the smell of wine & cheap perfume.
merry christmas. i hope everyone got what they wanted.
i'm flying to new york tomorrow. i'll be back on new year's eve, friday. & then 2005, which is scary as hell. i love driving.
I remember sitting there on that scruffy couch was not comfortable. Living there, in that dingy apartment on the first floor with my parents was not comfortable either. But I couldn’t complain, there were always people who had worse than I had. My parents were maniacs before I left. I could not leave the building, they told me this everyday. Welcome to the life of Catholic upbringing. I went to church every Sunday; I went to church school five days a week. I reeked of wine and bread communion; I was a Catholic girl. Mama and Pap were away every night waitering at the local café or clerking at Wal-Mart. I was left with a babysitter every night of the week, no matter whether it was the summer or school season. I was left prisoner in that crummy apartment. Jane was my innkeeper and Jane was stupid. She’d force me to eat only green-colored food, and prohibited me from wearing the color black. Ever. The stench of the clothing detergent she concocted stunk with all of my colorful garments. I was an obedient little tot and I used to listen to all of Jane’s rules. But then I realized one day that she wasn’t my parent. That’s probably when she became naïve and when I became smart; probably around the same time I met Jon and Marie when I was almost thirteen. They taught me how to sneak out through the window, they taught me to listen to myself.
Jon and Marie lived in the apartment on the third floor. They were twenty-three when I first met them. They lived together. Their room smelled of Patchouli incense; they smelled of illegal substances unheard of to me. I met them for the first time when I was picking up the mail during the summer, one of the few times I was allowed outside. The mailmen during the hot seasons were more relaxed; they were always tardy. Thank God for lazy mailmen. I enjoyed my free time. I spent the hot summers waiting for the mail on the main building’s porch, tapping my small feet against the gray concrete. I could feel Mama’s eyes staring at me through the window.
One day, when the sun was too hot and my armpits too sticky, the couple decided to check their mail. Luck of the draw, considering they couldn’t be caught dead in daylight. They brushed past me for their mail, but then smiled at me. They didn’t smile down at me; their smiles were level. Marie told me I had pretty hair, her own hair was buzzed short and died cherry red. Her eyes were red too and so were Jon’s. I noticed that this wasn’t irregular. My twelve-year-old self naively classified Jon as the husband. Marie told me later that they were just friends. She even asked if I’d like to sleep with Jon too. No, I was a good Catholic girl in the beginning; I was not about to lose my religion. Nevertheless, Jon was, well, amazing. He had black shaggy hair, chiseled jawbones and long eyelashes. He didn’t speak much, but he was deeper than I perceived initially. I could decipher his silent tones. I knew when he was just being quiet and comfortable or quiet and uncomfortable.
Ever since that summer morning, I noticed their short-lived arrivals and departures more often. I always saw the odd couple leaving the apartment on late nights and arriving back on the earliest mornings. I’d watch them from my escape window near the small phone closet. Marie noticed me one night watching them and she waved her hand at me. I was kind of startled, so I grabbed the phone cord and pretended I was having a conversation with John Joe. But I still half-waved in return. Jon’s lip curled and with his fingers he spelled out the numbers “3,” “6,” “9.” Room 369. They left the apartment door open halfway…for me. So, now all of a sudden life was somewhat convenient. I thanked my parents secretly for choosing to live on the 1st floor: its sole purpose allows me to sneak out of my window easily.
My parents knew what happened every night. At first they struggled with my independence from them. They yelled, interrogated me. Jane had a nervous breakdown when I wore black to school one day. They blamed everything on Jon and Marie. Jane quit after I refused to attend church when I was fourteen. And then, by the time I turned sixteen my parents knew that they had lost me for good.
Every night that I climbed over the iron-guarding fence encircling the apartment, I’d cut my knee. Every night, I expected a band-aid from “Room 369.” The first night I was with Jon and Marie was like every other night I spent with them. I’d arrive at the door, and then welcome myself in with the aroma of Patchouli incense, Chinese food and the light beats of R.E.M. I could eat whatever I wanted in “Room 369”; no food was my enemy, but food wasn’t my friend either. I wouldn’t call Marie and Jon my friends, but they weren’t strangers either. I would sit there with them, taking everything in, breathing everything in, listening, and accepting life for what it was. We could play, sing, cry, write or laugh at life together. We would talk sometimes, but mostly listen to Jon play guitar. It was beautiful how he would play. His shaggy hair would get caught in his eyelashes. I could see the veins in his eyes pulsing against the white: completely focused. His thumbnail was so long compared to his other nails that were brutally short. Marie would hum with the music, and I knew if she had words to sing, her beautiful voice would shine through. I wrote my feelings from time to time with pencil on their once-white walls. Marie began to sing my words on the wall along with the music. I felt like I was something or someone with them, a type of family for those few years. I was the kid who enjoyed writing, Jon poured himself into the guitar, and Marie mastered the art of singing.
