piecing the article together, my computer crashed and the entire document was lost. I kept trying to restart the computer, but all I saw was a giant, black screen in front of me.
When I awoke, the same familiar sound was seeping through my vents, and I realized that was what woke me. Only this time, it was a version of Buckley’s cover of “Halleluiah.” I listened until the song ended, and then heard the first notes of “Lover You Should’ve Come Over” strike up once again.
Without even thinking, I got up, threw on a bra and a pair of slippers, and proceeded up the stairs to find out where it was coming from.
When I reached the top of the stairwell, I heard the music coming from the first door on my right, the apartment directly above me. I paused and gnawed on my lower lip, contemplating how ridiculous I’d be to actually knock on some stranger’s door and confess that I was eavesdropping on their music collection.
I turned to head back down the stairs, but froze when something on the door caught my eye. The apartment number stared back at me, mocking me, laughing at my expense.
Apartment eighteen.
The image of Dylan’s registration appeared in my head:
Dylan Cavallari
10 Park Place Apt. 18.
Boston, MA 02111
There was no way in hell I was knocking on that asshole’s door.
I lingered in the hallway for a few minutes, imagining about what would happen if I did knock. I pictured his trashy, loudmouth girlfriend answering the door in her underwear and demanding to know if I was sleeping with her boyfriend. I really wasn’t in the mood for any catfights, especially since I was wearing slippers.
I pressed my ear to the door and listened, but didn’t hear any voices so I assumed he was alone. My second fantasy consisted of Dylan answering the door, telling me I was a huge bitch and to go screw, then slamming the door in my face. That was what I was most afraid of.
My third fantasy consisted of Dylan answering the door and inviting me in. While Jeff Buckley played in the background, he threw me down on his bed and ripped off each article of my clothing one by one, while condescendingly telling me what a bitch I was. I liked that one that most. It was kind of a turn-on.
Screw it, I told myself. It’s now or never.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.
Chapter 6
The incredulous look on Dylan’s face when he answered the door was priceless. He stared at me for so long that I burst out laughing.
“California?” he asked. “What the hell are you doing here? Everything okay?”
I nodded. “I know this is really strange, but I have to ask you a question. Am I interrupting anything?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m alone. Come on in.”
I followed Dylan into his living room, which was an absolute pigsty. It had that specific bachelor pad aesthetic to it – piles of books and newspapers strewn everywhere, dirty dishes covering the coffee table, the lingering scent of stale beer and dirty laundry. I could barely tell what color his armchair was because of the massive pile of clothing draped over it. I made a poor attempt to hide the disgusted look on my face, but it must have been pretty obvious because Dylan shot me a judgmental look.
“Listen,” he said. “I know it’s a mess, but I don’t want to hear one complaint out of your mouth or I’m kicking your ass out. Understood?”
I nodded in agreement.
“Good. So what’s up?”
I glanced down looking for a place to sit, but I didn’t have many options. Realizing this, Dylan picked up the pile of clothes on the chair, threw them onto the floor, and motioned for me to sit down.
“Well,” I began. “I woke up the other night because I heard music coming through my vents and...”
“Hey,” he interrupted. “If you’re coming here to bitch about the noise, I don’t want to hear it. It’s one of the prerequisites of living in a complex.”
I felt my face harden. I hadn’t even been in the door for two minutes and the guy was already getting under my skin. “Will you let me finish? That’s not why I’m here.”
Dylan threw his hands up, his expression softening. “Sorry. Continue.”
“Okay, so I woke up and heard one of my favorite Jeff Buckley songs, but I…”
My voice trailed off as I noticed a pleased expression slowly cross Dylan’s face, replacing his usual perma-scowl. “Wait a second, you listen to Buckley?”
“Of course. The guy’s amazing.”
Dylan leaned forward in his chair, looking at me with raised eyebrows. The shocking part was, in place of his normal brooding self, he was actually smiling. This was a first.
“Wow,” he said. “California, I may have completely misjudged you. You kind of struck me as some high maintenance club rat that rocked out to overproduced pop music. But I’ll have you know that I’m a huge Buckley fan myself, which you’ve already probably guessed.”
“That’s what I was getting at. I came here because I’ve never heard that acoustic version of ‘Lover You Should’ve Come Over’ before. I have a few live albums of his but the one you were playing was just…” I searched for the word. “Brilliant.”
Dylan raised his eyebrows. “Well, I’m flattered.”
“Huh?”
“I’m flattered,” he repeated.
“What do you mean you’re flattered?”
Dylan smirked at me like he knew something I didn’t. “It’s Renee, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, Renee, you can search long and hard, but you’re never going to find that version of the song.”
I was getting annoyed with his off-topic insinuations. “Okay. Why not?”
“Because that wasn’t Jeff Buckley’s version. It was mine.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m serious.” He pointed to his acoustic guitar in the corner of the living room. “That’s my favorite song to play.”
No way, I thought to myself. There was no way. Buckley was The Almighty. I had yet to meet someone walking this Earth who could be mistaken for him.
“So, you mean to tell me that you were the one singing that song tonight?” My eyes narrowed.
“That’s what I said.”
“Okay.” I walked over to the other side of the room and handed Dylan his guitar. “Prove it.”
He sat in silence for a minute, his smooth wave of confidence crashing down. He suddenly became very interested in studying the ceiling patterns.
I placed his guitar back on the floor. “I knew you were full of it.”
