Indian food sent him over the edge, searching for a bathroom.
Six minutes pass, and I’m still standing next to a NY1 reporter who’s doing a man-on-the-street piece about the resurgence of high-top sneakers. The door is open to the NY1 news van, and the tape operator sitting in the van amid all of the electronics smiles at me.
“I’m waiting for my friend,” I self-consciously tell him. “Too bad he disappeared. Maybe he’d have something to say on the matter.” He nods and goes back to what he’s doing.
Twelve minutes later my annoyance level has skyrocketed. I pull out my phone and text him:
Kyle—are you okay?
I wait. I stand there getting more and more angry as he doesn’t respond.
I send another text:
Hello????
Finally I hear the sound of a text message coming in. He wrote back:
Berry, I’m sorry. I’m married. I know that I probably should have told you. But I saw that news van & freaked. I just can’t risk being on camera and having m (part one of two)
It stops there. There’s a hundred-sixty-character limit, so I wait patiently for part two. Married? In our marathon conversation he never thought to bring up that teensy little detail? Or perhaps not kiss me during the concert? Or spend today with me like he was becoming my new boyfriend?
Ding
. Part two: y wife see us. If you’re upset, I understand. If you want me to come by your hotel later tonight, I’d like that. If not, no hard feelings. —Kyle
And that’s it. “No hard feelings”? You have no hard feelings? How about my feelings? They, in fact, are extremely hard feelings. Solid. Rigor mortis feelings.
I retrace everything Kyle said when I’m back in my hotel room. No ring. No discussion of a significant other. But to be fair, no direct questions were asked about a significant other. He disappeared the first time the camera crew showed up, but why would I think anything of it? The second time … Sure, perhaps I could have given it some thought … if I was a completely suspicious psychopath. Is that what I need to be? In order to protect myself, do I have to be offensively defensive?
I just want to get the hell out of New York and go back home to my comfort zone. Erase that kiss. Erase today. Erase all things Kyle. Erase, erase, erase.
I pull out my iPod and put KKCR’s live podcast on to make me feel a little more at home. Black Sabbath’s “Immaculate Deception” is blaring.
“Sweeter than the dream, the reality of you, immaculate, deception.”
Perfect.
No doubt exists that all women are crazy; it’s only a question of degree.
— W. C. FIELDS
Chapter Six
I have a blown-up picture of Jimi Hendrix’s headstone hanging on my wall at home. It’s a black-and-white photo that I took when I actually went to Renton, outside Seattle, to visit the grave site. It has the lyrics to “Angel” scrawled in Jimi’s recognizable handwriting—recognizable to anyone who’s a Jimi Hendrix fan—and then somehow transferred onto marble. To me it’s a beautiful reminder of talent and recklessness and how sadly they often go hand in hand. A reminder to share your gift, whatever it is, while simultaneously not being an idiot.
The grave itself is pretty monumental—which is only a recent development, because apparently when Jimi died from an accidentaloverdose in London, his family barely had the funds to bring his body back to the States. For more than twenty-five years Jimi’s grave was nothing to speak of, but after a drawn-out legal battle, Jimi’s father finally regained the rights to Jimi’s musical legacy, and the first thing he did with the money was build a beautiful memorial for Jimi—a resting place fit for a legend.
When I walk back into my apartment after the trip I’d like to forget, I find myself staring at the photograph, looking at Jimi’s handwriting, taunted to rejoin the land of the living by the lyrics “Today is the day for you to rise.”
Okay, Jimi. I’ll rise. I will
Six minutes pass, and I’m still standing next to a NY1 reporter who’s doing a man-on-the-street piece about the resurgence of high-top sneakers. The door is open to the NY1 news van, and the tape operator sitting in the van amid all of the electronics smiles at me.
“I’m waiting for my friend,” I self-consciously tell him. “Too bad he disappeared. Maybe he’d have something to say on the matter.” He nods and goes back to what he’s doing.
Twelve minutes later my annoyance level has skyrocketed. I pull out my phone and text him:
Kyle—are you okay?
I wait. I stand there getting more and more angry as he doesn’t respond.
I send another text:
Hello????
Finally I hear the sound of a text message coming in. He wrote back:
Berry, I’m sorry. I’m married. I know that I probably should have told you. But I saw that news van & freaked. I just can’t risk being on camera and having m (part one of two)
It stops there. There’s a hundred-sixty-character limit, so I wait patiently for part two. Married? In our marathon conversation he never thought to bring up that teensy little detail? Or perhaps not kiss me during the concert? Or spend today with me like he was becoming my new boyfriend?
Ding
. Part two: y wife see us. If you’re upset, I understand. If you want me to come by your hotel later tonight, I’d like that. If not, no hard feelings. —Kyle
And that’s it. “No hard feelings”? You have no hard feelings? How about my feelings? They, in fact, are extremely hard feelings. Solid. Rigor mortis feelings.
I retrace everything Kyle said when I’m back in my hotel room. No ring. No discussion of a significant other. But to be fair, no direct questions were asked about a significant other. He disappeared the first time the camera crew showed up, but why would I think anything of it? The second time … Sure, perhaps I could have given it some thought … if I was a completely suspicious psychopath. Is that what I need to be? In order to protect myself, do I have to be offensively defensive?
I just want to get the hell out of New York and go back home to my comfort zone. Erase that kiss. Erase today. Erase all things Kyle. Erase, erase, erase.
I pull out my iPod and put KKCR’s live podcast on to make me feel a little more at home. Black Sabbath’s “Immaculate Deception” is blaring.
“Sweeter than the dream, the reality of you, immaculate, deception.”
Perfect.
No doubt exists that all women are crazy; it’s only a question of degree.
— W. C. FIELDS
Chapter Six
I have a blown-up picture of Jimi Hendrix’s headstone hanging on my wall at home. It’s a black-and-white photo that I took when I actually went to Renton, outside Seattle, to visit the grave site. It has the lyrics to “Angel” scrawled in Jimi’s recognizable handwriting—recognizable to anyone who’s a Jimi Hendrix fan—and then somehow transferred onto marble. To me it’s a beautiful reminder of talent and recklessness and how sadly they often go hand in hand. A reminder to share your gift, whatever it is, while simultaneously not being an idiot.
The grave itself is pretty monumental—which is only a recent development, because apparently when Jimi died from an accidentaloverdose in London, his family barely had the funds to bring his body back to the States. For more than twenty-five years Jimi’s grave was nothing to speak of, but after a drawn-out legal battle, Jimi’s father finally regained the rights to Jimi’s musical legacy, and the first thing he did with the money was build a beautiful memorial for Jimi—a resting place fit for a legend.
When I walk back into my apartment after the trip I’d like to forget, I find myself staring at the photograph, looking at Jimi’s handwriting, taunted to rejoin the land of the living by the lyrics “Today is the day for you to rise.”
Okay, Jimi. I’ll rise. I will
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