+++

Crimson and Clover (November 20, 2009.  Issue 11.)

My sister told me I’d know who he was right away. “It’s the only funny piece of the night, it’s hilarious” she said, excited for all of us to see her first performance. About half way through the show, right when I thought my eyelids would no longer support themselves I hear the voice of Tommy James “ohhhhh” accompanied by smooth strumming of the bass guitar and I forget about my lack of interest in modern dance. Five girls clad in multiple shades of green, yellow, and brown patterned outfits slide into the spotlight.  They move across the black floor in harmony with the song picked from a seventies jukebox until, from the left side of the stage, the only male in the piece emerges wearing a silk blouse blanketed in monochrome waves of brown. Joe dances from one side of the stage to the other, moving in a way that makes the entire crowd swell with laughter.

*****

It was upwards of ninety degrees behind the dented screen of the ticket sales building at the Highland Park Aquatics Center, one of the few days we had three people on duty, one manning the gate and two selling family passes, season passes and rec. center discounts.  About eleven hot dogs continued to roll back and forth on the hot dog rotisserie while the pan pizzas burnt in the oven, both appliances placed directly behind our chairs intensifying the summer heat even more. I could see and feel my cell phone ringing but the line of crabby stay at home moms and antsy pre-teens indicated that I wasn’t going to be available to talk for quite some time.  Four missed calls, and two new messages. Standing in the closet lined with Doritos, Skittles and jumbo pretzels, I feel a slight satisfaction from all of the people trying to contact me.

‘Joe died.’

I felt my June-bleached arm hairs raise slowly off of my tingling skin; half thinking it was a joke, and half frantically trying to figure out which ‘Joe’ this text could be referring to. I move slowly to the opening between the pantry and the registers staring dumbfounded at Emily;

“I just got a text saying ‘Joe died’!  Joe who? What the hell?” I ask, as I continue to rack my brain.

“What? Someone died?”  My co-worker asks me while sipping her lemonade.

*****

Everyone was up early, that’s how it always was on holidays. “Tara Cassone, you should have called what the hell were you doing all night?? Was there drugs and drinking? Don’t lie to me. ” my mom says in a slightly hostile tone.  My sister looks at her with that sad puppy face, trying to gain my mother’s sympathy before exploding with joy, “I MADE OUT WITH JOE!” I could tell she put that out there, hoping that the statement’s excitement would overshadow her irresponsible behavior. She hadn’t stopped talking about this kid since her first day at the arts high school. She could barely contain her glee as my mom’s stern glare cracked into a smile.

*****

After two rings, and about forty heartbeats, the other end of the phone call indicates that someone has answered. I hear sniffling followed by “Joe Died this morning”.  I know when she says his name, who she is referring to, but still, out of uncertainty of what to say, I ask “Joe who? What? How?” I hear her resume crying, making it difficult for me to control my quivering lip. “Joe Sodd. He got stabbed driving home from the Triple Rock on his moped at three o’clock this morning.” I lean up against the cold, stone wall because hearing my sister falling apart on the other end of the line causes my legs to feel as though I have never stood before. Suddenly the smell of hot, processed, cheese, meat and mini donuts is no longer appetizing, but extremely nauseating.

*****

“We were having a dance off, both a little tipsy at that point. Everyone was circled around Joe and me as we danced wildly to Close to Me, that song by The Cure. When we were both satisfied and exhausted, we faded into the crowd and started kissing.“ Tara explained her Thanksgiving Eve activities to me later when my mom wasn’t around.

*****

I walk into the apartment after leaving work early, unsure of how to approach the situation. Immediately when I see her balled up wearing just a bra and underwear, surrounded by piles of crumpled white tissues, my insecurity becomes an afterthought and I find myself enfolding her limp bones, a position I am rarely in, being the younger of the two of us. 

He died alone.  She can barely voice the three words that cause my throat to ache in resistance, before beginning to cry like I’ve never seen, or heard my sister cry in eighteen years.

I feel a combination of her sweat, tears and snot on my sun burnt shoulder when I realize that I am also crying uncontrollably as though absorbing a very small amount of her immense heartache.

*****

It was something we did when there was nothing else going on. Just drive by his house a couple times, maybe park in an out of sight position where we could watch Joe’s mom clean the kitchen, on a good night. We would bounce off the walls of the car on the ride over the lake street bridge but when we were within a six block radius, Tara would demand total silence. Sniffling, sneezing and most importantly, talking, were all out of the question. We would communicate through silent screams and violent hand gestures until we got bored with watching the wind blow through the front yard of his house, because Tara was worried that anyone speaking inside the confines of a locked car would alert Joe to come out of his house and see her, stalking him. These trips only occurred during periods when Tara and Joe weren’t speaking, when she knew his schedule only through information posted on Facebook or MySpace. The excitement peaked when they had a visitor or when Joe’s younger brother would return home on his moped. We never actually saw Joe. 

*****

The kid was obsessed with Prince. Everyone who knew him knew it. This fact alone made it appropriate for a friend to read the lyrics from Let’s Go Crazy at his performance-based memorial.

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life. Electric word, life, it means forever and that’s a mighty long time, but I’m here to tell you, there’s something else: the afterworld. A world of never ending happiness, you can always see the sun, day, or night. So when you call up that shrink in Beverly Hills, you know the one, Dr. Everything’ll be alright, instead of asking him how much of your time is left, ask him how much of your mind, baby. Cause in this life, things are much harder than in the afterworld; in this life, you’re on your own. And if the elevator tries to bring you down, go crazy, punch a higher floor.

*****

After clamping my hands around Tara’s shoulders long enough to make them clammy, I release her from my grasp to see her red, puffy eyes. Her face, streaked with the layers upon layers of salt, retreats to an expression often seen among childhood bumps and bruises, and says, “I loved him you know.” As she begins to cry again I pull her wilted shoulders back into me and feel them throbbing with her irregular breath.

*****

I knew what had happened before she decided to tell me. She had gone to a party the night before, after saying something about him; that he was going to be there. The following day she was acting as though she had just gotten a lobotomy, lying around in silence, and barely eating.  All of which led me to assume that they did more than just kiss.

*****

 “Joe was an only child for a couple years before I was born. Now I am an only child, and I have no idea what to do” Joe’s brother said in a speech at  The Triple Rock in front of a vast crowd of sobbing friends and family before doing a back flip off the stage.

*****

I returned to the hustle and bustle of nagging customers after making a few phone calls in an attempt to gain some sense of certainty in the situation. I moved to assume my position at the register located next to the oversized garbage bin which I stared into, feeling like I might add the ‘Turkey Tom’ I had eaten just a half hour earlier, to the heap of trash.  I saw three sizes of empty Coca-Cola cups, half drunken slushies and pizzas that were sent back by finicky customers on the surface of the bin that needed  emptying. While gazing into the reeking pile, I suddenly lifted my head, staring at the ceiling in disbelief as I heard the familiar seventies tone of the bass guitar flow from the outdated boom box. A song I had never heard on the radio, only on mixed CDs that my sister would make to remind herself of her first messy and vulnerable adolescent love.