Dreamin’-Robert Hyers
Dreamin’
by Robert Hyers
Rob sat in the living room and drank while I spun drum n bass our bedroom. We fell in love about seven years ago, and moved into a cramped one bedroom together in Asbury Park, along the Jersey shore. Before Rob I had fallen in love with the drum n bass scene: the records, the ravers, the drugs. As the years went by and Rob and I became more serious, I slowly lost contact with the ravers and the drugs. But never with the records. I cued the record with the skull and crossbones label. I applied slight pressure to the record with my small middle and ring fingers, making sure the platter still spun beneath. I played the record in my headphones, sliding the pitch up, then down, until the tempo matched the other record already playing. I repeated the process, fine-tuning the tempo until it matched exactly. By now I had done this more times than I can count; the motions were an intimate part of me. I have no idea who this artist is, or what the song is called, but I love it because its bass line is intoxicating. And because Rob hates it.
I released the record for the last time. The skull and crossbones spun at 45 RPMs and I slid the cross fader to the center position. I imagined Rob in the kitchen, with the all his supplies lined carefully on the crumbling Formica table, mixing together the liquors: the Midori, the Absolut Citron, the Malibu Rum, the peach schnapps. I slowly turned up the volume on the new record, introducing its hi-hat cymbal and snare drum. Then the bass drum started on the first beat and returned right before the fourth. The synthesizers that played in a sequence of whole notes grew stronger. Then Rob would add the splashes of pineapple juice, sweet and sour, and finally, 7 Up. The mysterious voice, female and ethereal, began with a loop from the first line of the verse.
Leave this world…
…Leave this world behind…
I imagined the ice cubes clinking against the metal as he shook the ingredients in his silver tumbler. Then he would strain. The beat stopped. Only the synthesizers played now, an electronic imitation of a violin quartet. The voice returned to finish the verse. It surrounded me, caressed me, completed the trance begun by the first syncopated drum beat.
We’ll leave this world behind…
…We’ll go dreamin’…
…We’ll leave this world behind…
…We’ll go dreamin’…
Finally he would take the tumbler and the shot glass into the living room, where he’d sit on the black leather couch and take shots at his leisure. After the tumbler was emptied he would rise, return to the kitchen, and begin the process again. I don’t know why he just didn’t keep all of the ingredients out on the coffee table. Maybe it was the ritual he liked.
The beat returned with a simple, three note bass line. It was so beautiful, so hypnotic, that sometimes I’d get lost in it and forget to cue the next record. I imagined that signature look of disgust I hoped Rob had right now. His eyes would widen, then the right side of his top lip would curl slightly upwards, and the far end of his right nostril would crinkle. That’s when you knew he was pissed off. As much as I enjoyed imagining his discomfort, about halfway through the song I remembered I had other things to do. I carefully lifted the needle off the record and locked the tone arm back into its resting position. I shut off all the lights and dials, took the record off the slip mat,and slid it back into its sleeve. Shemesh would be here any minute, and I figured I should tidy up before she arrived. Not that I was going to clean every last corner for Shemesh. She had been my best friend since high school, so there was no reason to impress her. But I felt cleaning up the rotting Chinese take out on the dining room table and picking up Rob’s dirty boxers from the hallway was appropriate. I came out of the bedroom at the end of the hallway, threw in the dirty underwear, and proceeded to the dining room. I passed Rob in the living room. His normally alabaster skull and gaunt cheeks turned red as his stomach and organs tried to process the unending flow of alcohol. He wasn’t wearing his signature look of disgust. Damn. When he sat and I stood, we were at eye level. Although we made eye contact, neither of us acknowledged the other. Just when I had finished scraping the last piece of dried out lo mien into the garbage pail, the doorbell rang. Walking down the flight of beige carpeted steps that led to our doorway, I heard the leather couch unsettle with small, screech-like sounds when Rob rose and returned to the kitchen. That ugly leather couch. I loved it when I first bought it; it was my first really big purchase. But that was almost six years ago, and my tastes had changed. That ugly leather couch, along with some clothing, and the turntables and records, were the only things in
this apartment that were mine. Everything else came with Rob.
