PAUL WESTERBERG
PART FOUR: FRIDAY NIGHT
TRACEY
I have been walking on this path for almost
two full years, countless times a day, every day and never before have I felt
so…electrified! Like most people on this campus, or at least it is safe to
assume, the only way for me to get myself around a campus this vast is via the
transportation of my own two feet. To get from the Lakeshore dorms to the heart
of the campus and the accompanying State Street, you can take one of three
routes.
You could go down Lakeshore Path,
horrifically nicknamed “Rapeshore Path,” which stretches directly alongside
Lake Mendota and comes out by the Union. Or, you could take the longer road
past Steenbock Library and walk all the way down University Ave to the most
pleasant wall of sound of the Madison traffic. Or, you could take the path up
Liz Waters hill with the full vista of Lake Mendota as your backdrop until you
make your way to Bascom Hill, traipsing downwards until the campus and the city
opens itself up to you suggesting all manner of possibilities. With that in
mind, I obviously chose “Option #3.”
Heading to Witte Hall, I just basked in the
warm spring air, trying not to walk too quickly—first because it just felt so
good outside and just seeing people so happy all over Bascom Hill just couldn’t
help but to put me in a great mood. The second reason I was walking more
leisurely and even purposefully slower was that I didn’t want to look too over
anxious for Heather, which is indeed another stupid game to play when my
actions are the opposite of what I feel. Of course, I’m anxious to see Heather!
If I could, I’d transport myself to her like “Star Trek.” But, it’s all such a
stupid game and if I think about it too much, I’ll place the cloud over my head
myself and ruin the night in the process. I think she can tell that I like
her…who am I kidding? I’m probably wearing it like a sandwich board message.
Even so…she still wanted to get together. She still sent me that postcard,
right? She didn’t have to do that at all. She could’ve left the bus that night
and I would’ve never seen her again but she sent that postcard. She did not
have to do that. She didn’t have to do anything at all. Ah…quit over-thinking
this one and just get there!
HEATHER
Any time now…any time now…
TRACEY
I arrived at Witte and entered Heather’s
floor to find her room. All was fairly quiet for a Friday night save for the
strains of Led Zeppelin’s “Going To California” seeping from someone’s room and
somehow it felt fitting. I wanted to get onto her floor and walk around as
unnoticed as possible but it just seemed as if her floormates could just sense
my presence.
When I walked down the hallway, I was first
greeted by the sight of one chubby red headed girl opening her door, glancing
my way and then darting back inside, badly feigning that she had forgotten
something and quickly had to attend to it. Then, there was another girl—a
petite blonde emerging from another room and disappearing into the bathroom,
taking a glimpse of me along the way. Then, another girl left one room to knock
on the door of another, and when that door opened, they both glanced my way and
ventured inside shutting the door behind them. And so it happened again and
again, all in the moments it took for me to reach Heather’s door. I felt like I
was underneath a microscope being investigated and all for a reason I just did
not understand until I got to Heather’s door and saw her dry erase board. It
said…
Tell
us ALL the details LATER!!!!!!!!!!!
Oh, I get it.
Now that
was weird. I’ve never had anything like that happen before. Is that what a
receiving line is like? Or at least, an audition? Hmmm…If so, did I pass?
I knocked on the door and Heather opened it
with Jimmy Page’s guitars surrounding her. I realized in that moment that I
actually haven’t even seen her since the bus ride! She didn’t quite match what
I was remembering. She was so much better in person. Heather Harrison stood in
the doorway and smiled softly. She could have knocked me over with just one blink
of her eyes. Her auburn hair flowed and rested around her shoulders
comfortably. She wore a denim jacket over a snug, sort of low cut top that
accentuated her full frame voluptuously. Her top seemingly merged into a
patterned short skirt with black leggings underneath and all ending with smart,
short black boots. She looked amazing and if it wouldn’t have looked so
despairingly obvious, I would have pinched myself at my good fortune. I
couldn’t believe that this girl was going to go out with me! And there she was,
smiling at me.
