Indeed they did, and I can still remember exactly how my friends and I danced at that show. Back then, I had a nervous adolescent crush on the reed-thin bass player, Dan. He was four years older than me, he was artsy, and he looked like he was always thinking intensely. He towered above me in too-short trousers that revealed white socks wedged into black work shoes. Pale skin, dark hair, bright eyes — pretty much the archetype of my ideal dreamboat. There's a reason the lanky bartender at Monk's Kettle has been nicknamed Fake Dan ________.
Though it should go without saying, I was not a teenage boy magnet. (See exhibit A: yours truly in a Broken Hearts Are Blue shirt.) When I dared talk with Dan, I stammered and stuttered and probably offered him some sort of unpleasantly bland vegan cookie. (To this day, pushing baked goods on people remains one of my I-will-make-you-love-me strategies.) Dan was always polite in response, and if he thought I was a weirdo, he never made me feel like one. And he could have.
Dan went out with a girl named Marie, who was the kind of unintentional queen bee who ascends to the top of a scene without trying. She was just the coolest. She had thick dark hair that was cut into a short wedge, and she might have had a star tattoo, but she definitely had a nose piercing. She wore holey wool sweaters and twill workpants, and she was unfailingly smart and friendly. She was the closest thing Kalamazoo had to a riot grrrl, as we all saw when called sexists out on their shit. She made me as nervous as Dan did, because while I knew that I had no shot with him, I desperately wanted to be her friend. She had a well-written and gut-wrenchingly honest zine called Rock Candy. It was, as she put it:
a zine about being an eighteen-year-old girl, sexual abuse survivor, and general badass, and all the hope and beauty I see in myself, my friends, and everyday life.In contrast, my zine covered misheard Jawbreaker lyrics and a trip to Target.
Anyway, Marie decided to move to Portland or Olympia or another one of those Pacific Northwest towns where they hand out tattoos upon entering city limits. I'd hear fuzzy details of her life like a game of Telephone, not knowing which stories — if any — were true. Recalling and repeating them isn't worth the effort, because the only thing worse than false gossip is ancient false gossip.
In contrast, everything I'd heard about Dan turned out to be true. Friends said that he had become an art teacher in Minnesota, that he was married with kids. I would think of him now and then when listening to BHAB or when wearing my Ordination of Aaron shirt. Then, the other day, he found me online and said hello. I was surprised because, honestly, I didn't think he'd even remembered the existence of such a dorky high schooler, much less my name. But he did, and it was nicely nostalgic to see what he's up to. His hair is a little bit gray, he's a talented artist, his wife seems like a catch, and their children are cute. Also, there is a Vespa. I don't know why, because it's not like we were close friends, but it brought me joy to know that he's built a happy life.
I still don't know what happened to Marie. In the decade-plus since I've seen her, I've often wondered what her life is like. Does she still write? Would we be friends? Who has she become? And does she know the impression she left on someone who barely knew her? Maybe someday I'll discover the answers to those and other questions; I hope her story will be a sweet one.
Labels: regression to adolescence
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