Introducing Aaron

My first jam session was in high school with Aaron.  Mr. Nielsen, our guitar teacher, tried to get all of us improvise, but I would not budge.  If it wasn't laid out on the sheet music, I refused to play it for fear of humiliating myself in front of cool kids.  Not long after that silent week, Aaron invited me to hang out one night at a friend's house, and we all went into this guy's bedroom, got out a keyboard, a bass and a couple guitars.  Rather than label it as "improv" Aaron would occasionally lean over and mutter chord names he knew I could play.  I had no time to get nervous because he threw me right into the thick of it.  Even though I had only been playing a short time, Aaron made me feel like I could play anything I wanted to. 

I don't remember meeting Aaron.  I just remember his being in my life all of a sudden.  We hung out a good deal, too.  I took him fish shopping one day.  I needed some new fish for my aquarium.  I am terrified of fish.  Why I had an aquarium is beyond me.  Anyway, when I got this new orange fishy home, I slung the bag into the warm aquarium water to get him acclimated.  When it was time to drop him in there, though, I cut the bag open, and the contents of the bag splashed onto my bedroom floor.  Fish and all.  If I had been alone, that fish would have died a horrible death, gasping for water in the suffocating air.  Aaron, without thinking, just scooped up the fish and tossed him into the water.  The fish lived, possibly with a small amount of mental trauma, but he never mentioned anything.  I thought Aaron was pretty much a hero that day. 

Aaron, Joe and I started a band.  Of course, we never actually got to play out, but we had our sights set on a gig at Powdrell's BBQ.  Those two boys went way back, and could play anything.  They just let me pick a bunch of songs, and they let me sing while they played.  Looking back, we probably only had 5 or 6 rehearsals, but it felt like a real band.  It was at Aaron's house where I first touched a 12-string guitar.  I felt like I was playing a harp.  And Aaron could really play it.  We did get one gig, come to think of it.  For my stepdad's 40th birthday party, my mom revamped the living room a la gymnasium, and had me and a bunch of my friends dress up like archetypal high school characters (school nurse, jock, beatnik, geek, etc.).  Aaron and I also sang a very sweet song about high school reunions--check out "Last Chance Waltz" by David Wilcox if you have ever experienced unrequited love.  It was my first real independent gig, and I had a blast. 

And now for my favorite memory of Aaron.  It was his Lloyd Dobler moment.  Well, I guess it was more my Andie Walsh moment, but either way...  My family and I were leaving for a 3 1/2 week tour of England, Scotland, and Wales the summer after my sophomore year of high school.  The morning we were to leave, Aaron showed up at our door.  He had his guitar, and we sat in my bedroom while he played "Leaving on a Jet Plane" with slightly modified lyrics ("You're leaving... Don't know when you'll be back again," etc.).  I was compeletely floored.  I had never been serenaded, and that is something that should absolutely happen in every girl's life.  I get all fluttery when I even think about it. 

I am so glad to see that Aaron is doing fine.  I was always a little worried about him.  He was very much the tortured artist, the type I loved to be around.  Aaron instilled in me a confidence in my musicianship that I will never lose.  Even though I have come a long way from sophomore year in high school, I think my era with Aaron definitely contributed to my ongoing desperate need to perform.  I hope he has kids and teaches them to play guitar and sing.

Introducing Rich

Rich is my pal.  The word "pal" really holds a lot of water in Persistance.  You would never doublecross your pal.  You'd stand up for your pal.  Being pals means never having to say you're sorry1.  In the heat of fierce band disputes, the moment "pal" is uttered, some of the anger diffuses, and you can't help but feel good.  It took awhile, but after almost 2 years in this band, I know that Rich and I are pals. 

Rich is the wildly talented sax player in the jazz band I sing with.  Nobody doesn't like the way he plays.  So come see him sometime if you haven't already.  He plays in several bands, spanning genres from reggae to salsa.  Rich also expertly plays the flute, but he doesn't get a chance to do that with us very often.  Anyway, I really look up to all the guys in the band, musically, and I feel outclassed and outjazzed most of the time.  In a good way, though, I guess.  It makes me work harder to keep up with them.  In a male-dominated, politically incorrect profession like ours, I can't help but feel flattered by his referral to me as a "musician" rather than "nice little girl singer". 

 

Jazz players can be tough to deal with, but the audiences can be even stickier.  The blessing and curse of being the nice little girl singer is that I have breaks.  I only sing 50-60% of the time we are performing.  The downside to being unoccupied is having to talk to rude people.  Don't get me wrong, a lot of people just have nice things to say, but I have regular encounters with opinionated, inebriated meanies.  I am terrible at confrontations, and feel as if I have to endure whatever drunken diatribe the present asshole is spouting.  After a recent gig, a guy started off just fine, telling me how he was impressed, and that I appeared to have trouble specializing in one genre.  Fine.  Then he talked my ear off for a good 15 minutes, concluding that he is a lawyer who "knows people" and that I obviously listen to a lot of Celine Dion, and that I really didn't have the figure for this profession.  Now, I don't know if he lost me when he insulted my physique, or when he accused me of being a Celine fan.  Anyway, I felt alone and sad, and hurt, and unable to run... "Hi, I'm Rich," I heard from a few feet away.  Rich had been watching this exchange, and had heard enough.  He dominated this guy's space by forcing him to chat, giving me a much-needed exit route.  That is what a pal does.  I don't know if Rich knew how badly I needed someone to stand up for me, but it is one of the best pal maneuvers I can remember. 

