The Sheila Variations

74 Facts and One Lie

He took "Paul" for his confirmation name. Not because of Saint Paul but because of Paul McCartney.

He was 13 years older than me.

He eagerly awaited the latest book by E.L. Doctorow the way others waited for Star Wars: The Phantom Menace.

He had a theory about the linguistic phenomenon of two words separated by " 'n". (As in: rock 'n roll. Shake 'n bake. Good 'n plenty.) If the words are two verbs, then the " 'n" means "then". If the words are two nouns, (or two adjectives), then the " 'n" means "and". He explained, "Yes, because think about it. You have to mix and then match. You can't do both at the same time."

He once crashed his bike into the back of a parked car because he was staring at a blue heron.

He referred to himself as a "raging leftie". This did not stop him from being an unrepentant carnivore.

His musical passions were:
1. Gilbert & Sullivan
2. Brian Eno
3. The Elvises
a.Costello
b.Presley
4. The "girl groups" of the 1960s
5. The Beatles

He did not know who Jon Erik Hexum was. I illuminated him.

He suffered from what I called "instant drunkenness". No interim period of slosh. He cut to the drunk.

He wore a Swatch: black straps with white newsprint like a ransom note, green-bordered white watch-face with a black line-drawing of a steaming coffee mug over which the time passed. I secretly coveted that watch.

He thought that there should be a Wizard of Oz amusement park. The only drawback was that "there don't seem to be as many midgets around these days."

He was swept away by "Riverdance". He lost his mind.

He had an irrational dislike of guys who wore backwards baseball caps.

He used the word "dyspeptic" once. The only person I've known (outside of a book) to do such a thing.

He was an atheist.

The first thing he said to me was, "Are you waiting for someone?"

He loved obsessive British music magazines.

He had what he described as "an excellent childhood".

He commented mournfully re: Dionne Warwick, "Burt Bacharach lost his muse."

He said to me, "I see a lot of similarities between you and I." "Like what?" I asked. He replied, "Conflict avoidance." We roared with laughter.

He wore black high top sneakers. This was my influence.

He didn't really like the American musical as an art form.

He was furious with people who didn't like the movie Titanic. He saw it four times, staying through the half-hour long credit roll each time.

He was a worrywart.
Example 1. Phone conversation.
He: "So what are you gonna do tonight?"
Me: "Take a walk by the lake."
Pause.
He: "Do you have your mace??"
Example 2. On the day I got some warts burned off, he called me three times. As though I were having open-heart surgery or an emergency C-section.

He did not approve of any of the guys I liked. "They just don't seem nice."

He loved the PBS show "Ballykissangel" "even though it's produced by BBC Northern Ireland and has Brits playing some of the parts."

He had subscriptions to over fifteen magazines.

The Shipping News reminded him of me. I still don't know why.

He wasn't into organized sports.

He loved the word "pussy" but "cunt" made him uneasy.

He was the only person I knew (besides myself) who had read Helter Skelter not once but three times. We would toss around the names "Tex Watson", "Patricia Krenwinkle", and "Linda Kasabian" as though we knew them personally.

He hated Billy Corgan. Thought he was an egocentric pampered asshole.

He hated Ian Paisley with a passion.

He went to Graceland and had to touch everything. "I touched doorknobs that he touched!"

He hated kids. "It's fine for other people, and I know some really cool kids. But it's not for me."

He thought it was hilarious and "charming" that I would have "salad and a beer" for dinner. He wrote a poem about it:

For breakfast I had cheerios
To start my cheery day
For lunch I had an apple
To keep the doctor away
In the afternoon I had a bag of chips and a glass of Pepsi Clear
For dinner I just stuff myself
With salad and a beer
It's a perfect combination
If I might volunteer
There's nothing like the gourmet delight
Of salad and a beer.

Walking through the midnight avenues, we came upon Belden Street. He pondered the street sign, and stated matter-of-factly, breaking our silence, "There was once a Trixie Belden."

He could not stand it when I cried. He would shake me roughly. "Please! Stop crying!"

He had an eye for details, especially when it came to women.
Example 1. I would wear a different shade of lipstick and he would wonder out loud what it all meant.
Example 2. I made an effort to grow my nails. After a physically grueling weekend where I moved to a new apartment, he immediately glanced at my hands and said, "I see your nails survived the move."
Example 3. I would randomly (and pointlessly) play hard-to-get with him, acting just slightly unavailable. He would take one look at me, and say straight out: "Hm. I see you're wearing your aloof cloak this evening."

I ate pita and hummus in his presence once, and years later he was still saying, "Oh, so that was on that day you ate that weird stuff that time?"

He did not understand how Demi Moore could have married Bruce Willis because "he was a Republican".

Lesbians scared him a little bit.

He was amazed:
1. that I went to my prom.
2. that I loved Huey Lewis.
3. that I had
a. siblings
b. a driver's license
c. plaid flannel sheets.
I protested, "I did not spring full-blown from the head of Zeus!"

