The Sweetest Song

The news about Kevin's accident spread through every Facebook page within hours, if not minutes.  Our old highschool friends who didn't live in town begged someone to go to the hospital on their behalf to say some words to the family, and maybe Kevin himself.

Kevin was a skinny, rocker guy who I shared a few classes with back in highschool.  He had long dark hair, large blue eyes, and a full, easy smile.  I hadn't seen him for many years, but from what I had seen on Facebook, he hadn't changed much, and still miraculously hung on to his youth.  He was out playing paintball with friends and "something happened".  We weren't sure what it was exactly, only that at one point Kevin had taken off his helmet and was shot.  No one on Facebook went in to details about where or how bad the injury was, but it was bad enough to send Kevin to the hospital and keep him there.

I decided that after twenty years, it was worth going to the hospital to see if any of our old friends were there and to report back if Kevin was okay.  When I got there, only his mother and father were still there, and told me that no one had come by.  It seemed that everyone was so wrapped up on Facebook about it, but they never actually visited him.  This made me angry.  I had to tell his parents that I really couldn't do much because I only knew Kevin in school twenty years earlier, and visiting him might not have any affect. 

A doctor who stood by said, "Actually, no."  He went on to describe that if someone from the past can stimulate his memory, the chances will be better to recover his memory to the present.  It turned out I was more useful than I thought!  His parents pleaded with me to remember anything from school.  I had to think of something. 

I was also warned that Kevin slipped in and out of consciousness.  I began to piece together the seriousness of his injury and when I had a moment to whisper to the doctor without the parents listening, I had asked if this would be permanent.  He said yes, and perhaps only a fraction of improvement would ever be made.

I went in to Kevin's room, and saw my old highschool friend lying on a depressing hospital gurney hooked up to various plastic tubes.

"Hi Kev, it's me," I said, as I sat down beside him.

Kevin was motionless.  How in the world would Kevin remember, or even care that this idiot girl from some of his highschool classes twenty years ago would be of any significance?  I decided to be bold.  I took his hand in mind and raised it to my lips, and kissed his hand, then kept it pressed to my face.  "Oh, Kevin."  I kissed his hand again.

I missed the moment when he opened his eyes because when I looked at him again, he was peering at me through heavy lids.  I was elated inside, but I didn't want to spook Kevin in any way, so I treated his awakening as being expected.  "Hi, " I smiled, speaking softly to him.

"I remember you," he croaked.  "You used to play guitar... I sat next to you in English..."  He had it right.

"Yes!" I laughed gently.  His laugh was weak, but he carried on with little memories to keep us engaged.  The doctor told me I only had ten minutes to spend with him, but when I looked at the time, it had been much longer.  I looked at the door and the doctor held his hand up as if to say, "Stay!"  His parents were nodding in appreciation.

I continued to hold his hand and talk quietly with him about highschool.  The more we talked, the stronger Kevin began to sound.

"I had such a crush on you," Kevin said as if it was a common fact.  I had no idea.  Back in highschool all the girls loved Kevin but he was so unattainable.  I had an older boyfriend that everyone knew about, which meant the two of us were always just buddies.  Nothing more.  I never looked at Kevin with possibility, and Kevin had just respected my relationship at the time.  I had to admit that Kevin, back in the day, was extremely adorable.  But thoughts of being with anyone other than my boyfriend back then didn't exist.  Today, was a different story.  Now I was forced in to a bevy of thoughts of what might have been without hurting anyone.

When my visit was over, the doctor his parents were pleased with me, and I had considered my part to help Kevin was complete.  I went home and reported what happened to all of our friends on Facebook where many responses came flooding in caring about Kevin's well-being.  Out of respect to Kevin, and to give us a piece of privacy, I left out the detail about his confession to me.

Months went by, and as I went about my life, gossip swirled around about Kevin's return home.  I couldn't help but be curious, so on Facebook I contacted Kevin himself and asked if he was up for a visit from an old friend.  He quickly responded that he would like that, so I drove over to his house that evening.

Kevin was in the company of one of our long-time common friends Rob, and unlike how things were back in highschool, the mood was quiet and subdued.  Kevin saw me with vague familiarity, and I had wondered if he even remembered me seeing him in the hospital that day.  I dared not ask in front of Rob.
"How are you doing now?"  I asked him.  He answered with short, simple answers, and from what I could determine, he seemed nearly one hundred percent back to normal.  It was amazing, and nothing the doctor had predicted.  He calmly sat on his couch with his guitar nearby, and I had to ask if he still played.  He said yes and with a tiny smile asked if I wanted to hear a song.  Of course I did, and encouraged him to play.