He finally lowered his head and met my gaze. “I’m not lying, I just… can’t,” he mumbled. “I can’t play in front of people. I’ve never been able to. I hate it because a lot of my friends are in bands and I envy them every time I see them up on that stage, but I just can’t do it. I get too nervous.”
It was funny because the intensity that usually seared from his eyes had now dimmed, changing his entire demeanor. In a matter of seconds, Dylan had transformed from a cocky, arrogant prick to some sort of self-doubting loner. It was like he oozed both confidence and insecurity at the same time. A walking contradiction.
“It’s just me,” I reminded him. “It’s not like you’re playing in front of an audience.”
He turned and stared at his guitar for a long time, as if debating whether or not to pick it up. I knew he wanted to, but he probably felt strange emptying his soul in front of someone he barely knew.
“I can try,” he said, reluctantly picking up the guitar. “But I’m telling you, it’s not going to be as good as the version you heard a few nights ago. I play the best when I’m alone because I’m not nervous.” He let out a quick laugh. “Actually, on second thought, I always play alone so I guess it’s hard to compare.”
“Have you ever played in front of anyone?”
He nodded. “Yeah, when I was younger and had no fear. But for some reason, when I was in my late teens, I couldn’t do it anymore. I think it’s because when you’re young, you don’t care what anyone thinks of you. But once you get older, you start to become more aware of your surroundings and how people view you. And whether you like it or not, you start to care what they think.”
He was right, to a point. I thought back to when I first met Justine, when I was fourteen and fearless. But I could still see glimpses of myself that stuck with me through the years, besides the bowl haircut and excess flannel. Dylan, on the other hand, didn’t exactly strike me as the type that gave a damn what people thought of him.
I motioned my head towards the guitar, signaling for him to play. He fiddled with the tuning for a minute, then began to strum the first few chords of “Lover You Should’ve Come Over.” He stopped after a few seconds, took a deep breath and then started the song over again. I sat in shock as he belted out the first verse of the song.
I was wrong. His voice didn’t just sound like Jeff Buckley; it sounded almost identical. The guy could go around impersonating him to the blind and they’d think he’d been resurrected. It was surreal. To me, Buckley had always been someone that no musician could ever compare to, so the fact that I had found someone worthy of his comparison was mind-blowing. Not to mention that certain someone happened to live within a ten-foot radius from me.
Dylan’s voice was a little shaky throughout the first half of the song, but by the end it had smoothed out completely. But what was even more intriguing than his vocals was his entire aura. When he sang, he sang like he meant it. He sang with a sense of desperation, like his entire soul had come to life through the music. I figured out why he always sang alone; it was too emotional for him. It made him vulnerable. And that was a side of him that I assumed he didn’t let many people see.
When he finally finished, I sat in silence with my lips halfway parted, debating on how the hell to put the last six minutes and forty-three seconds into words.
“Wow.” That was all I could manage. That was enough for Dylan though, because he smiled for the third time that night.
“Dylan, you have a gift,” I said.
“Thank you,” he said modestly. “I like to think so.”
“But,” I continued. “If you’re the only one who gets to see it, then what’s the point of having it at all?”
Dylan rolled his eyes as though I was telling him something he was already well aware of. “Don’t you think I know that?” he asked. “It’s not something I can control. I wish more than anything that I had that confidence to walk on stage and perform the same way I do when I’m alone, but I don’t. I’m just not comfortable with it, and there’s nothing I can do to change it.”
If there was one thing that Dylan and I had in common, besides our love of music, it was the fact that we were both stubborn as hell.
I glanced at my watch and realized it was almost one in the morning. I stood up and started to head towards the door.
“I should go,” I told him. “But before I do, I have a question.”
“What’s that?”
“Will you play for me again sometime?”
He walked over to where I was standing and rested his arm against the door, looking me up and down warily like he was trying to figure me out. I noticed that his confidence had reappeared. I didn’t like his confident side. It made me nervous.
“You can come by anytime, as long as you leave that bitchy attitude of yours at the door,” he said. I sensed that he was joking, but he didn’t smile. “Just make sure there isn’t a red Blazer in the parking lot because Christina is pretty jealous as it is, so unexpected female visitors might set her off.”
“Understood. I’ll see you later.”
I turned around and began to descend the stairs. I was about halfway down when I heard Dylan’s door creak open.
“Hey, California.”
I looked up and saw him staring down at me from the top of the stairs.
“Yeah?”
He grinned. He had a sexy, crooked grin where only the left side of his mouth shifted upwards. I grinned back stupidly, even though I had no idea what he was about to say.
“You know, you’re not half bad.”
Before I had a chance to reply, he had already disappeared back into his apartment.
Chapter 7
It had been over a week and I still couldn’t get Dylan’s voice out of my head. The red Blazer had been in the parking lot nearly every night, and even on the nights when it wasn’t there, I didn’t have the balls to show up on his doorstep again. I didn’t want him thinking I’d been permanently perched at the window, eagerly awaiting the departure of the Blazer, even though I was about one window-perch away from becoming a certified stalker.
On my way home from work, I grabbed a bottle of wine and a romantic comedy to mask my depression about spending another Friday night alone in my apartment. After settling down on my couch with a glass of Cabernet, I picked up the phone and dialed Beth’s number.
“Do you remember that guy I was telling you about the other night?” I asked her. “The one whose van I backed into in the parking lot?”
“Yeah. Why?”