I opened the front door to find Shemesh standing there with her new hookah. I helped her skinny frame up the stairs with this souvenir she’d purchased while in Israel. Shemesh’s tiny hands had trouble holding the hookah as we slowly made our way up the steps. Once in the living room, she decided the best place for it right now would be the coffee table. With my back turned to the kitchen entrance, I heard the tumbler. Then I felt him coming up behind me.
"How’s it goin’ Rob?" Shemesh said. She forced a smile and showed her beautiful white teeth surrounded by a thin strip of pink lip.
"All right," he said, slowly nodding his head. His speech was slurred. "So I hear you wanna fuck my girlfriend?"
"What?" Shemesh’s smile disappeared.
I turned around. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"I know she wants to fuck you." He curled his lip slightly and widened the hazel eyes, now fixed on Shemesh.
"Are you saying this because I might be a lesbian?" Shemesh said.
"You’re not a lesbian," I said with a waving hand. I turned my attention back to Rob. "Is this because of Cynthia?"
"You told him about Cynthia?"
"Yes, of course."
"But that was like last year. It was so long ago—"
"Who cares how long ago it was," Rob said. "She cheated!"
"Look," I said, "we’ve already had this conversation. I thought everything was all right now."
"I’ve decided I can no longer trust you."
An uncontrollable anger appeared in the pit of my stomach and quickly took over my body. This wasn’t Rob talking; this was the alcohol. One sentence escaped my gritted teeth: "I hate you when you’re like this."
We usually included Rob in the smoking, but not tonight. I informed Shemesh that we would be moving the party into the bedroom, so we lifted the heavy and cumbersome contraption, weighed down with ornately carved brass, and carried it into the bedroom. I kicked the dirty laundry on the bedroom floor into one pile, and we put the hookah down on the stained carpet.
"What the fuck is wrong with him?" Shemesh’s little black eyes peered out from behind her small, wire-rimmed glasses.
"I don’t know. I mean, he used to not be like this. Or was less like this."
"There has to be a reason, right? Something must be wrong."
"He told me one time it has something to do with genetics, something about alcoholism running in his family."
"Is he really just angry over Cynthia? Did you tell him about what I did with Meira?"
"Yes." I rolled my eyes. "I told him about that this afternoon."
"Maybe that’s what it is—"
"That’s not what it is, Shemesh!" The anger that had knotted itself in my stomach during my exchange with Rob now ached, and this outburst momentarily soothed that ache.
Shemesh stared at me with her angular face drawn downwards. It was very easy to wound her. We’d been friends since grammar school; I should’ve known better. "I’m sorry, Shemesh. Look—can we just smoke?"
"Sounds good."
Shemesh held the square block of coal with tongs while she heated it, then placed it inside the bowl. The hookah had golden, arabesque carvings that rose into a pointed top. Shemesh inhaled first, then handed me the multi-colored hose. I took it and inhaled, making sure to avoid the pink feathers that surrounded the gold metal mouthpiece. The strawberry tobacco cut into the pot tasted good. When I brought it up, Shemesh informed me that that was how they smoked it in Israel. Shemesh took the hose back, inhaled, let out the smoke, and asked me in a slow, deep voice, "Who…are…you?" We laughed. Everything became heavier and slower. Shemesh returned to the possibility of her lesbianism. While in Israel she had experimented with this one girl, and now she was a lesbian. I did more with Cynthia than she did with Meira, and I didn’t even consider myself a lesbian. But I acquiesced. Even went with her to the Asbury Park Pride Festival a few weekends ago.
We walked in the brutal heat of late June down Ocean Ave, following a small parade of mostly older gay men waving rainbow flags and dancing on a flatbed trailer that had been converted to a stage. We passed the murals from Asbury’s glory days, the colorful roller coaster against a marine blue background winding through the phrases "Tunnel of Love" and "Funhouse," with each letter a different color. All the colors, the oranges, yellows, reds, blues, all once vibrant and alive, were now faded and chipped thanks to decades of abuse from the salt air. We passed buildings ravaged by the 1970 riots, used up and tired, reduced down to their structures and left to rot, now barely skeletons of their former selves.