HEATHER
There he was in my doorway. Tracey Wolf in the
flesh. Was he really that good looking before? His face looks so gentle, so
smooth, so warm. He wore a simple green button down shirt, untucked over a pair
of blue jeans. Nothing special but they just fit, you know? Just so
effortless—like the act of wearing clothes is something that comes so naturally
to him—like he has never fretted a day in his life over how he looks. He just
looks so…and I just look so…well, I tried.
I’m
not getting down on myself, trust me. But, for tonight, it really took some
effort. I guess what really made it so much of an effort is that everyone fund
out about tonight when I would have preferred to have kept a low profile. But,
it was my own fault.
Do you remember when I said that I don’t
really have “friends” but people I think of as “close acquaintances”? Well, the
reason that everyone knows about tonight with Tracey is because of one of those
said acquaintances, a person who is so forward and determined that she would
appoint herself as my best friend without any consent from me. Hmmmph! She
probably already has.
Her name is Abbey Rhode McClintock. Yes,
you heard that correctly. Her name is entirely inspired by The Beatles but she
acts as if John, Paul, George and Ringo personally named her themselves. It is
how I have always seen her introduce herself to anyone but with an air that
suggests…no, better yet, demands that
everyone be impressed and fall to our collective knees in worship. I’m sorry
that I am sounding so spiteful. I don’t like being like this but Abbey just
brings it out of me. And I never realized that I had it inside of me in the
first place.
I met Abbey Rhode McClintock early in my
second semester of my Freshman year. It was in my Human Development class. I
was at my seat, minding my own business when this petite, curly haired, nearly
olive skinned girl sat directly next to me and just began talking. I never even
looked at her—other than when she first sat down—because she was talking so
much and I was convinced that there was no conceivable way that she could’ve
been talking to me. I didn’t even know what she was even talking about because
I had just tuned he rout. It was only when I sensed that she has asked me a
question (please don’t ask me to remember what it was because truthfully, I
really do not know) that I looked her way for a second time. She stared back at
me with full, unflinching confidence, thrust her hand at me, introduced herself
in the way that I described and she just continued talking. And she hasn’t left
me alone since.
She sits next to me in shared classes
talking away. She calls me all of the time and I don’t think that she has had
much experience with any sense of “visitor’s etiquette” as she just shows up at
my room whenever she catches the whim. I am ashamed to even admit to this but
she is so determined to get a hold of me that, at times, I have not only
screened calls, I have essentially hidden inside of my own room when she has
knocked on the door. I often worry if my floormates secretly talk trash about
me because I basically brought Abbey here, not intentionally, of course,
because how was I to know when she and I first met that she would be precisely
and unapologetically who she is?
So why are we even friends? I’m not sure
most times but to be honest, I guess I’m hoping that some of her rubs off onto
me. Not the more obnoxious stuff obviously. But, I am always amazed at her
ability to just steamroll through life without caring what anybody says or
thinks. Or, there is the possibility that she has a complete lack of
self-awareness which would mean that she really doesn’t have a concept about
what anyone might be thinking about her. Whatever the means, it would be nice
to have some of that bullheaded confidence, that way, maybe I wouldn’t be so
tied in knots over going out with Tracey. I wouldn’t be worrying about what he
might be thinking or feeling or even expecting. I could just take everything as
it arrived. Like what if I didn’t think this through. I mean—what do I really
know about him anyway? And what might he want out of tonight? Yes, I know that
I’ll never know anything until tonight happens and getting to know Tracey even
better is exactly what a date is for. I know that I like him. He seems genuine.
I can tell by how he’s looking at me that he likes what he sees and I do think
that it’s sweet that he’s not lingering on my cleavage (Abbey’s idea—“Let him
get a peek. It’ll keep his blood flowing.”). But still, what is he expecting?
Will he like me tonight? Would he want to kiss me or even more? And I wish that
I could have gone through this without an audience. But, as I already said,
it’s my own fault.
I made the mistake earlier this week of
telling Abbey that I had plans after she invited me to go with her to this
“exclusive” frat party. I should’ve known that she wouldn’t have backed down
from discovering what my plans really were and without hesitation, she blabbed
it to all of the girls on this floor which then caused this flurry of activity,
excitement and again, those expectations that are just no good for me. “Where
are you going?” “What are you going to do?” “What will you wear?” “What’s he
like?” None of those things are of anybody’s business but my own and Tracey’s
but thanks to Abbey, inquiring minds and all of that…
In fact, Abbey is here in the room right
now! I’m standing in the doorway kind of blocking Tracey’s view of her and I
guess Abbey’s sight of him. I know she’s here for me but what if she just
has a
greater appeal to Tracey? Well…I should trust him, I guess, right? But, Abbey?