1. Actually, the last one isn't necessarily true, but Bob says that when he doesn't want to apologize for something shitty he said.   

Introducing Amy

How I miss the days of Karaoke Cult.  That is where I met the soft-spoken Amy.  Soft-spoken, that is.  Very lovely.  Very tall.  Very sweet.  And a complete maniac onstage.  Those stories are played out, though.  If you think that Amy is only capable of warbling Claudine Longet ballads, you should hear her death metal version of "I Am Woman".  Suffice it to say, despite her Midwestern nice girl exterior, deep within lies the soul of a lusty diva.

Amy lived in a nice one-bedroom on the east side of the red line in Edgewater.  I remember being a little nervous walking to the train one night from her place, but for the most part, the iffy neighborhood pretty much kept to itself.  The day we heard that there had been several recent murders within a block of her apartment, however, our group of friends decided it was time for Amy to move.  About 8 of us gathered on a Saturday morning, and filled Amy's moving truck as quickly as possible.  Fear is a great motivator. 

Once we got her out the door, Amy told us that all she needed was to sweep up and clean the bathroom and kitchen.  She would leave the door unlocked and come back later.  We, the helpers, piled into our three cars, and Amy would bring up the rear in her moving truck.  She would have to catch a ride with one of us when we drove back into town to get her own car.  We zoomed off to Evanston, the site of her new pad.  All of our cars arrived, and Amy was the last.  Amy looked a mess.  She was breathless and on the verge of tears.  Apparently, when she pulled out of her crime-ridden block, she misjudged the radius of her turn and ran over the curb.  To make matters worse, she had run over some guy's duffel bag in the process.  To make matters even worse, when she ran over the bag, a cloud of white powder billowed into the atmosphere.  Amy gunned it all the way to Evanston, scared for her life. 

We strategized.  Amy still had to retrieve her car.  We had some daylight left, but we didn't want her to go back.  We decided that Amy should just turn in her old apartment keys to her landlord, explain why the kitchen and bathroom were not cleaned, and get on with her life.  Marky and Michiel, our token burly men, would pick up Amy's car, so she would not be spotted by the drug dealer.  The drive would not take long, maybe 10 mintues total, and Amber and I instructed our boyfriends to waste no time.  Amber and I waited.  And waited.  30 minutes went by.  Sure that Marky and Michiel had been recognized and kidnapped by the duffel bag-toting cocaine lord, we began to panic.  None too soon, Marky and Michiel drove up the street. 

We sighed a breath of relief.  The boys were surprisingly quiet about their adventure.  Once the relief of seeing their faces passed, Amber and I grilled them on what the hell took so long.  Pardon the paraphrasing, but their explanation went a little like this:

Bree:  What the hell took so long?

Michiel:  Did you know that you can't take a left turn on Sheridan? 

Marky:  Yeah, so we had to go all the way around the block. 

Amber:  But that shouldn't have taken so long.  Where did you go?

Marky:  Well, we wanted to check things out. 

Amber and Bree:  WHAT?!!!

Michiel:  Don't worry, there was no one there. 

Marky:  There was a little pile of powder, and we wanted to check it out. 

Amber and Bree:  *disdainful looks*

Marky:  It was sugar.  Powdered sugar. 

Bree:  Oh, really?  How do you know that? 

Marky:  We tasted it. 

Well, I guess we all let our imaginations get the best of us.  We can laugh about it now, but it was pretty scary that day.  It seems ridiculous now.  Boys are stupid.  It's a good thing they're so cute.   

Introducing Chris

I know this is a little out of order.  For all two of you who are reading this, Chris is located between Andy and Amber.

I am a terrible liar.  I have no poker face.  I am also gullible like no other.  So, you could score pretty big if you throw a surprise birthday/blackjack party for me.  Chris, however, has been a magician as long as I have known him, and he is a good liar.  The first time I met him, we were both at a high school theater dinner.  Throughout dinner, the flash of a camera was eminent.  Being the big-haired Texan I am, I want to know in which direction I should face to smile for my close-up.  After the flash happened four or five times, I began to get antsy.  No one was yelling, "Say Cheese!" or "Smile!"  Chris was sitting in the general direction the flash was coming from, and I asked him if he was taking pictures.  He shrugged his shoulders and looked at me cluelessly.  The flash went on throughout dinner, like Chinese water torture.  To this day, I am not really sure if and how Chris did it.  Or why he did it, for that matter.  I never got a straight answer from him, but I can only assume he did it to mess with everyone's heads. 

