Friday, October 22, 2010

Heartbreakers

My downstairs neighbor, Aaron, whom I did not profile in the last post because I had not yet met him, has apparently taken a shining to me. Last night, he came and visited me in my room. We had a nice conversation about Memphis, blues, movies, the "urban horror" werewolf book he's writing, and, of course, the other people in the house. "It's not often I get to have intelligent conversation in this place," he kept saying. "This is nice."

Aaron works at a biomed lab during the day, and has to make his way through rigorous screening each morning on his way into the buildling. He has a friendly face and light complexion. He frequently wears a baseball cap and rim wired glasses.

Tonight, he knocked on my door holding a bag of popcorn and his laptop. Clearly, he was going to sit with me for the movie we talked about last night that I said I wanted to see, and which he has on his computer, Larry Clark's "Bully."

Today was a little nutty for me. I lost some of my bearings and confidence in Memphis due to not getting as much done here as I wanted to. I think this may come as a strange statement to some of you reading this since every trip or unusual endeavor I embark on, I receive multiple comments on my bravery, foolishness, luck, independence, and intelligence, sometimes all in the same breath. The loss of confidence is not an unfamiliar feeling to me, but one which I wish I were better in handling. Publicly, you can tell when I'm in a bad way with it because I'll speak in a higher pitched voice, flit my hands around a little bit, dart my eyes around the immediate surroundings, and spring up and down on my toes slightly and gradually. I also do this combination of actions when I'm nervous and excited, so don't take too much away from this description for the next time you see me. Privately, as with most people, there is a whole other set of demons that race through my mind when experiencing troubles.

Tomorrow I leave for Oxford, Mississippi, then back this way a bit to go to Como on Saturday. The further I get into the Delta, the more of my confidence in my project I want to maintain. No one likes to interact with a wilting flower, and no one will think your work is important unless you do. But weekends make me nervous because of the added pressure to scout a good show, and the knowledge that it's almost time for church again. (I have been attending a different denomination church every Sunday to record wild sermons. Me at church will probably be a separate, future post, but the gist is that I usually do not feel comfortable at church).

So, the pressures of the upcoming weekend are ringing in my mind. When I saw Aaron at the door with his eager smile, computer and bag of popcorn, my protective and strangely effeminate state of mind immediately came up with a lie after his proclamation that I need not live like a monk on my last night in Memphis. "Oh, gosh, that's so nice, but I'm going out soon! You're so kind. I'm sorry; I'm planning to go out in an hour." His face fell like a movie, urging me to continue with my guilty apologies. "Really, I'm sorry. You've been so nice to me and look at you there with the popcorn and everything, that's so nice."

Am I supposed to apologize for having the moves put on me?

I met a man on my 8.7-mile walk this morning who said he had seen me in another neighborhood while he was riding the bus. He couldn't believe I was now in this neighborhood, since it was so far away. His name was Fred, and he was standing a block away from the barber school while his friend was in there. "I don't mean no harm. Can I get witchyoo?" he asked immediately and without shame. This type of forwardness always gives me a mild sense of relief at maintaining attractiveness to middle aged hoodrats. I really like how they always inquire about my marital status and where my man is.

"No, sorry," I said to him, as well. "Sorry, I have to go home." I walked on.

30 minutes after my initial brushoff, Aaron knocked on the door again with a piece of paper. "I wrote this about you at work this morning. It's about the first time I saw you."

He handed it to me and I read the first line. "Carrie's legs take the long way up Carries skirt,..."

"Oh, that's really sweet!" I quipped, bouncing on my toes slightly. My mind raced for something kind to say. "What was I wearing?"

"I don't know; something similar to what you are now," he said. In my state of mental disrepair, I have been wearing the same dress for a few days. I wondered what he thought of me wearing the same thing as yesterday.

"Should I read it now, or wait till you go downstairs?" I asked, looking for a respite. He shrugged, then continued standing in front of my door. I guessed that meant to read it immediately, so I continued in front of him.

"...divide then remeet on the way to Carrie's shirt. It's a long journey, but the way is smooth, the scenery sublime, and fraught with fragrant loveliness.. When she stands, she's a wishbone of pale allure, the divide glorious to behold."

"I like it! This is very nice; I don't think anyone's ever written something like this for me before," I said, starting to close the door. "You've been really nice to talk to; have a good night!"

He said, "You, too," and I shut the door.


I don't know why I made such a long post about this. It would probably do me well to write a little more about my project and a little less about my interactions with the local derelicts, but the house has been a wealth of source material. What really strikes me about these types of situations and has made me write a too-long narrative about it is that romantic misses are so much more common than mutual interest. That seems like the real heartbreaker.



The only other thing to mention about Aaron (really about Charles) is that, in conversing with him last night, I found out why I have not heard a peep out of Charles since confronting him about when he tried to use his key to get into my room while I was in it. "Don't be trying to get in my room; there's nothing in there for you," I said when I confronted Charles in the hallway, trying to be a hardass in the face of the self-proclaimed "former biggest dope dealer in Memphis."

Aaron told me everyone in the house (particularly Charles) thinks I am a spy for the FBI or CIA because I have a car with Michigan plates and a computer, and that I am recording everything that happens. This paranoia confirms my suspicion of Charles being a drug addict, but I am ok with the conclusion since it means I haven't seen him in days.

1 comment:

Elizabeth said...

Man, you're slaying the dudes down there. Sounds like quite the adventure!