Here Is a Story I've Been Dying to Tell
by Cat Perry
It’s July of 1979. I know it’s July because I don’t have to go to school, and I know it’s 1979 because I’m nine years old. It’s easy to tell the years because it’s my age, and I just have to add up from 1970. I’ll say it now: I’m no good at math. I’m glad I don’t have to do anything but add my age to the year. In second grade I had to start learning my times tables, and all I could do was cry about it. My father said, “How can you know the words to every song on the radio but not memorize your times tables?” He’s right, and now I’m going to go into fourth grade and I still can’t do any times tables above five, especially seven and eight. But I’m smart in other ways.
Anyway it’s July 1979, the most important day of my life. My brother has a 1976 cherry-red Ford Barracuda, Limited Edition, fully loaded with an AM/FM radio, and an 8-track and cassette player, air-conditioning, and fancy door locks. This makes him the cool one out of my brothers, even after he totals it in a drunk driving accident by the end of the summer.
On this day though, he is the coolest. He’s changing the oil, or washing it, or messing around under the hood like any other Sunday, and he’s blasting a tape on the car stereo. I’m inside because, even though it’s a beautiful summer day, I’m one of those sickly kids who’s gotta stay inside near a fan, because at any time the bronchitis could make me stop breathing and I’ll need the extra oxygen. I will later come to find out these are panic attacks, not bronchitis, but that’s not what I know right now. Right now, all I know is I’m sitting in the dark under a ceiling fan in the dining room, doing nothing, when all of a sudden I hear this song, and it’s like I’m in a movie where I become a zombie. I go under a spell and walk in slow-motion towards the front door. It’s like a cartoon, I swear. The music notes pull me and I walk practically with my arms out in front of me.
So I open the screen door, and yell so loudly that I could’ve made the bronchitis come back and make me have to sit under the fan for the rest of the day doing nothing. Only this time, I’m in a trance, so I have superhuman strength, and I can yell loud enough for him to hear me.
“Who is that?”
His head is bowed under the hood, his dark brown hair shining red in the sun. Someday he’ll end up with male pattern baldness, which my mother will try to convince him is from drinking too much, but I’m smart enough to know that’s not how hair works. But on this very important day he still has a full head of hair like what I’ll grow up to have: thick as anything, the curls tight in some places at the back of his head, loose around the face, frizzy on top, hanging down to his shoulders. My hair is pin straight right now, and it only just turned brown like in kindergarten. Before that, I was a redhead!
He is definitely the coolest out of my brothers. Especially today, because, unlike my other brother who makes it his mission in life to ignore me, he doesn’t. So when I yell out from the front door he looks up at me from under the hood, shaking the hair from his eyes.
“This? Elvis Costello?”
And with that he just puts his head back under the hood like it’s just another day, just another question. And he doesn’t know that I feel like I’m just born. And it’s really probably the second most important day of my life because I’m really actually born nine years after I was first born. The first time, my mother gives birth to me; and this time, my brother does. And so now I know that name: Elvis Costello. See? I memorized it already, just like I do with other stuff and not my times table, but I’m still smart because I know good music.
And I know what happens next: I’ll sneak into his room and steal the cassette tape, I’ll find out the song is called “Watching the Detectives,” and that it’s on Elvis Costello’s first album, and I’ll make a copy onto a blank cassette because I already know how to do that and that’s what makes me smart too. And I’ll return the tape to his room and make it look like I never stole it in the first place, because I’m that smart and that good.
And after that I know what happens: soon I’ll buy that first Elvis Costello album of my very own. That same album I’ll buy on vinyl, and then on cassette, because I’ll lose the one I copied from my brother and they’ll re-issue it with new B-sides anyway. Then I’ll buy it on CD once, just before I move out for college because I can’t move all my vinyl records with me, they’ll be too heavy; even though I’ll want everyone at college to know how smart and cool I am because I’ll still own vinyl records. And maybe like 10 years later I’ll buy it on CD again because they’ll re-issue it with acoustic versions and the demo tape, all previously unreleased. And I’ll also buy as many videos and other stuff I can afford to.
And also I am so smart that I’ll know that what happens next is no surprise: I’ll spend hours poring over the lyrics, once I get my hands on them, because Elvis Costello doesn’t even put in lyric sheets until his like fifth or sixth album, which I already know I’ll own someday. I’ll buy most of his records; so for this first album, I’ll listen to it over and over, pushing the pause button, and write out the lyrics myself. And unlike my times tables, I’ll have the lyrics memorized in no time.
And I know what else happens next: I’ll pass my teenage life aching for a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, or even a friend that’s a boy or a girl, who will spend hours pouring over lyrics with me, analyzing them, and speculating on the plethora of hidden meanings in the cryptic verses. I’ll pass my life aching, and only meet one.
Except that the first boyfriend, my first, real live boyfriend, who I’ll play that first album for, about six minutes after I have sex for the very first time, will end up dating my best friend.
And there’s another time that I’ll meet that perfect friend, and the very first time I’ll go to her house, she’ll put the needle on the record and it’s Side One, Track One of “Imperial Bedroom” and I’ll stare at her in shock and we’ll be instant best friends. But I’ll end that friendship in a ridiculous dramatic way, years later, because I’ll realize that I hate myself every time I hang out with her because I secretly hate her.
And I also know there will be another boyfriend; he’ll start out a friend and end up a dickhead, but there will be lovely times, especially when he’ll concede that I know better about the meaning of Elvis’s lyrics. When we’ll go to his concert, he’ll look at me and say, not in so many words, that he wants to kiss me. And I’ll say, not in so many words, that I’ll have to leave my husband first, and then he can kiss me. And that’s what happens.
And a year later when we’ll see Elvis at Town Hall for the “North” tour, all of us will be deeply in love, Elvis included. And even though he’ll turn out to be a dickhead he manages to get me a signed copy of “North,” though I’ll make it clear that I can’t stand it when Elvis is in love because he just writes sentimental music. Still, it’ll be nice of him to get it.
Oh, and that’s another thing that I know will happen: I’ll see Elvis Costello almost every single time he’ll tour, and I’ll love and appreciate each concert, and I’ll go alone most of the time, except for those two times with the dickhead boyfriend, and once with a coworker who’ll pay me back for the ticket with a personal check, which I’ll think is odd.
And even though I’m so smart in other ways–not math–there’s a lot of things I don’t know. One thing I don’t know that will happen is that I’ll get rid of my vinyl records, just after graduating from college, even though it’ll hurt like hell; because I’ll have to sell them because I’ll live in the West Village with about six other girls and still won’t be able to pay the rent. But I’ll replace all the important albums on CD so it will be okay, even though it will hurt. And I also don’t know that CDs will only be temporary, and I’ll download MP3s of all the previously unreleased material, live songs, B-sides, acoustic songs, demos, half-written songs, and pics, wallpaper, footage of bloopers, concerts, live appearances on TV I’ll miss because I’ll refuse to own a TV; an endless supply of everything he’s ever done, and believe me he’ll do a lot!
I don’t know all that will happen. I also don’t know that I’ll feel a little bit bad about downloading all this stuff and not paying for it. But eventually, I won’t feel entirely bad because won’t I have spent enough time and money and heartache already?