He picked up the guitar and played with ease a song called Fluff.  I never believed anyone paid attention to this, but it was my favourite song in highschool, and I loved it immensely.  I listened to Kevin play it for nearly five minutes without interruption and all the while he only paid attention to the guitar itself.  I could feel emotion crawling up from my innards and when the feeling made it to my throat, I felt the tears come, but I held them back, my eyes glazed over from the feeling.

When Kevin stopped playing he asked me, "Do you still love that song?"

"Yes,"  I said, feeling eighteen again.

"I remember."

Time with Van Halen

I managed to be one of the first to purchase Van Halen tickets, but I become paranoid thinking I used the wrong credit card when I ordered them.  I was just sick thinking the card would get denied and all the while, managed to score a good seat.

I go down to the arena where I know the concert will be in a few months, and just imagine myself there while the band is playing.  The entire arena is empty, and I walked around with no security to question me.  I walked backstage, knowing Van Halen would be back there before and after the show.  I was so excited at the thought of the whole experience.

Without being too shocked, Eddie Van Halen is there and says hello to me.  I didn't even notice that David Lee Roth was standing next to him.  Eddie and I are chatting and at one point I tell him how pissed I am that I might have used the wrong credit card to purchase my tickets to the show.  We must have been standing there for several minutes talking about how ordering tickets is so different now compared to back when they first started touring.  How complicated it was, and so on.  Then Eddie started to talk about the band line-up and how he's sorry Mike isn't with the band, but he has hopes for his son (Wolfgang) filling in for him on bass.  When I noticed David Lee Roth, I took his hands and said, "Thank you for being back with this band."  I meant it.  I loved DLR-era Van Halen.  Diamond Dave was flattered, and gave me a light, quick, friendly kiss on the lips.  I was thrilled.

And then... there he was, the object of my girlish crush for the last twenty-five years or more:  Alex Van Halen.  When he heard us talking and walked toward us, I suddenly felt shy.  He came over to me to take my hand to shake it, and I could barely look at him.  The one man I would have given up all my virtues for, to be a cheap groupie for a night, and here I was, unable to even look at him.  But his hand felt nice, covering mine.

I caught a glimpse of his face.  He had looked at me for a moment, and I melted.  The three veteran Van Halen members had to go, but not before wishing me luck with my ticket.

I went back out to the arena and saw Sammy Hagar perched on a bench as people began to filter inside.  With Sammy I felt completely relaxed.  I went over and said hello, and asked what he was doing there.  He and I would chat like friends for some time, but he didn't have anything good to say about Van Halen.  I tried to explain to him how wrong it was for him to not sing his Valen Halen songs with Chickenfoot, and as defiant as he was, he did listen to my explanation.  I said, "Your fans from that time loved you during those years and you are denying your fans a huge portion of your career by just refusing to perform them."  I went on to say I understood it was personal, but for fans it was personal for them too, and to compromise just a bit to show them you appreciated their support while he was with Van Halen. 

Somehow, I managed to get Sammy Hagar to agree with me.  He sat and listened and looked upward in thought, nodding and then telling me I was right. 

Wow.

I just finished chatting with Eddie Van Halen, was kissed by Diamond Dave, Alex Van Halen held my hand while coping with my shyness, and now gabbing with Sammy Hagar, I nearly forgot about my entire ticket ordeal. 

I couldn't have paid enough money for these moments, and here I was getting them for free.

After all was said and done, I think just having this moment with the band was making up for it.

All Those Joes

My ex-boyfriend Joe wants me back, but I don't exactly know how to react to his somewhat flippant attitude about it.  He tells me his recent girlfriend dumped him and for convenience, we should get back together.

I agree, but only for convenience.  Joe did have some good attributes, even if he was screwed up.

We decide to go to look for a place to live, and one place he has in mind is somewhere he used to live on his own.  When we get there to see if any suites are available, I notice another guy I used to date was there fixing up the building.  His name is also Joe.  He's older, and takes an immediate dislike to Joe. 

Joe avoids Joe, and I'm left telling Joe we need a place to stay and wondered if what he's working on will be finished up soon.  Joe doesn't know.  So Joe and I are left to take a chance and rent a suite anyway. 

In our new neighbourhood, I need to find a different job nearby, so I go to the mall to apply for work selling purses.  The manager hiring me is named Joe.  So now I work for Joe, I'm in a relationship with Joe, and Joe is fixing up our suite.