Chris was one of the nicest guys I knew in high school.  We had lots of deep teenage soul-baring conversations on the stairs backstage during shows.  And he always had new card tricks and flash paper.  I am thrilled to know that he is totally serious about magic, now.  I love knowing that so many of my friends are following their dreams. 

Introducing Adam

My first impression of Adam was his bright green shirt.  He worked in the key department early this year.  He was very friendly, funny, and musical.  He always harmonized with the radio in the office.  During Adam's short tenure in the key department, he had major run-ins with the man under the stairs and Said Khan.  Some people work here for years without that sort of upheaval.  After some digging, we found that despite our geographical differences, we had friends in common, from Las Cruces, no less. 

My best memory of Adam is one day in a span of ten. 

Adam embarked on that seemingly impossible ten-day-water-lemon-juice-maple-syrup-cayenne-pepper regimen.  The first few days were a little hazy for him, but I have to hand it to Adam for staying on his feet.  He was also surprisingly candid about the real effects of the diet.  You gotta appreciate truth, man.  Smack in the middle of this fast, St. Patrick's Day arrived.  Sheppy and I got an early start at the river, and worked our way back up to Lakeview for a mid-morning Guiness at Lensly's.  Since my office was right there, we decided to bring the crew some gifts from CVS.  We shopped in the 25-cent Little Debbie bin for sugary treats.  We arrived in the heat of a phone rush, and we began doling out Swiss Rolls, Zebra Cakes, and Brownies.  Jessica cheered, Mark laughed, and Adam bowed his head.  I knew the drill.  When you are on a shitty diet, everybody brings in a birthday cake.  I looked at him, and he would not lift his head.  "Adam?"  No eye contact. "You don't think we forgot to bring you a present."  I handed him a bottle of cayenne pepper, and he chuckled.  It was no oatmeal cake, but I think he appreciated it. 

Throughout the day, Sheppy and I hit several Lakeview establishments.  The pub that used to be the charming Reflections was one stop.  As we chatted the afternoon away, a familiar face passed by.  It was Adam.  He had just gotten off work, but per his gastronomic situation, we resisted the urge to invite him in for a brew.  We trudged on.  Once it was time to soak up some Guiness, we took a table at the Melrose Diner.  After having a few sips of chicken soup, we peered through the window.  There was Adam.  Walking his dogs.  We just couldn't get away from each other.  Surely simply silly to Adam, it was a mildly embarrassing experience for Sheppy and me.  He never gave me any trouble about it. 

Glad we put all those rufees in the cayenne.

Introducing Darin

My dad called me and told me that next time I came to visit, my stepmom, Nancy, would look different.  Did I mention I was 9 when he called me?  Anyway, he told me that Nancy was pregnant, and that she would have a big belly when I saw her next. 

I don't remember the big belly as well as the time I got to see my new baby brother.  He was sleeping in his little carrier on the couch.  Dad told me that his eyes were blue now, but they weren't sure if they would stay that color.  I just hovered over the baby until his eyes opened.  His name was Darin.  He looked at me for a minute, and fell back asleep. 

Darin was the cutest, squishiest little guy I had ever met.  And we hit it off right away.  I was totally into his bizarre four-year-old stories about aliens and helicopters.  We both liked to color and swim.  I was also guilty of laughing at his bad behavior.  He was funny at a very young age, and I was his best audience.  Darin was also a huge ham, and would pose for hours as long as I pointed a camera in his direction.

I guess I could do a top five memories about Darin, here:

5.  He used to save time by greeting us all at one time.  Instead of "Hi Mommy, hi Daddy, hi Cotty, hi Donnie," he would scootch all the names together, like "Hi mommydaddycottydonnie."  The day we corrected his mispronunciation of our names was a sad day. 

4. My video of Darin harmonizing "I Will" with me.  I think I will watch that tonight.  He was probably 8, and I was a college student.  We are sitting on the couch, just jamming.  8-year olds are cool to jam with.

3. Halloween circa 1994.  I was a little too old to be dressing up.  When I asked him if he was embarrassed about his big sister looking like a 5'3" candy corn, he offered me these words of wisdom with a shoulder shrug: "Well, big sisters are big sisters, candy corns are candy corns."

2. Our shared love of The Tick and The Monkees.  My dad often marveled at our ability to bond over cartoons and silly music, despite our age difference. 

1. My favorite memory of Darin was when he was just a little guy.  He, Dad, and Nancy were seeing us off at the airport.  We would spend a few days a couple times a year in El Paso, and Darin, the baby, would hardly blink an eye when we left.  One year, we gave all the hugs, and said our goodbyes, and for the first time, Darin began to cry.  We all looked at him, stunned, and he blubbered, "I'm gonna miss you guys!"  I get a little teary thinking about it.  What a sweet kid.

Chris (our older brother) and I have an unusual kinship with Darin.  We didn't grow up in the same city, but we are all still just crazy about him.  It's fun seeing him reach the milestones we have already passed, for better or worse.  Even though we don't have an entirely traditional brother/sister relationship, I like giving him a hard time for making the same mistakes I did.  It's my birthright.