Lo Fi

Chapter 4

4.

We drink until we don’t anymore.

We don’t cross the river. Not tonight, not most nights. It will be years until we discover the other half of the city. But we are young and naive and we ignore whatever streets we aren’t walking, ignore the restaurants we aren’t at, ignore the places outside our six square blocks, our two square miles of city, ignore the people with normal jobs, the bands we’ve never heard of and the bands everybody’s heard of. We ignore the warnings and reminders and the alarms, beyond this week, this day, this show, this night, this hour, this drink this face—

A dive bar in Hillsboro Village and I’ve lost all sense of time. Minutes have slipped away, and so has my group. The bar lights are up. Colt is wasted, insisting he can drive. Sloane’s off with her drummer, and Jess—Jessika—is sitting next to me, telling me she can drop me off, that she hasn’t been drinking tonight. Julien was there but I can’t find him now. It seems late, but when I check my phone it’s not even ten. Colt and I day-drank, and now we’re both a bit underwater. I should never have told you how hot you were, now you’re getting cocky, he says. I ignore him and drink more.

—I can take you, Jess is saying, but I’m looking past her. I’m looking for Julien. When did he slip out? He was with us earlier; it was our day off.

—Where’d Julien go?

—Julien left, she says.

—Julien, I say again, like I want to say more about him but either I can’t or I won’t.

—All right, babe.

She’s smiling at me, but it’s cracked. Judgment? Or maybe—concern.

—I’m fine, I say. I’ll walk.

—Where do you live?

I wave uselessly in the direction of my house.

—Okay, no, Jess says. I can take you. It’s on the way.

—You don’t know where I live.

—It’s Nashville, she says. Everything’s on the way.

We walk around the quiet block; winter is a cocoon across the city. It’s a Monday, and we’re the only people partying this hard. A streetlight flickers and the breeze rushes through, lifting a napkin, a plastic bag off the ground. Briefly, the two items are suspended in the air before rustling back to the ground. Inanimate, silent. The cold is sobering—I open my eyes wider, as if I can let the wet night in under my skin.

—Sorry, she says as we step into the car. There’s shit everywhere.

It’s a relief that her car is messy, that it looks almost like the inside of my own. A water bottle and a receipt in the console, a roll of film and a few CDs—CDs!—in the passenger seat. A plastic Jesus wearing a rainbow robe hangs from the rearview.

—It’s fine, I say. This isn’t even dirty. What were you doing tonight?

—I have been hungover all day, she says. So I’ve been doing exactly nothing tonight. Hence the not drinking.

—What are you doing here then? I ask.

—Denim had a thing over there.

She nods at the bar next door, the same one where I did my open mic. This was the last place I’d wanted to be tonight, but two-for-one beers all day Mondays and Thursdays is a powerful argument. I was overruled.

—I usually just drink through it, I say. A hangover, I mean.

—Not this one, she says, shaking her head.

She turns on the car and a familiar song fills the space. She adjusts the volume.

—Okay, so where am I going? she asks.

I point her toward my house, glancing down at the two CDs I picked up off the passenger seat. There’s writing on them, but I can’t make out what they say.

—I think Julien’s mad at me, I say.

Jess glances over at me and then back at the road and says:

—Grumpy little Jules.

She takes a sip from the bottle in the center console—Sprite—and in the glow of a stoplight I can see how pale she looks for the first time. It all somehow softens me toward her.

—He is, isn’t he? I say.

—It’s not you, she says.

—How so?

—He was probably annoyed that I was there.

—Is there anything still going on there? I ask. I mean, I know you broke up. But is it one of those breakups that isn’t really a breakup at all? Like, do you still—

—Oh, no. Not—no. I don’t think so. He just asked for some space afterward, so—

—He asked for space? After you ended things?

—Kind of an impossible request in a town this small. Like, what the fuck, there are only two places to get an actual decent drink here. Of course I’m going to run into him. We’re in the same industry.

So am I, I almost say, but instead I ask:

—How old are you?

—Twenty-six, why?

—Is that why you already have such a legit job?

She laughs and shrugs.

—I’d hardly call it legit, she says. It’s really not as sexy as it sounds. Sometimes it’s basically babysitting. The free shows are nice, though.

I nod.

—What are we listening to?

—Good, right? Esther Wainwright. God, she’s one of my favorites.

—Really? Her solo stuff? I ask.

—You don’t listen to her?

—What about him? I ask. Justin—

—What about him? she says.

