The Writer's Tale

We drove. That was about all we had in common any more, we both liked to drive at night. But now, even now, we weren’t at peace. The fabric of our carefully constructed universe was ripped. It was revealed as tissue-thin paper, held together by lies we told each other. That we loved each other. That we would never think about any other person in the way we thought about each other. The lies everyone tells each other without admitting they’re lies. Without realizing that every relationship is doomed from the start. That love is a lie bandied about by flower salesmen and chocolatiers. We believed that lie, not so long ago. We loved that lie more than we loved each other.

The windshield wipers were the only sound. Squeak. Squeak. Whoosh. Squeak. I turned on the radio, seeking some solace in the corporate-backed world of meaningless noise. Brandy certainly didn’t bother explaining herself. A couple days ago, I would have done anything for her, and now I realized that there was nothing she had that no other woman had. She was stock. Cold heart. Check. Inability to understand another human being. Check. Check, check, checkmate.

Frank Sinatra sang about love on the radio. He was dead. What did he know?

I turned off the radio, stole a glance at her. I thought I heard a sniffle, some sign that she had regret for what she did. No, that couldn’t be true. She was stock. Stock model from a factory, churned out by society, built by convention.

---

We met at a bar in Houston. It was called The Eternal Circle. Filled with the class of people who want to be counter-culture, but end up creating a niche in society so prevalent that they start defining the overall culture. I never liked the hipsters. Even before you saw them infesting Goodwill stores, I knew there was something detestable about what they stood for.

She wasn’t a hipster. I knew that from the second I laid eyes on her. She was something different. Something enrapturing, amazing. I turned to one of my friends— I have to have her.

What?

I nod to Brandy. Her. Add her to my collection. What are our acquaintances but a collection of figurines we only play with when we need? Yes, some of them are more important than others, but figures on a shelf, nonetheless.

Walk over. Introduce yourself, make a joke.

She smiles. Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe she’s not a figurine on a shelf. Maybe you have found a person. (Of course you haven’t. They’re all figurines.)

What do you do?

No kidding? I love to read philosophy. David Hume had a brilliant mind. Scientific, but poetic.

Spend the whole party chatting. It dies down, so you go back to her place. Your place is a sty. A mess. Not somewhere you want to go with a pretty girl.

You mention you have your mp3 player, it turns out she has a stereo that plays mp3s. You put on some Al Green.

Fun happens.

Sit alone at home. Listen to Radiohead. Only they reflect the despair I’m feeling. The despair we all feel in the same position. We’re all nothing but stock, after all. Some less than others. Some more than others.

Radiohead. Nocturnes can suck a nut. Chopin can eat an asshole.

At the party. The incident. The Incident, more like it. It starts well enough. We walk in holding the six pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon, presenting it like a sacrifice to the hipster god of parties. The host laughs. We laugh. Oh my, isn’t everyone so happy?

Walk through the house. Small talk with all of our friends from our jobs. We both work in bookstores. Record stores weren’t hiring at the time. Jokes about selling bound-up wastes of trees. What was Crichton ever thinking? Too bad he’s dead. Sarcastic laughter.

I hold Brandy tighter. Her warmth makes me excited. Stiff. Brandy, you’re really doing it for me. That goes in her ear. She squeezes my ass.

We move on. Phil corners us, starts talking about The Arcade Fire. We hate The Arcade Fire. Sort of like a joke, how bad they are.

That’s when it happens. She winks at Phil.

She fucking winks at Phil.

Maybe you don’t understand. She fucking winks at Phil.

Phil the fanboy. The guy who insists that they know what they’re doing in the studio. That they have some notion of what makes for pleasing music.

What the hell are you doing?

She acts innocent, confused. What?

You know Goddamn well what I mean. What the fuck was that winking shit?

She laughs. I must be joking.

No, I am not fucking joking. Do I look like I am?

The party is quiet now.

Am I joking? Tell me. Tell me if I am joking. I slam a bottle on the tiles. It shatters.

Sit alone at home. Listen to Radiohead. Only they reflect the despair I’m feeling. The despair we all feel in the same position. We’re all nothing but stock, after all. Some less than others. Some more than others.

Radiohead. Nocturnes can suck a nut. Chopin can eat an asshole.