The radio is behaving like a CD changer, in other words, loaded with the following albums: Bon Iver , For Emma, Forever Ago ; Elvis Perkins, Ash Wednesday ; Marvin Gaye, Here, My Dear ; and Kanye West, 808s & Heartbreak .
“Why are you so paranoid? Why are you so paranoid? /
“You worry ‘bout the wrong things, the wrong things”
I jab the button to seek past Kanye . I rebuke Marvin because he’s singing that song, the pilot’s song, and I settle on Elvis Perkins because it's the only record of the four that isn't about the destruction of a relationship.
Then I remember Ash Wednesday is about death.
I hit the dial to shut off the radio completely, but music keeps coming out of the speakers.
I picture the Door , leaning open, inviting the other world into my own.
It’s bleeding again. The two worlds are combining like a chemical reaction.
If Naomi walked out of the Door she didn’t close it – or if she did Geppetto reopened it.
Downtown Cleveland and West 6 th Street are ten minutes away.
I have to hope the real her is waiting for me there.
SPY BAR
Curling around the exit ramp and onto East 9 th Street, it becomes immediately apparent that Downtown Cleveland is dead. Progressive Field, where the Indians play baseball, is dark. The Quicken Loans Arena sign at the top of “The Q” has been shut off or never turned on. Traffic lights aren’t working. My car is the lone vehicle on the street. If there are people here, they are ghosts.
Heading in the direction of West 6 th Street and the Warehouse District, half-watching the road and half-watching my phone, I recall the last time I was here. Naomi and I spent New Year’s Eve at a club called Spy Bar. We drank. We danced. A drunk girl spilled champagne on us. Naomi’s temper flared. She lashed out. I overreacted. We broke up. That night, I locked myself in the bathroom of our hotel room and cried while she sat on the bed and smoked cigarettes. In the morning, I took her straight from the hotel to the airport. We were still dating long distance then. She flew back to New York, and I left for Los Angeles later that day. She wanted us to be over. I didn’t. We both thought we were.
After a flurry of heated phone conversations, I took a red-eye flight from LA to NYC, three days after I flew from Ohio to California. She told me not to come. I was stubborn. The fight we had on New Year’s occurred hours before we were set to be separated . That was always how it happened. The looming return of distance antagonized us. But I viewed distance as an aspect of logistics. That was where the problem lied. Romantically we were fine. I thought we had to remember that. If we did, I felt we could save our relationship.
It was shortly before 7 AM on a Saturday morning when I got to Naomi’s apartment. She buzzed me inside. I made the long walk up six flights of stairs, slowly, thinking of everything and therefore of nothing. She was waiting for me at the top. The moment our eyes reconnected I knew we were safe. Lying in her bed afterwards, with her warm body cradled against mine and her head in the crook of my arm, I tried to sleep. I failed. It was no longer a necessity. Her touch revitalized me.
Miraculously, we had survived.
Now I’m beginning to wonder whether or not it was for the best.
Without that red-eye flight, my life would have been different. I don’t think any of this would be happening.
I turn on to West 6 th Street.
The city is alive.
WEST 6 TH STREET
West 6 th is as active as it would be on any normal Saturday night. Bachelorette party limos, passenger cars and trucks, cabs and policemen idle near clubs with fake velvet ropes and uncovered, fenced-in parking lots. Twenty to forty-something men wearing untucked button-down shirts and brown dress shoes with loose-fitting boot cut jeans travel in tribes. The women, much like the men, look as if they were all dressed by a single stylist: jeans and boots or heels
“Why are you so paranoid? Why are you so paranoid? /
“You worry ‘bout the wrong things, the wrong things”
I jab the button to seek past Kanye . I rebuke Marvin because he’s singing that song, the pilot’s song, and I settle on Elvis Perkins because it's the only record of the four that isn't about the destruction of a relationship.
Then I remember Ash Wednesday is about death.
I hit the dial to shut off the radio completely, but music keeps coming out of the speakers.
I picture the Door , leaning open, inviting the other world into my own.
It’s bleeding again. The two worlds are combining like a chemical reaction.
If Naomi walked out of the Door she didn’t close it – or if she did Geppetto reopened it.
Downtown Cleveland and West 6 th Street are ten minutes away.
I have to hope the real her is waiting for me there.
SPY BAR
Curling around the exit ramp and onto East 9 th Street, it becomes immediately apparent that Downtown Cleveland is dead. Progressive Field, where the Indians play baseball, is dark. The Quicken Loans Arena sign at the top of “The Q” has been shut off or never turned on. Traffic lights aren’t working. My car is the lone vehicle on the street. If there are people here, they are ghosts.
Heading in the direction of West 6 th Street and the Warehouse District, half-watching the road and half-watching my phone, I recall the last time I was here. Naomi and I spent New Year’s Eve at a club called Spy Bar. We drank. We danced. A drunk girl spilled champagne on us. Naomi’s temper flared. She lashed out. I overreacted. We broke up. That night, I locked myself in the bathroom of our hotel room and cried while she sat on the bed and smoked cigarettes. In the morning, I took her straight from the hotel to the airport. We were still dating long distance then. She flew back to New York, and I left for Los Angeles later that day. She wanted us to be over. I didn’t. We both thought we were.
After a flurry of heated phone conversations, I took a red-eye flight from LA to NYC, three days after I flew from Ohio to California. She told me not to come. I was stubborn. The fight we had on New Year’s occurred hours before we were set to be separated . That was always how it happened. The looming return of distance antagonized us. But I viewed distance as an aspect of logistics. That was where the problem lied. Romantically we were fine. I thought we had to remember that. If we did, I felt we could save our relationship.
It was shortly before 7 AM on a Saturday morning when I got to Naomi’s apartment. She buzzed me inside. I made the long walk up six flights of stairs, slowly, thinking of everything and therefore of nothing. She was waiting for me at the top. The moment our eyes reconnected I knew we were safe. Lying in her bed afterwards, with her warm body cradled against mine and her head in the crook of my arm, I tried to sleep. I failed. It was no longer a necessity. Her touch revitalized me.
Miraculously, we had survived.
Now I’m beginning to wonder whether or not it was for the best.
Without that red-eye flight, my life would have been different. I don’t think any of this would be happening.
I turn on to West 6 th Street.
The city is alive.
WEST 6 TH STREET
West 6 th is as active as it would be on any normal Saturday night. Bachelorette party limos, passenger cars and trucks, cabs and policemen idle near clubs with fake velvet ropes and uncovered, fenced-in parking lots. Twenty to forty-something men wearing untucked button-down shirts and brown dress shoes with loose-fitting boot cut jeans travel in tribes. The women, much like the men, look as if they were all dressed by a single stylist: jeans and boots or heels
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