I shrug and let the comment hang there. Outside the moon is bright and heavy.

—Turn right on the next street, I say, and Jess flicks her blinker on.

—Are you still into him? I ask, as she pulls onto my street.

Julien’s already answered this for me, but I want to hear it from her. The house is dark and gloomy. I wish Sloane or I had thought to leave a light on. I wave vaguely toward my house and Jess pulls over.

—Jules is only pissy with people he feels comfortable with, she says. People he likes. He gets like that sometimes.

She hasn’t even remotely answered my question.

—Don’t lie, I say.

She laughs.

—I’m not, she says.

The soft acoustic song intro fills the car as Jess shifts into park. The stillness is briefly disorienting.

—This was cool of you, I say. Thank you for the hangover ride. I owe you.

It takes effort not to slur the words together. She laughs and I almost startle—the volume of it is always a surprise, a jolt of loud energy into the night air.

—I can’t promise next time I’ll be sober, she says, and I swing the door open, tucking the CDs from her passenger seat into the pocket of my coat.

A JwK playlist, stolen:

“On Ice” (Chris Thile)

“Snails” (the Format)

“I Can’t Tonight” (Esther Wainwright)

“Flowerparts” (Bob Schneider)

“Jolene” (Dolly Parton)

“Talking Shit About a Pretty Sunset” (Modest Mouse)

“Samson” (Regina Spektor)

“Hangman” (Cadillac Sky)

“The Book of Love” (the Magnetic Fields)

“Good Deeds” (Owen)

“Maps—Four Track Demo” (Yeah Yeah Yeahs)

“Tim McGraw” (Taylor Swift)

“You Can Call Me Al” (Paul Simon)

“Buttons” (The Weeks)

It probably goes without saying, but I have a somewhat slutty winter. Colt, a softball, a hookup of convenience. A boomerang of sorts. Dan Daniels, sweet potato king of the Southeast. A keyboardist from a California band, an inch shorter than me but desperately beautiful—just a kiss. A singer from Denver who wears exclusively deep V-neck shirts but gets away with it because his face and his voice are so perfect. A barista—a new one—at the place on Twenty-First. The door guy at the Basement, the bartender at the burger place, the bartender at the pizza place. Leather jackets and tight jeans, phone numbers left on bar tabs and forgotten in the morning. I am making a mess but I swear I’ll clean it up next week, next month, next—

Wednesday, three days into the New Year. An alt-country guy with a solid local following is on tonight. Andy’s gone.

—How’s Jake Barnes? I ask Julien.

I can’t believe he’s actually reading Hemingway in the ten minutes before doors open. The cover is the color of fire, the same edition I had in college. But—finally—it’s one I’ve read. Even rarer, I remember the names of the main characters.

—Bathrooms done? he asks.

—Bathrooms are done.

—Mirrors?

—Yes, Julien. The mirrors too.

Outside, car doors click shut. Downtown flickers neon in the winter night. Julien keeps reading, running his thumb along the top of the pages, down the side, like a kind of ritual. I stare at my phone.

—Do you want a drink? I ask.

He looks up.

—I’m not drinking.

—Ever?

—This month, Julien says.

It’s the third of January, which means he is not drinking for twenty-eight more days.

—That’s long, I say, and then: I hate this idea.

—Of course you do.

—What’s that supposed to mean? I ask.

—Nothing, Julien says. He reaches behind him to get a leather jacket—not warm enough for the night.

—Are you smoking? What are the parameters of this little sobriety sabbatical?

—It’s a drinking sabbatical. A sobriety sabbatical would be, I don’t know—a bender?

—Boring.

He shakes his head.

—Are you mad at me? I ask.

What I don’t say: You could be. Maybe you should be.

—Am I mad at you? No, he says, though the tone is unconvincing.

I take a breath.

—Are we going to talk, ever, about the fact that we kissed?

—It sounds like we already are, he says.

—You disappeared, I say.

Like it’s all on him, like I didn’t go somewhere for the holidays too.

—I went to see my family. And anyway. You had—

—I had what?

He sighs.

—Never mind, he says. Doors are in two.

—Did you see any old friends? I ask.

He looks up at me, eyes narrowed.

—Who?

—I don’t know, blond friends. Friends who put their heads on your shoulder at a bar.

I’m shameless, but I can’t help it—the words are just coming out. He nods, just barely.

—I know who you’re talking about. And no. She doesn’t live in Minnesota anymore, he says.

