Black

Standing in the empty, unfurnished living room of some low-income apartments in Virginia Beach. My shirt sticks to me, we can't afford A/C. I don't notice except for the heat and smell of another body, skinny and blonde, warm and sweating in front of me.

Not a terrible memory.

I was browsing the boxed wine offerings of the local liquor barn in Grand Junction. They all looked cheap and gratingly sweet. These wines are really only good for a sangria, sacrament, or for medical purposes. My mother has become convinced that two glasses of red wine, any cheap, disgusting cough syrup red wine, will help her maintain her health.

I don't debate that wine may indeed be healthy, though the two bottles of my former life consumed a night is probably counterproductive.

The piped in music caught my subconscious ear. Guitar, some sort of effect, jangly-soft notes of an undefined chord. A bass line cut through. I knew this song. I was born in 1980, of course I knew this song. Sheets of empty canvas, something about sheets of clay.

The song is not great. In fact, I really don't like Pearl Jam that much. I didn't like much grunge. I probably should have when I was a kid, but it just seemed contrived. I hated the crazy-haired androgeny of '80s rock even more. I guess I became a Nirvana fan by default.

Woah, I'm spinning...

Eddie sure can't enunciate. "Turn my world to black, tattoo all I see tattoo wurly-uuunh...Why?" I don't know, Ed. Why did you have such potential to be more than a Neil Young cover band and never use it? As I said, Pearl Jam is not my favorite band.

Had my brain been functioning, I would have thought of all this. I do like this particular offering, "Black". Mindlessly, I mouthed the words to myself and formed a hazy memory. A girl in black. She's very beautifully broken. Still.

The shop hand walked by me, mindlessly mouthing the words. We caught each other. We shared self-conscious smiles and nodded. Yep, we're children of our times. I went back to my wine and my memories.

Her hands are sweeping over me in time to the song, piped through cheap PC speakers. The room is spinning. I force her closer to me and kiss her more deeply, tasting Camel Turkish Gold and Jim Beam. She goes a little weak, just like she always does. I'm home again.

Not a terrible song, really. Not a bad memory, either. In fact, tonight, sitting here with a good glass of cranberry juice, the Jim Beam of this stage in my life, I have to admit they're both pretty damn good. Dark, like a good cabernet a little sweet, but not enough to make you forget the toil and pain associated with production. I like the song, and I like the memory of her. Both sanguine and nihilistic, self-absorbed. Pleasant like a good funeral.

They're both just a little sad.