Episode 7: ”Fuck and Run”—Liz Phair
“I woke up alarmed
I didn’t know where I was at first
Just that I woke up in your arms
And almost immediately I felt sorry
‘Cause I didn’t think this would happen again”
Let’s leap forward to 2000. Chicago, Illinois. Wicker Park. I promise we will return to high school soon!
When I open my grit-filled eyes, I am greeted by an ecru wall and a set of decidedly Crate and Barrel curtains. I realize that the bed sheets are just a little too soft and the duvet is a bit too fresh-smelling. This does not bode well. I’m definitely not in the low budget Ukranian Village apartment of a dark haired, bespectacled hipster fellow.
I sit up. My sore throat indicates an evening of excessive smoking. And I swear that I smell like a bottle of gin was just poured over my head. My mouth is filled with sand. And then I notice her.
Blonde hair. Asleep on the other half of the expensive bed. What? This is not good. I do not end up in Pottery Barn beds with blonde women.
Okay. I’m going to get dressed very, very quietly. Slip out the door. Walk to Earwax and drink a bunch of coffee. Take a shower and go about my normal Saturday business. It is Saturday, right?
I tiptoe into the living room to get dressed. I really have no idea where I am. I see a stack of mail by the phone. NUMBERSNUMBERS Ohio Street? That’s not in Wicker Park! There’s no way I can face a long walk up Ashland with a hangover and a smokey pair of leather pants. I’m going to have to call someone to pick me up. I only know two people with cars. One of them is Ryan, my semi-quasi-somewhat-not-really boyfriend. This might be a delicate situation. The other is this guy Thom, a semi-friend of Ryan. I look up his number in my Hello Kitty address book (always in my bag).
Me: Hi, Thom…I know this is going to sound crazy, but I am far away from my house and I was wondering if you could drive me home? (Note: I am aware that he allegedly “fell in love” with me from across the room at an Elliott Smith show at the Empty Bottle a few months ago, so I’m possibly taking advantage of these feelings).
Thom: Oh, sure Amanda…anything for you. Where are you?
Me: Uh…NUMBERSNUMBERS Ohio Street.
Thom: Wait, are you at Christina’s house?
Me: Um…who’s that?
Thom: Blonde hair? She’s kinda yuppie. I went to college with her. She was sleeping with Charlie for a while?
Me: Uh, well…
Thom: Wait…why aren’t you calling Ryan to pick you up?
Me: Um…Ryan? Uh, I’m not sure if he’s home.
A voice enters the room. ”You left Ryan at Betty’s (really sordid after hours club) last night. You said that he was ‘boring’ and ‘sexually repressed.’ I think the phrase ‘big baby’ was thrown around, too”
So this is Christina.
I smile like a cheerleader. ”I’m pretty sure I meant to say that he was oppressive, not sexually repressed. You know, he was oppressing me, like trying to be the boss of me or something.”
She shrugs her shoulders. “Whatever.”
And then I remember LAST NIGHT:
I am planning to go to the Empty Bottle to see a little band called The White Stripes play. But then Ryan calls and he wants me to meet him at a weird little club on Chicago Ave. ”Indie rock will live another day without you, Amanda.”
I hate clubs and dance music and Red Bull. But always eager to please, I don my standard Friday night outfit (leather pants, girl’s school uniform blouse, black beetle boots, white belt), and bike down Ashland to meet him.
I guess I am instantly bored, because I drink two gin-and-tonics in less than half an hour. I’m convinced that gin makes me feel morose, so this probably isn’t the best choice. I start wondering if Ryan and I are ever going to have a real relationship or if it’s always going to be this weird limbo situation? And in that case, will I most likely die alone, in bed with my cat? I can almost feel tears forming at the corners of my eyes, as I consider the hopelessness of everything.
And then a preppie blonde girl sits down at our table. Ryan knows her somehow. Something to do with our friend Charlie? She turns to me and says something about being “totally over guys.” This is accompanied by a very knowing look. Maybe a wink. The leather pants and short hair combination always seems to lure in the most surprising ladies.
More drinks materialize. And then someone hits the fast forward button…because it is hours later and I am secretly smoking in the ladies’ room at Betty’s. Sure, I could have enjoyed a cigarette anywhere at the bar. But Ryan hates smoking, so I’m always forced to covertly smoke around the corner, down the street, or in a bathroom stall. Eager to please!
When I emerge from the stall, Christina is standing there. ”I’ve been looking all over for you.” And she pushes me back inside, closing the grafitti-covered door behind her. I kiss her, because hey, why not? Things get hectic fast, because before I know it she is unbuttoning my shirt. At the same time, impatient women start knocking on the door. ”What’s going on in there?”
For the last moment that night, I am somewhat sensible. ”Sorry, my friend is really sick,” I call out. Christina pretends to cry and throw up, making it hard for me to contain my laughter.
We explode out of the bathroom in a fury of giggles. She runs off to get more drinks.
Ryan whispers into my ear, “Your shirt is not buttoned correctly. And I think that Christina likes you.”
I shrug my shoulders.
He sniffs my hair. ”Amanda! Have you been smoking?”
I rebutton my shirt before standing up straight and assuming my toughest stance. “Listen, you can tell me not to smoke if you’re going to fuck me tonight and most Fridays from now on. Otherwise, I’ll smoke as many cigarettes as I want. Maybe I’ll even take up pipe-smoking. ” Obviously I’m the voice of reason.
And then just as rapidly I’m at Christina’s house and one thing leads to another…and then an hour-or-so later, I’m sitting in her kitchen in my underwear, eating frozen raspberries. She’s telling me a sad story about her recent abortion. I’m wondering if it would be uncouth of me to put my pants on and excuse myself. No, no…I’m too nice for that. More depressing talk…and then she puts her head on my shoulder and says, “You’re so much prettier than me.” Oh fuck…I’m going to have to sneak out of here as soon as she falls asleep.
LAST NIGHT!
Thom retrieves me from Christina’s house. We ride in silence. And then he finally says, “I’m not trying to imply anything crazy happened last night, but your shirt is buttoned all wrong.”
I shake my head. ”Will you buy me breakfast? I’ll explain it all then…”
IN THE FUTURE: Thom moves to Poland. Christina gets married to a stockbroker. Ryan holds the title of “The Only Boy to Make Amanda Cry” until 2005, when I embark on a somewhat ill-advised, mostly really awesome affair with my neighbor/best male friend in Portland, OR. Somewhere along the line, I stop wearing leather pants.
FURTHERMORE: I can’t begin my descent into my final destination city without humming “Stratford on Guy.” You have to love any song that references Galaxie 500!
And also, I wrote a few essays about Exile in Guyville back in 2008 (in honor of its 15 year anniversary/reissue). You can read them here, here, here, and oh yeah, here.