—I thought she was someone from home? When I asked if you—

—She’s just a—she’s a friend. Our moms are friends.

—She’s very pretty.

He smiles then, skin around his eyes scrunched and crinkled; I want to press my fingertips to it. He cocks his head slightly and asks:

—Were you stalking me?

I roll my eyes.

—The photo was tagged. So, what, did you kiss her on New Year’s? I ask, practically slipping into the grave I’m digging myself.

—Stop it, he says, but he’s smiling still.

—Here, I say, reaching for his hand.

I flip his palm and push the long-sleeved waffle tee up his forearm. There are faint scars along the insides of his wrists, his veins running violet underneath his skin. Upstairs, the house music is too loud.

—What are you doing? he asks, but he doesn’t move his arm, his palm resting in mine lightly. My hand is sweating and I press the ink of the stamp into his inner wrist. It seeps into the skin. His pinkie moves, ever so slightly, as if to wrap around mine. I start to do the same—

A horn screeches out front, and I pull back.

—Good, I say. Stamp still works.

Latkes and Irish coffees and sour cream. Shepherd’s pies on the East Side while we try to avoid Eddie, who’s on a date at the other end of the bar. Someone trying to get us to go see the Opry Christmas lights while they’re still up. Avoiding the coffee shop down the street and the V-necked lead singer everywhere we go. A DVD that plays the sounds of a crackling fire on our living room TV, even though we have a fireplace. Whiskey instead of tequila, Sloane giving me shit for being from Michigan and not owning a pair of real snow boots. Julien and I working, at some odd impasse. Like we never kissed. Like neither of us is even thinking about it. An invitation to go skiing with a friend of a friend at Big Bear—Sloane takes it and I stay behind, sink into the silence of the house. Lou Reed relishing his frigid walks, like he’s some kind of Siberian husky. New Year’s resolutions—I don’t even pretend to make them; January is not a time for reinvention.

—Please tell me you’re not taking me back to some Oompa Loompa photo shoot, Sloane says as we drive down Eighth. I just can’t with these acid heads. I’m not in my psychedelic phase yet.

—Shut up, I say. No Oompa Loompas. I left my phone at work last night.

—Oh, Billy told me he wants to see a sample playlist for our show.

—We don’t have a show, I say.

—Sure, yeah, whatever. It’s not like there’s even an open slot, technically. But if and when one opens up, he says we should be ready. Plus we have a million playlists, so this isn’t going to take, like, effort.

Sloane flicks on a Strokes song and starts humming under her breath. Outside, the day is mild. The branches in the neighborhood look like broken arms, everything covered in a layer of moisture. It’s unseasonably warm today. Sloane ties her windbreaker around her waist as we step out into The Venue parking lot, the doors latching shut with a muffled mmph. It’s lunchtime, and nobody else is here yet.

Inside, a chill. And then: mildew, stale cigs, cheap liquor. I lead Sloane to the back hallway, feeling around for a light switch.

—Should I have shared my location with a friend? she asks warily.

—Who would you share it with besides me?

—Billy, she says. My dad. I don’t know, Lou Reed. Jamie. Jessika.

—Jessika? Wait, are you guys friends now or something?

—Kind of, Sloane says.

I turn to try to read her face, but it’s obscured in the dark hallway. She’s quiet as we wind back through the hallways and up the stairs to the storage area. When I open the door, daylight swims through the west windows, the sun breaking through the clouds outside in a crack of golden light.

—What is this? Sloane asks.

—Nothing. I say. Storage, supposedly.

I spot my phone over on the windowsill where I was playing yesterday. It’s dead, with a half-finished song buried somewhere in the Notes app.

Sloane steps away from me, looking around, her shadow stretching long behind her. She looks tiny, all that emptiness swathing her. She hums a melody I don’t recognize under her breath.

—What are you singing?

She shushes me, continues to hum. The melody carries quietly in the space, and I imagine it as water, flooding into the shape of the room.

—I’m not singing, she says. I’m listening.

Not calling Izzy enough. Not going to any appointments that she helped schedule for me. Not remembering where my parents’ health insurance card is, not responding to their emails, to Izzy’s texts, to the voicemails my dad’s left on my phone. Not being able to say no to Colt when he offers me a free drink, like anything is ever free. Not being able to finish a song, not being able to remember the chords to my own song, not being able to follow the low or the high or the whatever harmony of anybody else’s songs.