All the while Shemesh played the role of the newly self-discovered lesbian, talking to the old dykes in their leather jackets and their short gray haircuts. She pilfered everything that was free and a rainbow: stickers, magnets, posters, you name it. I hated this part of Shemesh, the part that didn’t know who she was, the part that was trying to capture everyone else’s identities, trying to fill herself up with a decoupage of stolen beliefs and ideas and dreams, and always falling short in the pursuit. She was almost thirty now. She was getting too old for this shit.
I inhaled a few more times. The smoke infused my central nervous system and Shemesh’s voice became echoes. I could no longer tell the difference between what she was saying and what she had said. I motioned with a raised index finger for her to pause, slowly rose from the floor, and journeyed over to the turntables. I turned the lights and dials back on, slid the record from its sleeve, rested it on the slip mat, and lifted the needle from out of the resting position. I put the needle on the small strip of shiny black plastic at the outermost rim of the record, and sat back down. With a slow nod I motioned for Shemesh to continue, and waited for the first groove to catch the needle. When the beat started, it brought me back to the day I had bought the record.
We had gone into Philly on a beautiful Saturday afternoon, one of those afternoons where the sun and the mild springtime air invite you to venture out into unexplored territory, find places you never knew existed. Cynthia had grown up right outside Philly, and took me to one of her favorite places, South Street.
…Leave this world behind…
We walked past Victorian looking buildings swiped with stripes of reds and yellows and blues. We perused a few stores that smelled of sandalwood and sold large, wooden, overpriced Buddhas, and others with dozens of pairs of jeans imported from Italy hanging throughout. The selection of colors and flavors at the condom store overwhelmed me.
…We’ll leave this world behind…
The record store was about a half-block off South Street, down Bainbridge. It was a tiny store, with a dirty cement floor and a small island display of records. Next to this were four turntables for previewing the records before committing to a non-refundable purchase.
…We’ll leave this world behind…
I pored through the records in the drum n bass section and pulled out about five or six. We moved over to the turntables. Cynthia insisted that she listen to my picks as well. So after I listened to one I would hand her the headphones and cue the record. She’d slip the headphones over what she called her "roaring twenties bob" haircut and close her brown eyes. When she nodded, I’d let the record go. I would watch her pale eyelids until they revealed her eyes again, and she would give me her decision. We did this several times. By the fourth or fifth record the movements became routine.
…We’ll go dreamin’…
I played the one with the skull and crossbones. I really didn’t like it then, but Cynthia did. I told her I didn’t like it, but she insisted that I have it. So she bought it for me.
…Leave this world behind…
When we got back to Asbury Park the comfortable day had turned into a chilly night. We decided I should see her apartment and she pulled into the dark parking lot of a large brown and white apartment building. The hallways were narrow with slim stairs. As we climbed the three floors, I asked her how she could’ve gotten any furniture in the place.
"I had to give away half of it," she said, periodically looking back at me as we moved upwards. "Anything I needed I bought at IKEA and assembled in the apartment."
I nodded.
We entered and she gave me the grand tour. We made ourselves comfortable in her tiny living room and smoked pot. Then I spent the night.
…We’ll go dreamin–
The dreaming abruptly stopped. Rob towered over us at the doorway, with his bright red skull and crinkled nostril.
"You know, as your boyfriend I don’t have to take this shit."
"What shit?"
"You two, so buddy-buddy over there." He waved his unsteady hand at us.
"What?–Do you think we’re gonna dyke out while you’re in the kitchen making one of your fucking lunch boxes?"
"Don’t try to make me look like the idiot. I know exactly what’s going on."
"Nothing! Nothing is going on! You’re so fucking drunk, you’re paranoid!"
"Paranoid?" He turned and pointed to Shemesh. "Who can’t be paranoid with this horny little bitch around?"
"Little bitch?" Shemesh yelled. She lunged towards him, stopping herself midway.
"Don’t come near me. I’ll kick your fake fucking teeth into your fake fucking face—"
"–Rob!" I yelled.
