Candy

When Court and I returned from the pizza joint, Ziggy and Claire were holding hands and laughing so hard they were crying. Ziggy jumped up to get napkins and silverware and Court cleared the miscellaneous magazines and stuff off of the table, while I started carefully unpacking the paper bags of food.
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Stop Making Sense

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I’m sure: I’m not sure if I’m a good son. As if I can even define what that means. Case in point, I think if I were a better son than I am, I’d have understood a little more what the hell my mother was talking about some of the time.

I’ll try to recreate a little of that night’s dinner conversation. If I can even remember it. That’s the thing about things you don’t understand: it’s hard to remember what was said. Because you keep trying to make it make sense, and you know it didn’t. So this might come out making more sense than it did at the time.
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Movin’ on Up

All in all, I didn’t have that much stuff to move out of the sublet: one duffel of clothes and one box of miscellaneous things that had accumulated during the months we were there. In it were some CDs, a couple of books and magazines, a VHS tape Colin had left behind, a pasta drainer, the sheet music Priss had made me copy, a box of rubber bands. Not a lot.

Oh, and a guitar.
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Breakdown

I woke up the next morning in a vaguely familiar bed, with the glow of indirect sunlight on an eggshell white ceiling above me and the sound of a piano in my ears. It was pleasant and my hand stretched across the cool expanse of mattress beside me. A few high notes were tentatively played, then played again, like someone working out a melody.

Someone was working out a melody. I sat up suddenly with the vaguely dreadful feeling I was late for rehearsal…?
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Oh You Pretty Things

Ziggy and I climbed into the shower together with much fumbling and giggling. I don’t even know why we were laughing. I guess because we were trying to be sorta discreet and quiet, which makes me tense, and then because we were both klutzy, me from being hungover, him from general punchiness.
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Constant Craving

Albert shepherded us all the way to an absolutely immense reception in the Park Plaza Castle which was basically utter chaos of giddy graduates and their families milling around from one sparsely placed crudité station to another inside a giant stone box. It was a lot of people and a lot of noise and we didn’t stay long.

Albert saw us into a taxi and told Court he’d see her later. After the door closed and the cab took off headed for Allston, Claire turned to Court and asked, “Is he coming to the party tonight?”
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Ghost of a Texas Ladies Man

The next day was Courtney’s graduation ceremony. You know how people in Hollywood use the word “film” instead of “movie”? People in academia–at least in Boston– don’t use the word graduation. They use the word “commencement.”

I’d never really thought about it before, until I saw and heard the word a hundred times in those two days, that “commencement” means the beginning of something and not the end. It’s not the culmination that’s being celebrated, it’s the beginning of the rest of your life.
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Right Now

I had drifted off, almost asleep, when the phone rang. I couldn’t think of a clever way to answer so I just said “Yellow.”

“Daron, it’s Remo.”

“Ha! You weren’t who I was expecting a call from.” Continue Reading »

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Summer Song

Courtney declared the evening a success, so it was a success. Toward the end some actor I didn’t know showed up, but Court relegated him to the “B-list at best” and we didn’t intersect.

When we got home, Chris informed us that Claire had gone to bed, so him and me and Court and Colin walked down to Pho Pasteur for a late dinner and got in just before they closed. My pager went off about halfway through the meal with a New York number I didn’t recognize and I decided to finish eating before running off to answer it. Court had a bowl of soup bigger than her head and was picking out long white noodles with her chopsticks and slurping them up one by one. I had a nest of tangled thin noodles with grilled meat on top and so many fresh mint and basil leaves it should have qualified as a salad.
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Wherever I May Roam

The reception was in a function room on one of the upper floors with large windows overlooking Boston Common. You know the story of the Common, right? Back in Ye Olde Colonial days it was the common area where everyone in town kept their cows and livestock. Supposedly the reason Boston’s streets are so crazily tangled is because they evolved from cow paths. I don’t know if that’s true or if it just sounds good. The Orpheum was a couple of blocks in one direction and the hotel where Carynne had given up trying to get me in bed was in another. Come to think of it, the vegetarian Vietnamese restaurant where I’d officially come out to her was also a few blocks away. So was “the block” where the gay hustlers plied their trade. All these things were within a five minute walk.
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