The summers were lively and the winters were sometimes dead for us. Silence was never awkward. Silence was still, silence was calm, silence was comforting in that circle. I was never uncomfortable. It didn’t even bother me when they fucked while I was still writing in their room; sex wasn’t pornographic, but just beautiful and sacred.
The last night that I was with them in “Room 369” was Christmas Eve. It was the coldest time of the season again and Jon was quiet. And uncomfortable. He refused to strum his guitar with his elongated thumbnail. Marie couldn’t hum without the guitar. I couldn’t write without the rhythm. Marie told me that Jon wasn’t well. The tone of her voice was strange. Her hair was too long now; she was wearing it in a ponytail. Her roots were grey.
“Jon, where’s your guitar?“ I asked. I looked straight at him, into those eyes with the long eyelashes. He turned and faced me, but his eyes were looking past me. He was silent for a couple of minutes after my question, but I waited, I knew he would say something, eventually. And then he began with the most bizarre, arbitrary thing I’d ever heard.
“Oh, life is bigger. Its bigger than you and you are not me; the lengths that I will go to. The distance in your eyes, oh no I’ve said too much, I set it up. That’s me in the corner, that’s me in the spotlight. I’m losing my religion, trying to keep up with you and I don’t know if I can do it. Oh no I’ve said too much. I haven’t said enough. I thought that I heard you laughing, I thought I heard you sing, I think I thought I saw you try.”
I knew this. I mean of course I knew this song: “Losing my Religion” by R.E.M. We all knew this song. But I knew something else too. Something had died in that room that night and I could smell it. I knew them since I was young; I became a whole other person because of Jon and Marie. They were now at the end of their road and I was just beginning my journey. They were at the edge of thirty and I was at the edge of eighteen. I kissed them goodbye on the mouths that night. I didn’t bother stopping by “Room 369” after that last night; I’d knew that they were leaving even before I saw the U-Haul moving truck depart Christmas morning. As I watched them leave through my snow dusted escape window, everything warm from my life vanished and I was left with the most awkward silence in my parent's empty apartment room.
a weird story, weird dream influenced it. thanks for reading if you did.
i'm flying to new york tomorrow. i'll be back on new year's eve, friday. & then 2005, which is scary as hell. i love driving.
I remember sitting there on that scruffy couch was not comfortable. Living there, in that dingy apartment on the first floor with my parents was not comfortable either. But I couldn’t complain, there were always people who had worse than I had. My parents were maniacs before I left. I could not leave the building, they told me this everyday. Welcome to the life of Catholic upbringing. I went to church every Sunday; I went to church school five days a week. I reeked of wine and bread communion; I was a Catholic girl. Mama and Pap were away every night waitering at the local café or clerking at Wal-Mart. I was left with a babysitter every night of the week, no matter whether it was the summer or school season. I was left prisoner in that crummy apartment. Jane was my innkeeper and Jane was stupid. She’d force me to eat only green-colored food, and prohibited me from wearing the color black. Ever. The stench of the clothing detergent she concocted stunk with all of my colorful garments. I was an obedient little tot and I used to listen to all of Jane’s rules. But then I realized one day that she wasn’t my parent. That’s probably when she became naïve and when I became smart; probably around the same time I met Jon and Marie when I was almost thirteen. They taught me how to sneak out through the window, they taught me to listen to myself.
Jon and Marie lived in the apartment on the third floor. They were twenty-three when I first met them. They lived together. Their room smelled of Patchouli incense; they smelled of illegal substances unheard of to me. I met them for the first time when I was picking up the mail during the summer, one of the few times I was allowed outside. The mailmen during the hot seasons were more relaxed; they were always tardy. Thank God for lazy mailmen. I enjoyed my free time. I spent the hot summers waiting for the mail on the main building’s porch, tapping my small feet against the gray concrete. I could feel Mama’s eyes staring at me through the window.
One day, when the sun was too hot and my armpits too sticky, the couple decided to check their mail. Luck of the draw, considering they couldn’t be caught dead in daylight. They brushed past me for their mail, but then smiled at me. They didn’t smile down at me; their smiles were level. Marie told me I had pretty hair, her own hair was buzzed short and died cherry red. Her eyes were red too and so were Jon’s. I noticed that this wasn’t irregular. My twelve-year-old self naively classified Jon as the husband. Marie told me later that they were just friends. She even asked if I’d like to sleep with Jon too. No, I was a good Catholic girl in the beginning; I was not about to lose my religion. Nevertheless, Jon was, well, amazing. He had black shaggy hair, chiseled jawbones and long eyelashes. He didn’t speak much, but he was deeper than I perceived initially. I could decipher his silent tones. I knew when he was just being quiet and comfortable or quiet and uncomfortable.
