Episode 10:  ”The End of Things”—Bachelorette.

I’m starting to see Swap Meet (and really, all of my other writing, whether it’s non-fiction or technically “fiction”) as a reflection of all the people I have ever loved, in one way or another.   I’m swimming through music at any given moment, and of course certain songs and albums have become attached to particular characters in my autobiography.   Or maybe I just hear a brand new song, and it reminds me of someone from like, fifteen years ago.  Art’s tricky that way, eh?

I’m in constant motion. A close friend once called me “a nervous little bird,” because I’m always bouncing to-and fro, looking side-to-side.  Even when I’m seemingly calm and motionless at my desk for long periods of time, my fingers are furiously typing away, clicking, and calculating with every passing second.  In my sleep, I move from one end of the bed to the other, tossing cats, pillows, and blankets into every corner of the bedroom.   I’m only still if I’m sharing a bed with someone I really, really like.

Airplanes force me into a statue-like state of stillness.  Coach seats offer little space for foot-tapping and head-bobbing.   I’m almost immediately bored with every magazine, book, and diversion I’ve packed in my carry-on.  If I’ve stayed up late enough the night before (most likely overpacking for my trip), I might fall asleep for a few hours.  If it’s the redeye, I’ll take enough sleeping pills to force myself into some kind of dreamscape.

 I spend the  shorter, domestic flights staring out the window at the tiny roads and houses below.  Or simply into the white vastness (on a flight to Boston when I was eight, I asked my grandma if the endless white meant we were in heaven).  

 Whenever I’m on the verge of a grand adventure or returning from a fun-filled vacation, I start to think about of the people that have made the biggest impact on me.  Like, I wish I could just call them on the phone and say, “Hey!  You won’t believe what I just did!  And this one part of it all reminded me of you because _______.”  And sure, I could dial up my mom or my high school best friend the moment the airplane wheels hit the runway.   But it’s the people that I can’t call that occupy my thoughts the most:  the (mostly friendly) ghosts I carry with me every day.  

I was 20 when my stepfather died in our house in Harrisburg.

We had moved there six years ago, running away from my mother’s family.  My stepfather Charles was black, and this was something that most of our relatives could not understand.   My family saw me as my mother’s accomplice.   My funny clothes, vegetarianism, and liberal politics practically indicted me as the orchestrator of the entire situation.  But I have to say, I was as surprised as everyone else. 

I rarely saw anyone in my family for the next six years.  Even my grandmother (I still describe her as my childhood best friend) would not speak to us.  I received no cards for high school graduation.  No one called me on my birthday.  And since my mother and I had a very tumultuous relationship—an unfortunate side effect of teenagerdom—I frequently felt completely alone.  If anything, Charles was the voice of reason in my life.   He  encouraged my increasingly elaborate outfits and kooky hairstyles.  He actually LIKED my crappy riot grrl band!  When I needed equipment for field hockey—something that neither my mom nor I could afford—he picked me up after school with a trunk full of shin guards, cleats, and the best hockey stick money could buy.   He convinced my mom that it was only logical that I should go away to school in New York City.  He had the most impeccable taste of anyone I have ever met.  He taught me about the best music and movies.  He showed me how to cook.  And I have to admit, he was a really well-dressed guy.  He had lived in NYC for a few decades before moving back to Central PA to deal with his family.  This lent him a particularly high level of glamour in my small town eyes.

He wasn’t sick for a long time.  Or maybe he was and he didn’t tell us.  But in a period of a few weeks, he transformed from a handsome charming man to a wizened shell with a cane.  And then there were hospice nurses and piles of pain pills.  I was summoned home to confront a situation larger than me.  My mom was a mess.  She had no one but me.  The house was filled with Charles’ family, but a lot of them had issues with our whiteness.   I secretly smoked endless packs of cigarettes in our basement, waiting for something to happen.  

And then it did.  My mom asked me to make a chicken to feed the steady stream of guests coming through our front door…everyone was there to say goodbye.  I remember being perplexed by the actual chicken preparation.  Where did I put the stuffing?  Did I actually have to pull stuff out of the inside of the chicken?  The answer was a horrifying “yes.”   A consultation with the Betty Crocker cookbook atop our refrigerator clarified everything.  

I was pulling this stupid chicken out of the oven, admiring my handiwork, when I heard the house sigh.  Or maybe it was the world sighing.  The deepest, longest sigh.   Ahhhhhhhhhh. Thirty seconds later, the house was filled with sobbing.  

Less than a week later, I stuffed all of my worldly possessions into two suitcases and jumped on a one-flight to Chicago.  I spent several minutes in the airplane bathroom practicing calm/stoic/tough facial expressions, for the benefit of my boyfriend.  He would be retrieving me from the airport.  I had no doubt he was skeptical about my sudden decision to join him in the Midwest.

 It’s important to note that I had never actually been to Chicago before.  

But I couldn’t deal with my mother’s pain, much less my own.   I needed to be as far away as possible.  I wanted to surround myself with rational strangers.  I required sympathy and affection from my calm, predictable boyfriend.  I knew it would be easy to forget everything that had just happened when I was busy finding a job and a place to live.  

My strategy worked. I got a job as a nanny.  I drank a lot of beer, fought with my boyfriend, and toughing my way through the brutal winter.  Spring passed, summer passed, fall passed.  I barely called home and I missed all of the holidays with my mom.

 And then it was winter again. While riding a bus down Lake Shore Drive (on my way to work), a woman behind me left out the longest sigh.  I could hear it over the loud hip hop blaring through my headphones.  I was back in our house in Harrisburg.  The chicken. The sigh. The end.  And with that, my grief broke through the dam.  I cried the entire way downtown.  I took the El back up to my apartment, still crying.  I was still sobbing when my boyfriend came home that night.  This continued for days.    I spent the weekend wrapped in a blanket, tears running down my face as I watched snow blow in over Lake Michigan.  On Monday I bought a ticket to Harrisburg, to finally face my mom.

I’m practically an old lady now.  Even Chicago is a distant memory.  But I still think about Charles on a regular basis.  All of the things I learned from him, from records, to American history, to the best way to cook carrots, have made me a better, more interesting person (and I have a really great carrot dish to impress guests).  Maybe it’s merely a misguided coping mechanism, but  I  can’t deny my belief in spirits and ghosts and weird psychic connections…even if I am a cynic about everything else.  And so, I like to imagine that I COULD place a telephone call to him, tell him everything that’s been going on.  Of course, he will already know all of this because he has been talking to my mom or spying on me or…whatever.  Since I’m really full of myself, I like to think that I have made him proud…not simply by surviving…not even just by muscling my way through every awful situation…but by constantly growing and trying to be a better person.   

Moreover:  I saw Bachelorette in Austin last week and here in Philly last night.  This track is from her 2005 EP of the same name, but she also has a great new album out on Drag City.

Furthermore:  This post borrows somewhat from an ancient essay from my “serious” blog Frightened By Bees (not the Tumblr version).  If you are interested in reading more embarrassing, sometimes sad, sometimes silly stories about me, I suggest you start here (and scroll to the bottom, to read in chronological order).  SHAMELESS SELF PROMOTION!