point Mark came home stoned and shirtless and carrying a guitar that he had stolen from one of the other opening acts. Everyone went to bed. Thereâs plenty of room on a single for two drunk people, and we slept comfortably.
A month later Karen accepted a teaching job at a music school in Bermuda.
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
They needed a new teacher and could pay a generous salary. Despite its paradisiacal qualities, nobody, it seemed, wanted to move to Bermuda. They said she came highly recommended from her old instructors at the Berklee College of Music. They offered to fly her out to meet the faculty and explore the island. She agreed to go, just as a lark, scamming a free trip to a tropical island. She even asked if she could bring her boyfriend along, but they said that wasnât possible. She had just started to do some recording with the Map. Nathan asked her to play keyboards live, but she refused. The day she left I picked her up at their rehearsal spaceâan insulated garage somewhere in Chinatown that Mark had foundâand everybody wanted to go along. We had to take Nathanâs station wagon to LAX. She promised to bring back souvenirs.
I knew she would take the job. In those last few weeks, when she was around the castle playing video games or listening to records, she would sometimes look at all of us with aterrible sense of recognition, like someone lost in the woods who sees a familiar landmark and realizes sheâs been walking in circles. Still, I started to imagine our life together in Bermuda.
A week later I got a letter, postmarked in New London, Connecticut. She was taking the job. She felt horrible and didnât want to face coming back to L.A. and seeing me. She flew straight home and was now taking care of paperwork before moving to Bermuda for good. For the first couple months she was going to stay with the same family whoâd put her up during her visit. She went on and on about the crystal-blue waters surrounding the island, as if this explained everything. At the end she mentioned that we should break up.
If she had just moved back home, or back to New York, or almost anywhere else, I mightâve accepted it, somewhat graciously. But she didnât. She moved three thousand miles away to a quasi-fantastical island in the middle of the ocean.
In late October she started writing me letters. The envelopes were sky-blue, crisp, and weightless, with a royal postage stamp and a checkered fringe. I still have these letters, not because Iâve been pining for Karen for ten years, but because they are the last real letters anyone has ever sent me. I like the way they feel in my hands. Even then her letters felt antiquated, as if they had arrived from a lost age of steamships and parasols. She asked about the band, my mom, Maria. She wrote long rhapsodic passages about the color of the water and the barracudas she had seen darting among the reefs. She then offered a few words to the effect that she missed me and loved me, that she was lonely and regretted the move, that she hated the British and wanted to leave but they were paying her and she had signed a contract and everything was so expensive inBermuda she still couldnât really get ahead and was there any chance I could visit.
I resumed my stewardship of the phone bill and called her. After a three-hour conversation we were officially back together. I told my roommates and we all went out and got loaded. I called her a couple more times and I sent some letters. She couldnât wait for me to come to Bermuda. There were so many beautiful things she wanted to show me. She was now subletting a studio in Hamilton for $900 a month. I could stay with her as long as I wanted. My phone bill was over $300, almost twice my rent. I wrote Karen asking if she could call me sometimes, but she said she couldnât afford it. Slowly, I noticed the tone changing in her letters. After some remorse it was obvious she was
A month later Karen accepted a teaching job at a music school in Bermuda.
â¢Â  â¢Â  â¢
They needed a new teacher and could pay a generous salary. Despite its paradisiacal qualities, nobody, it seemed, wanted to move to Bermuda. They said she came highly recommended from her old instructors at the Berklee College of Music. They offered to fly her out to meet the faculty and explore the island. She agreed to go, just as a lark, scamming a free trip to a tropical island. She even asked if she could bring her boyfriend along, but they said that wasnât possible. She had just started to do some recording with the Map. Nathan asked her to play keyboards live, but she refused. The day she left I picked her up at their rehearsal spaceâan insulated garage somewhere in Chinatown that Mark had foundâand everybody wanted to go along. We had to take Nathanâs station wagon to LAX. She promised to bring back souvenirs.
I knew she would take the job. In those last few weeks, when she was around the castle playing video games or listening to records, she would sometimes look at all of us with aterrible sense of recognition, like someone lost in the woods who sees a familiar landmark and realizes sheâs been walking in circles. Still, I started to imagine our life together in Bermuda.
A week later I got a letter, postmarked in New London, Connecticut. She was taking the job. She felt horrible and didnât want to face coming back to L.A. and seeing me. She flew straight home and was now taking care of paperwork before moving to Bermuda for good. For the first couple months she was going to stay with the same family whoâd put her up during her visit. She went on and on about the crystal-blue waters surrounding the island, as if this explained everything. At the end she mentioned that we should break up.
If she had just moved back home, or back to New York, or almost anywhere else, I mightâve accepted it, somewhat graciously. But she didnât. She moved three thousand miles away to a quasi-fantastical island in the middle of the ocean.
In late October she started writing me letters. The envelopes were sky-blue, crisp, and weightless, with a royal postage stamp and a checkered fringe. I still have these letters, not because Iâve been pining for Karen for ten years, but because they are the last real letters anyone has ever sent me. I like the way they feel in my hands. Even then her letters felt antiquated, as if they had arrived from a lost age of steamships and parasols. She asked about the band, my mom, Maria. She wrote long rhapsodic passages about the color of the water and the barracudas she had seen darting among the reefs. She then offered a few words to the effect that she missed me and loved me, that she was lonely and regretted the move, that she hated the British and wanted to leave but they were paying her and she had signed a contract and everything was so expensive inBermuda she still couldnât really get ahead and was there any chance I could visit.
I resumed my stewardship of the phone bill and called her. After a three-hour conversation we were officially back together. I told my roommates and we all went out and got loaded. I called her a couple more times and I sent some letters. She couldnât wait for me to come to Bermuda. There were so many beautiful things she wanted to show me. She was now subletting a studio in Hamilton for $900 a month. I could stay with her as long as I wanted. My phone bill was over $300, almost twice my rent. I wrote Karen asking if she could call me sometimes, but she said she couldnât afford it. Slowly, I noticed the tone changing in her letters. After some remorse it was obvious she was
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