Once the suite was fixed up, it looks exactly like the house I grew up in as a child.  Just like before, Joe was home and doing nothing.  My old anxiety came back as to what it was like being with him.  I leave the suite and find my other ex, Joe working on the building somewhere else.  Perhaps I chose the wrong Joe?  No.  This one caused me even more anxiety, so I decide against entertaining the thought.  But Joe sees me and demands to know if I'm looking for him for sexual reasons.  I said no.  He tells me I should weigh out the pros and cons between the two Joes.  They each had pros and cons, but their cons were both awful.  One was suicidal and an emotional train wreck, the other, abusive. 

I went to work the next day and Joe asked me if things were alright.  I thought about it all.  I hated this job, I hated where I lived.  I hated the situation I was put in. 

I just hated all those Joes.

Erica Cuts my Hair

Erica and I are arguing in the car.  We're on our way to dinner with other friends, and I'm driving.  I'm not sure what brought it on, but Erica, being impossible won't let up her end of the argument.  I didn't think it would affect our friendship, after all, friends argue, right? 

Before heading in to the dinner party, I tell Erica that I wished I had done my hair before going in.  Erica was a hairstylist and said she would cut and style my hair for me.  I didn't feel right about her doing this, especially after a big argument in the car, but I agreed anyway.  We, two mature people, should be able to get through a haircut.

We stop in to a salon, where Erica asks the shop owner if she can rent a chair really quick for me.  The shop owner, puzzled, agrees to let us use the salon.  I sit in the chair and while my hair is dry, Erica grabs a hunk of hair from the right side and positions the scissors down to cut near the base of my scalp, leaving about one inch of hair.  As she cuts, I move my head away and say, "You're giving me short hair!"  "Yep," she responds defiantly. 

The damage was already done, and I looked at how much hair was gone on the one side.  What was strange is that the short section of hair could be concealed with hair from the back if brushed forward.  In some weird way, this almost looked quite funky, a little like Cyndi Lauper's "She So Unusual" days.  Mix in a bit of hair product and it actually looked like I was supposed to have this punk-rock sort of look.  Even the stylists were in agreement. 

Erica was seething.  She didn't want this outcome.  She wanted to do damage to me, and have me look ridiculous.  It was all over an idiotic argument, and Erica could not just let it go and be cool.  She was willing to do months worth of damage to my appearance, and for what?

When we leave, I tell Erica, "You know what you did in there was so uncool, but at least I ended up with a look that people liked before you kept cutting."  Erica was acting like a brat, childishly telling me she wanted my whole head of hair gone.  But I interrupted, "You know what would happen if you did manage to do that?  People would look at me and say, 'Oh no what happened to your hair?' and my answer would be the truth: 'Erica cut it all off'."

It's true.  When we arrive at the dinner party, people said, "Oh.. your hair?"  I said, "Yeah, I let Erica cut it thinking she'd just give me a trim, but she decided to go bananas with the scissors."  They tell me the only person looking bad is Erica, not me.  Hair can grow back, but the act of what she originally tried to do won't be forgotten, and only denigrates her character.

I was glad people saw what the truth is.  I made the best out of a bad situation, and Erica shot herself in the foot.

Moving in to a House with Nice Killers

We decided to move to a different part of the city, but the showing for the apartment was at night, which I found odd.  When we got there, a group of hitmen were there to show us around.  I asked if they were in fact, living there, and they said they were not anymore.  They were being extremely nice, and I was actually very grateful that these killers were actually nice guys.

We sat down for a bit, and ate a few snacks, talked, and had some laughs.  But at any moment I asked them something personal, they steered away from it.  I sensed that they did not want me knowing much about them, and for good reason.  I also knew, thought it wasn't said, that they would look out for me.  Try and explain this to my parents, right?  "Hey, mom, dad, I'm living in this new place that a few hitmen were living in.  But don't worry, they're nice."

After signing a lease and arranging a date to move in, I found a grey, velvet alchemist-style pouch with something inside.  I looked inside and it was a metal key. 

"Is this the key to the place?"  I asked.  They said no, and I would figure out later what it was for.

The next few days, after moving, I went to a place down the block that looked like a bank.  A lot of Asians were there, and one of them was my old friend Sian.  He was with his boyfriend, and introduced me to some of his friends.  At one point, we heard a gunshot, but I couldn't see if someone was hurt.  People scrambled for cover for a bit, but I stuck with Sian.  People were scared, and all of the Cantonese and other Asian languages were hurting my head.  I couldn't concentrate. 

I got up to see one of my old friends from the night I agreed to rent the apartment.  I went straight up to him, and asked what was going on.  He lingered at me for a while, but motioned to some people and said some things in Cantonese to them. 

"No one will hurt you here," he said.  They all nodded.  Another couple of shootings happened right there, and this time I was watching them.  But I knew I was immune to any danger.  I may not have liked to see it, or know it was going on, but I went about my business, and everyone knew to leave me alone.