Interlude 4: “Think About Me”—Fleetwood Mac.
(Those of you who know me IRL were probably tapping your feet impatiently, waiting for the inevitable FM post. You see, I have this tendency after several drinks to convince acquaintances and strangers alike that “EVERYONE likes Fleetwood Mac. They just don’t know it yet.” Of course, if you’ve tired of my slurry declarations of FM superfan-dom, I can always switch to my second favorite tipsy conversation topic “Why Paul McCartney is my least favorite Beatle.”)
I remember one specific summer afternoon in Portland, about four years ago. Rina (not to be confused with Reyna) picked me up at my house on Stark Street. I was going to accompany her on some errands.
First, we were going to Nick’s house to retrieve some records or something. Immediately after she announced this plan, I pulled out a mirror and starting applying lip balm.
She gave me a puzzled look.
“Oh, sorry…it’s just that T. might be there, and I just want to make sure I look good. Are my pigtails straight?”
She assured me that my hair was both symmetrical and glossy.
Of course, T. was there. And I couldn’t think of anything clever to say to him, so I just sat on the sofa while another guy unsuccessfully tried to chat me up.
Next, we headed to Powell’s on Hawthorne to sell some of Rina’s textbooks.
“Oh fuck, my face is looking shiny,” I complained. I rummaged in my bag for powder.
Rina laughed. ”You look fine.”
“Well, most likely J. will be working. And he once commented that I had a shiny face. Anyway, I want to him to notice my lovely matte face and find himself filled with regret for cruelly breaking my heart last winter.”
Yes, J. was working. But I ignored him, because looking at him still gave me a dull ache in my chest. At least I could take solace in my theoretically un-shiny face.
The next stop stop was Stumptown. B. would probably be hanging out there. He didn’t like Fleetwood Mac, but he was still intensely appealing. He always pointed out that my clothes needed a good ironing. I wondered just how wrinkly my dress was. Not that I was going to talk to him anyway…but I would probably text him later after I had a few drinks.
There was S. who worked at the grocery store. And K., the guy who worked near the Buffalo Exchange. The barista at Tiny’s. The bartender at the Tube. All day, boys everywhere.
Rina laughed at me some more. ”You are ridiculous, Amanda. You really have a boyfriend on every block in SE Portland!”
I thought for a moment. ”Hmm…yeah, I guess you’re right. I don’t really know any boys that live downtown or in NE.”
A few months later, I thought about that conversation as I woozily biked across the Hawthorne Bridge late at night, after an evening of too much whiskey and sexual tension with B. at the Tube. Our penchant for drinking and arguing had kept us at the bar long after all of our friends had left. And don’t worry; my dress was wrinkle-free.
As we unlocked our bikes, I turned to him and announced, “Well, don’t even think about coming home with me. I’m going to take Hawthorne and you can bike up Burnside, lest we feel any temptation.” And with that, I whizzed away.
As I pedaled home, I wondered to myself, “What is my problem? I’ve got a crush on every block, but I never really date anyone. I don’t talk to the boys that I actually like, and I tend to sleep with boys I’ll never respect.”
When I crawled into my bed alone that night, I reminded myself, “I prefer to sleep alone.”
All of these boys, the ones I’ve allegedly loved, they all have songs.
“From My Own True Love (Lost at Sea)” by the Decemberists belongs to T., even though indie rock is not his thing. But he liked that song enough to make me play it two times in a row.
J. gets the first the title track of Cat Power’s The Greatest (and I still get teary-eyed when I hear it).
“When Planets Collide” by Viva Voce goes to B. Nonetheless, we usually listened to the Wu-tang when we were making out, because we’re both fancy ourselves thugs.
A few weeks ago, I said to my friend Karla, “This Fleetwood Mac song is totally about me and You-know-who.”
I sang a few lyrics:
“All it took was a special look,
And I felt I knew you before,
I didn’t mean to love you,
didn’t think it would work out.”
And
“I believe that you really want me, but it’s not easy, just to give in.”
She nodded her head in adamant agreement. “Oh my god, IT IS!”
Of course, now I’m likely to assign the Bratmobile lyric “Everyone knows why I hate you” to him…
P.S. I’m off to Austin today for SXSW, just like every other hipster jerk you know.