I mean—she has been so pent up to meet him and she practically beat down the
door to make sure she didn’t miss him. Honestly, when he knocked, she said with
gleaming eyes, “Methinks there’s a Wolf at your door!”
Bite the bullet, Heather. You just can’t
stand here forever over-thinking it all. But…I really do need to get some water
from the fountain (I will never call it a “bubbler” thank you very much) or
something. I just need a minute…
TRACEY
“HI!” I said, perhaps a tad more excited
and more breathlessly than I had intended.
“Hi,” she said and even though she smiled
at me, something felt…off, I suppose. But, maybe it’s just me since I’m so
nervous. We just stood there for a moment. Me, just taking it all in as she
looked prettier than I remembered and as for her, I’ll never know. Suddenly,
she said, and perhaps a little brusquely, that is if I wasn’t reading her
correctly, “Umm…could you excuse me for just a minute?” And off she went to the
bathroom, leaving me standing in the hallway right outside of her room.
“Come in!” instructed a voice from inside
the room and for whatever reason, I was compelled to obey. I entered Heather’s
room, which was modestly decorated and housed surprisingly with minimal amounts
of pop culture iconography, which I have to admit was refreshing to see
considering my perception that everybody’s dorm room—including my own—is
essentially a physical representation of all of the songs, movies, artists,
writers and images that have, and continue to, shape us. Even so, I was happy
to see a postcard sized, laminated still photo from “Some Kind Of Wonderful”
tacked to a cork board.
The source of the voice who commanded me to
enter Heather’s room was then rapidly looking or rummaging through what I
presumed to be her own backpack. Within moments, she pulled out a cassette tape,
zipped over to the stereo that sat on a desktop, abruptly silenced Led Zeppelin
which she then ejected and then inserted her own tape and pressed “PLAY.” As
the music began, she stood wither back to the stereo, leaning against the desk
and closing her eyes in what read to me to be a self-conscious display of
“getting into it.”
“This is the BEST band in the world!” she
exuded.
“R.E.M.?” I said, questioning innocently
enough but for whatever reason, she looked as offended as if I had slapped her
silly.
“Yes, R.E.M.!” she responded with the exact
gaze that would accompany a pointed phrase like “Yes, dumb ass!” or “Hey,
Village Idiot, you just left you room with no pants!”
“OK then,” I replied quietly as to not poke
this dragon.
“What?! Don’t you like R.E.M.?” she
challenged.
“I like them fine,” I answered. “I’m more
of a Replacements man myself.”
“The Replacements?!”
she challenged again. “Are you serious?”
“Very,” I said with an edge that rose in my
voice. Man, who was this girl anyway?
“Hmmmph!” she grunted petulantly. “I really
don’t see how you could be since those guys are so drunk of their collective
asses all of the time that they can barely get through a song! God! How do they
even record? Probably studio musicians.”
“Really? And what of R.E.M.?”
“What about them?” she dared.
“Corporate sell outs signing to a major
label, catering to the masses, using drum machines. Honestly, drum machines on
an R.E.M. record?! When’s the 12 inch club mix coming out?” This was my
counter-attack, not that I felt remotely passionate about R.E.M. one way or the
other. But, I needed some ammunition.
“Do you even know what the song ‘Orange Crush’
is about?” she fired again. “Well, it’s not about a soda like most people
think. It’s about Agent Orange. For a
band that did sign to a major label, at least they didn’t check their sense of
integrity at the door, unlike The Replacements who probably couldn’t find
theirs at the bottom of the bottle!”
I had known this girl for possibly two
minutes and I already hated her. She wore her arrogance like perfume. Was this
girl Heather’s roommate? If she is, how can she even stand her?
“I’ve seen R.E.M. on ever tour they’ve done
since ‘Fables’,” she crowed. “That’s ‘Fables Of The Reconstruction’,” she added
with a complete lack of necessity.