—Play me what you wrote, Sloane says later, at home. It’s sunny outside, hazy golden light drifting through the windows. Julien is out there somewhere, eleven days sober; we’re drinking Two Buck Chuck. My guitar is on the end of my bed, Lou Reed at my feet.

—The Incident was forever ago. It’s behind us now. It’s just me, she says.

—Nothing’s finished, I say.

—So? Is anything ever finished?

—How existential.

—You need a writing partner. A collaborator. You think Taylor Swift wrote her debut all by herself?

—I have no idea, did she?

—Her third album, sure. But maybe you just need someone to bounce ideas off of. Someone to help you tweak things. Edit. Harmonize. Oh my god—you need a Liz Rose. Do you know how many people in this town have publishing deals and we don’t even know their names? And they’re making idle fucking income, all from a bunch of songs they wrote sitting stoned in their living room. We need to get you one of those.

—Wait—she wrote Speak Now all by herself? I asked. Every single song?

—Okay, I’m hungry, Sloane says. Can we go get food? That space you showed me the other day is dope, by the way. I like it better than the actual fucking Venue. We should put on the show up there.

I give her a look.

—Jesus relax, you don’t have to play it. You ready to go?

I keep watching the Wilson performance on my phone, over and over and over again. Studying the way he staggers to the mic, then stands very still, and then—eventually—starts swaying. At one point Esther reaches toward him, like she wants to steady him, but then she just raises her hand into the air, like a trilling pop star, catching the high harmony. Wilson’s eyes are glassy, but his voice—god. Their voices, together. If I’m ever on a stage again, I know I don’t want to look like that. And I know I’ll never sound like that. But maybe—maybe—

Tonight at The Venue, it’s a tenth-anniversary tour stop for a punk band that flew under my teenage radar. Eddie says he’s never heard of them. Julien says he listened to them a bit. It’s sold out, though. Up in the office, we’ve got twenty minutes to kill before doors.

—What’s a band you would never recognize without their lead singer? Andy asks.

—Maroon 5, I say.

—Coldplay, Julien says.

—Oh, good one.

—U2, Eddie says, running his thumb and index finger over his Fu Manchu.

—Seriously? You wouldn’t recognize the Edge? Julien asks.

—Who’s the Edge?

—Bull fucking shit, I say.

—No way. I do not believe you, Julien says. Andy shakes his head.

—The Killers, somebody says.

Jessika is at the coffee shop on Twenty-First—the one that’s also a smoke shop, convenience store, liquor store. The clientele’s a mix of Vandy freshmen and Bible studies, teachers from the private school down the street, chugging stale drip coffee to stay awake as they grade papers. I hear the barista call out her name before I see her, and then she’s next to me, sliding a beige sleeve onto her cup, saying:

—I’m so glad I ran into you again.

I’m always surprised by how she talks to me, like we’ve been friends for years. She reaches to give me a hug, and I return it warily, my hand limp along the small of her back.

—I think you left a glove in my car? Bright orange? she asks.

—Oh, yeah, that’s probably mine.

—Are you staying? I can go grab it. I just gotta run to a meeting in a minute.

—I’m heading out, I can come with you.

We walk out into the day. Blistering cold—cracked lips, skin peeling and turning red, the sky blindingly bright but doing nothing for the temperature. Jess unlocks her Jetta and roots around in the front seat; my ears are so cold that they feel feverish.

—Et voilà, she says, handing me the sad-looking glove, a hole in the pinkie finger. I stuff it into my pocket.

—Thank you. For this—and again for the ride the other night.

—Anytime, she says. Well, anytime I’m sober.

I laugh, glance over my shoulder. A siren has started up in the background, church bells ring somewhere to the west.

—Hey, can I ask you something? she says.

My chest tightens and I nod.

—You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to—

—So I can lie?

She laughs loudly but quickly, her face changing back to serious so fast it’s like she didn’t even smile at all. She adjusts her scarf and I catch a glimpse of a tattoo, the head of an animal, on her collarbone.

—I’ve just been wondering. With the pregnancy test.

I glance around, like the cars buzzing down Twenty-First are listening in. The church bells continue on, making me think of my parents. I wait. Jess pulls her beanie down over her hair, her curls tightening beneath the cotton.

—I just…It wasn’t Julien, was it?

I start to speak and then stop, the cold catching my breath. And just as I’m about to tell her the truth, her phone rings in her hand and she looks at it, rolls her eyes and says: Shit, sorry—I gotta take this.