He and his siblings, as children, would complain to their parents about how they wanted a cooler bike, they wanted this, they wanted that. His father would herd them all into the car and drive them through the projects. Lesson learned.

He absolutely flipped out while the Beatles mini-series was going on. He had a week-long manic episode.

He would call me late at night and literally have nothing to say.

He became convinced that I was anorexic. He interviewed my friends and roommates behind my back. "Does she eat? Have you ever seen her eat? Have you touched her thighs recently?"

He loved the song "Lady Marmalade". Patti LaBelle's version, of course.

He gave me money for grad school. He meant for me to spend it on rent or school supplies, so I wouldn't have to worry about anything my first couple of months in a new city. I instead spent it on a leather biker's jacket and a boom box. He is still making fun of me for this.

He turned to me once and said, contemplatively, out of the blue, "I wonder what the hell Andrea McArdle is up to right now."

I told him that his role in my life was as a "dirigible".

He loved Drew Barrymore, but admitted that this love made him feel "a little bit dirty".

He hated people who weren't enthusiastic. Enthusiasm was a philosophy with him.

He called me "Pippi" when I put my red hair in braids. He introduced me to others as "Pippi". He said to the waitress, "And Pippi here will have a salad and a beer."

He had long-standing lustful feelings for Jennifer Connelly. Or, as he called her: "the chick in the tank top with the big breasts in that movie poster during the 80s."

He would yell at me when I got the flu, or even a common cold. He hated it when I got sick. It drove him crazy.

He said to me, "You and I both have that Irish sadness."

He was a night-owl channel surfer, and a bad-TV-show connoisseur. (Which was why it was completely shocking that he had never heard of Jon Erik Hexum.)

He once was an office temp. He had three blazers.

I ran a 10k and came in 4th to last. He was more moved by that than if I had come in first. "You came in 4th to last!" he breathed in a tone of awe and pride.

Ann Margaret was his ultimate goddess.

He disapproved of my tattoo.

He made me a mix tape. Which I lost. I will never stop wishing that I still had that tape. I only remember two songs from the mix. "10,000 Umbrellas" and "Those Were the Days, My Friend".

He would fill in the blanks of stories I told him from my own life. Stories that had nothing to do with him. He would also flesh out scenarios that hadn't even happened yet.
Example 1.
Me: "So this woman was wearing a skintight red dress with a slit up to here�"
He: "And her breasts were huge, right?"
Example 2.
Me: "I crossed the street. It was snowing really hard�"
He: "And you were really nervous."
Example 3.
Me: "My school is in the West Village�"
He: "So you will walk down the sidewalk, wearing a cozy sweater, and you'll be with a guy who looks vaguely like Bob Dylan."

He would come up to me and blurt, "I am going to flirt with you shamelessly right now. Is that all right?"

He and I had many alley moments accompanied by dramatic weather:
1. Freezing black ice-drenched night. Orange light from the street lamps. Slushy, grey, cold. Scrawny prowling stray cats. He and I stepped from iceberg to iceberg, suddenly shy with each other in the silence. His soft voice, "Sugar, step this way."

2. A rainy night. We sat in his parked van. Speckled fogged windshield. We drank beer, played a tape, and sang along. Harmonizing. He said later, "That was the night it started for me."

3. Downpour. Wooden stairway. Darkness. Our first kiss. Which was actually more like a nature program on the Discovery Channel than a kiss. Biting, scratching, shoving. Each one of us struggling to grab the reins, and dominate the other. Kissing to kill. His hand clamped round my throat.

4. Heat wave. Muggy hot close air. He and I rubbed ice cubes over each other's faces. He lifted me up bodily, placed my feet on top of his feet, and then danced me around the alley, holding me in his arms.

5. Tornado watch. Huddled against the van, huddled against the wind. He was getting married in a week. Not to me. Standing in the massive wind, pressing our cheeks together, not talking. For once, we were not talking. No other body parts touched. My cheeks wet with tears. His cheeks were dry. But when I pulled back, the look in his dry eyes was almost worse than weeping.

He's married now.

He has a kid.

He loves the kid. Of course.

He and I are separated by distance and time. But still. He called me on September 12, 2001. To make sure I was all right.

Years after it all ended, years after the tornado-wind alley-scene (#5), I received a small white envelope addressed to me in his handwriting. He had stuffed something inside. I opened it and saw a crumpled-up faded washcloth. No letter, no note. Curious, baffled, I took the washcloth out of the envelope. It unrolled itself and something fell out. The first thing I saw was a line-drawing of a steaming coffee cup. I hadn't ever asked for the watch. He somehow just knew.

It's the only tangible thing I have of him.

He said of his wife, simply, "I can't live without her."

Something very small, like a twig, snapped inside me when he said that. Snapped for good.

Other than that, I'm fine.

Posted by sheila