“I know,” I seethed inwardly while
attempting to project calmness outwardly.
“I’ve met Peter Buck twice, Bill Berry
once, Mike Mills four times…and Michael Stipe…Oooooh Michael Stipe…There are
just no words…”
And I am certain that you will somehow find
all of them. Actually, I’ve thought of a bunch myself.
“I told him that his lyrics are the purest
poetry laced with passion and an irony that people pretend to understand but
really don’t at all,” she continued to unload. “Like the song ‘The One I Love.’
People just think that it’s this great love song, some prom theme, some wedding
dance. But really…it’s the most bitter song ever! ‘A simple prop to occupy my
time’?! What a kiss off and t’s
brilliant!!”
She said all of this as if she was the
first person to ever harbor those thoughts. Like she had a first class ticket
to the front row seat of R.E.M.’s artistic process and inspirations. I’m
surprised Michael Stipe didn’t run away from her screaming. And if he did, she
would probably have thought that he was so blown away by her insights that he
caught the Holy Ghost. And then, she
would have followed him and talked some more. But then, she said her next
thought without any sense of a segue and obviously without filter.
“I don’t date Black guys.”
What the fuck?
“I mean—no offense to you, of course but
I’d never date you.”
I’m crushed.
“Black guys don’t get me and frankly, they
never could. I’m too sophisticated in my tastes, my outlooks and my interests.”
Except when it comes to dating Black guys
and remember, she’s saying all of this to ME!
“I’m mixed by the way.”
Congratulations.
“My Mother’s Black and my Father’s White
and I am part English, French and Norwegian.”
And 100% an insufferable, ego-maniacal,
outlandishly stupid little gremlin who clearly has no concept of how to interact with
actual real live human beings. This cannot be for real, can it? If Heather left
for us to get to know each other for a moment, then I really hope that Heather
comes back soon. I have found out more than I ever wanted to know about this
girl.
HEATHER
I don’t know exactly what came over me but
I just needed a minute to breathe. Come on, Heather! Of course, I know what
came over me. I’m scared.
I’m scared that whatever of whoever Tracey
met the day of the blizzard and whomever he thinks he sees won’t materialize
tonight and he’ll wonder why he ever wasted his time. My palms are so sweaty!
Great! Just what he wants to hold. Some girl’s hands that are clammy and moist
(the worst non-profane word in the English language, again thank you very
much). But then again, whoever said that he wanted to hold my hand anyway? And
who’s to say what he wants no matter what Abbey and all of the girls are
saying, teasing, goading and whatever they feel necessary to use to juice up
this Friday night? I really just need to try to have a good time outside of all
of the noise.
I washed my hands, got a quick drink and
walked back to my room to not only hear R.E.M., which meant that Abbey
commandeered my stereo yet again, but also the rat-a-tat-tat of her voice. If
anything, I’d better rescue Tracey before he decides to just take off…and in
some ways, I wouldn’t blame him if he did.
“Well, I see that you’ve met Abbey,” I said
with an implied wink that I hoped Tracey noticed as I walked into my room.
“Not officially,” answered Tracey with what
I detected to be a small grin.
“Abbey Rhode McClintock” announced
you-know-who as she was obviously unwilling to relinquish any sense of holding
center stage. Abbey practically launched herself from her perch at my desk with
her arm and hand outstretched towards Tracey, who graciously shook in return.
“Tracey Wolf,” he said.
“I figured that!” Abbey said in that
condescending tone she always defaults to. “Unless you’re not him and Heather
worked something out with you on the side before he actually gets here.”
Abbey has a sad knack for cracking weak
jokes.
Tracey was silent. In fact, all of us said
nothing for what felt to be an eon. Only the tremble of Michael Stipe’s voice
imploring us to talk about the passion filled the space and I just found myself
going into a haze.
“I think the Isthmus said it was at 7:15,”
said Tracey gently, bringing me back to reality.
“Ooh!! So, what are you going to see?”
interjected Abbey.
“A movie,” Tracey replied frigidly.
“Don’t worry, Casanova!” retorted Abbey
through petulantly pursed lips. “I’m not going to tail you!”
Copyright 2014 by Scott Collins All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights.
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