"–and take your fake little body and throw it against the real fucking wall!"
"Rob! Shut up! Shut the fuck up!"
"No, you shut the fuck up!"
There were no more echoes. No more heaviness. Time became precise again.
Rob turned back to Shemesh. "If you don’t want the shit beat out of you, I think you’d better leave."
"Rob, you’re scaring me," I said.
"Maybe I’d better go."
"No," I said, with my index finger pointing at her and my eyes fixed on Rob. "I’m going with you."
"What? You can’t leave!" Rob screamed.
We’ll leave this world behind…
"I can do whatever the fuck I want!"
We’ll go dreamin…
"Well then, so can I!"
We’ll leave this world behind…
We’ll go drea—
I heard a piercing, hellish noise, like an entire schoolyard of children crying, as Rob pulled the record from under the needle. The needle snapped off and the record flew across the bedroom. The record broke into three pieces against the far wall. The intense anger that the pot had dissipated returned and radiated from the pit of my stomach.
"Come on, Shemesh, let’s go!"
I charged out of the bedroom, through the hallway, and down the stairs. Shemesh kept close behind me. By now I didn’t need to look behind me. I knew Rob was trying to catch me, and stumbling from the poison lunchboxes. When I heard the front door close behind me, I imagined Rob motionless on the living room floor. He’d be crying, with his long fingers and pale hands covering his red face, mumbling something about all this running in his family, his thin lips brushing against his moist palms with every syllable. He’d remove those hands and have a certain boyhood look on his face, the look a child has when he knows he’s made a mess of something but doesn’t want to be reprimanded for it. He just wants someone more responsible to clean up the mess. But I was used up now, tired. I was tired of cleaning up messes.
Our fights had never ended like this before. Usually he’d be crying, and I would lock myself in our bedroom. If I didn’t spin records, I would lie on the bed and relive the memory of that first time in
Cynthia’s apartment. I’d remember the tour she gave. I followed her through the front door into the living room. On our right was the couch, which she informed me was actually a futon. The cushion had a beige cover over it, set against a black metal frame. The opposite wall opened up at both ends, and had a television and CD player at its center. On the left side was the entrance to a small kitchen. On the right side was a hall. The bathroom was down the hall on the right. At the end of the hall was the entrance to the bedroom. There was just a queen bed in there, and one set of shelves.
I’d run through that layout over and over again. If Cynthia didn’t want me in the bedroom with her, I could easily sleep on that futon. If the TV and CD player were moved over a little, the turntables could fit. The records could go in milk crates and be stored next to the turntables. During our conversation that night, Cynthia had complained about not always being able to pay the bills. I’m sure my contribution would help.
When I entered the apartment complex’s parking lot, the mild summer night reminded me of that day on South Street. I opened the door and hoisted myself into Shemesh’s parents’ dark blue minivan. I settled into the passenger seat and Shemesh did the same in the driver’s seat.The black stereo, surrounded by a beige fabric, was situated right below the center of the dashboard. I knew I had made a mix CD for Shemesh with Cynthia’s song on it. I was hoping I would hear it when Shemesh started the minivan. It would be a sign to start something new, to move in a new direction. I would call Cynthia and see if she’d let me stay, see if this insane living arrangement I had been refining in my head for months now was something Cynthia wanted too. Shemesh settled into the driver’s seat. She inserted the key into the ignition and turned it forward. The engine turned over. Then all of the dials on the dashboard lit up in an alien green and the music started. "Joy To The World" by Three Dog Night. Not what I expected. Her mom must’ve been using the car earlier. But that didn’t matter. As soon as we got to Shemesh’s and I was settled, I would call Cynthia. We would smoke. I would feel out the situation. Then I would ask her. I’m sure she’d say yes.
Then I thought about getting my stuff out of the old apartment. It wouldn’t take long. Just some clothing, the turntables, the records. And that couch. That ugly leather couch. If we used this minivan, the couch might fit, but it would never make it up Cynthia’s stairs. That didn’t matter. I didn’t want it anymore.
Copyright C. 2007 Robert Hyers
November 30th, 2007 at 11:25 pm
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