canât resist. It sounds so much hipper than our American options: âscrewâ is so pedestrian,âbangâ is way too aggressive, âhumpâ is for fourth-graders. God knows, Iâd never use the gooey mess of a phrase âmake loveâ without feeling like a cheesy seventies tune. I mean âfuckâ has its own poetry, since itâs all hard angles and no backing down, but it has no warmth, and could never have the cozy yet unsentimental, offbeat appeal of âshag.â
Anyway, the little studio I just put a deposit on is definitely a flat, and so this gives me an excuse to become one syllable more British. The rent is almost reasonableâokay, not under five hundred (forgive me, to-do list), but I had to be flexible and double it. I suspect the landlord is fortunately unaware of just how slick and trendy the place is. Itâs an upstairs unit in an old brick building downtown. Itâs above a hair salon, and the smell of perms does seep through the floorboards, but not in a terribly noxious way. Speaking of floorboards, that was a major selling point: after all the hideous brown shag and orange linoleum Iâd looked at for four days, these hardwood floors, freshly buffed and sweetly golden, took my breath away. In short, it is precisely the right place for a bohemian, scarf-wearing professor to dwell. As soon as I become that bohemian, scarf-wearing professor, itâll be perfect for me.
CHAPTER 10
Things I presently own:
1) Adorable 1964 Volvo. Green.
2) One laptop computer from Swede. Very sleek, but have not yet managed to turn it on.
3) Hand-me-down futon from Dad. Smells like Pine-Sol.
4) One pair of shorts from Goodwill. A little tight. Discard after first paycheck.
5) Three T-shirts borrowed from Dad. Burn horrifying Nascar shirt after first paycheck.
6) Four Swedish ferns. Dying.
7) One stainless-steel teakettle. Perfect.
T hursday afternoon I move my precious possessions into my lovely little flat and survey the results. I tell myself the effect is wonderfully spare and chic, with that glam-Zen minimalism so many urban hair salons strive for. I donât quite buy this, but I tell myself I do.
As the sun starts to glow orange in my western windows,I make up my mind to go for a walk. For a week now Iâve been so completely consumed with the hunt for a car and a home that I havenât had much time to stroll around aimlessly. It feels good to get the sidewalk moving beneath me and to breathe in the greasy perfume drifting inland from the burger joint down the street. The heat of the afternoon is giving way to the cool evening chill sliding off the Pacific. A wayward branch from an apple tree is hanging over the sidewalk; I look around, pluck a nice green one and munch as I stroll.
I meander past the shops on Pacific Avenue, peering into each window: a bookstore, used clothing, a surf shop. And Godâoh, Jesus, a music store: Viva Vinyl. The glass door is propped into a wide-open position. Itâs held in place with a terra-cotta pot filled with cement, sprouting a tall, iron-stemmed LP with the words Come In splashed recklessly across the glossy black surface in red paint.
Come in.
Donât. Go. In.
Maybe I should go home and change. Except I havenât got anything to change into, and I wonât until my next paycheck.
It might not be hisâI mean, come on, what are the chances?
He said his store was downtown. He specializes in vinyl.
Yeah, but this is Santa Cruzâcollege town, hipsterville. There must a record store on every block.
Do. Not. Enter.
My feet are real fuckups. They operate independently, like little rogue states, and yet itâs the rest of me whoâs got to face the consequences.
The store is deserted. Itâs filled with a dusty, warm attic smell. Thereâs a wall of decorative vintage guitars on display toward the back; I scoot past the rows of records and CDs to stare up at them. They remind
Tammy Falkner
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