Ever since that summer morning, I noticed their short-lived arrivals and departures more often. I always saw the odd couple leaving the apartment on late nights and arriving back on the earliest mornings. I’d watch them from my escape window near the small phone closet. Marie noticed me one night watching them and she waved her hand at me. I was kind of startled, so I grabbed the phone cord and pretended I was having a conversation with John Joe. But I still half-waved in return. Jon’s lip curled and with his fingers he spelled out the numbers “3,” “6,” “9.” Room 369. They left the apartment door open halfway…for me. So, now all of a sudden life was somewhat convenient. I thanked my parents secretly for choosing to live on the 1st floor: its sole purpose allows me to sneak out of my window easily.
My parents knew what happened every night. At first they struggled with my independence from them. They yelled, interrogated me. Jane had a nervous breakdown when I wore black to school one day. They blamed everything on Jon and Marie. Jane quit after I refused to attend church when I was fourteen. And then, by the time I turned sixteen my parents knew that they had lost me for good.
Every night that I climbed over the iron-guarding fence encircling the apartment, I’d cut my knee. Every night, I expected a band-aid from “Room 369.” The first night I was with Jon and Marie was like every other night I spent with them. I’d arrive at the door, and then welcome myself in with the aroma of Patchouli incense, Chinese food and the light beats of R.E.M. I could eat whatever I wanted in “Room 369”; no food was my enemy, but food wasn’t my friend either. I wouldn’t call Marie and Jon my friends, but they weren’t strangers either. I would sit there with them, taking everything in, breathing everything in, listening, and accepting life for what it was. We could play, sing, cry, write or laugh at life together. We would talk sometimes, but mostly listen to Jon play guitar. It was beautiful how he would play. His shaggy hair would get caught in his eyelashes. I could see the veins in his eyes pulsing against the white: completely focused. His thumbnail was so long compared to his other nails that were brutally short. Marie would hum with the music, and I knew if she had words to sing, her beautiful voice would shine through. I wrote my feelings from time to time with pencil on their once-white walls. Marie began to sing my words on the wall along with the music. I felt like I was something or someone with them, a type of family for those few years. I was the kid who enjoyed writing, Jon poured himself into the guitar, and Marie mastered the art of singing.
The summers were lively and the winters were sometimes dead for us. Silence was never awkward. Silence was still, silence was calm, silence was comforting in that circle. I was never uncomfortable. It didn’t even bother me when they fucked while I was still writing in their room; sex wasn’t pornographic, but just beautiful and sacred.
The last night that I was with them in “Room 369” was Christmas Eve. It was the coldest time of the season again and Jon was quiet. And uncomfortable. He refused to strum his guitar with his elongated thumbnail. Marie couldn’t hum without the guitar. I couldn’t write without the rhythm. Marie told me that Jon wasn’t well. The tone of her voice was strange. Her hair was too long now; she was wearing it in a ponytail. Her roots were grey.
“Jon, where’s your guitar?“ I asked. I looked straight at him, into those eyes with the long eyelashes. He turned and faced me, but his eyes were looking past me. He was silent for a couple of minutes after my question, but I waited, I knew he would say something, eventually. And then he began with the most bizarre, arbitrary thing I’d ever heard.
“Oh, life is bigger. Its bigger than you and you are not me; the lengths that I will go to. The distance in your eyes, oh no I’ve said too much, I set it up. That’s me in the corner, that’s me in the spotlight. I’m losing my religion, trying to keep up with you and I don’t know if I can do it. Oh no I’ve said too much. I haven’t said enough. I thought that I heard you laughing, I thought I heard you sing, I think I thought I saw you try.”
I knew this. I mean of course I knew this song: “Losing my Religion” by R.E.M. We all knew this song. But I knew something else too. Something had died in that room that night and I could smell it. I knew them since I was young; I became a whole other person because of Jon and Marie. They were now at the end of their road and I was just beginning my journey. They were at the edge of thirty and I was at the edge of eighteen. I kissed them goodbye on the mouths that night. I didn’t bother stopping by “Room 369” after that last night; I’d knew that they were leaving even before I saw the U-Haul moving truck depart Christmas morning. As I watched them leave through my snow dusted escape window, everything warm from my life vanished and I was left with the most awkward silence in my parent's empty apartment room.
a weird story, weird dream influenced it. thanks for reading if you did.