Love Is A Mix Tape Part 5

In Unplugged Unplugged, Kurt begins with a wedding ("I doooo") and spends the rest of the show living out the promise, sinking his fangs into a lover who has married him and buried him. He's trapped inside her "Heart-Shaped Box." She's somebody he will never let go of, somebody whose cancer he'd eat to keep her alive, somebody he'll never leave no matter how toxic she gets. This woman might be named Mary, like in "All Apologies," or she might be named Anna Maria, like in "Come As You Are." Or she might even be named Courtney. Either way, he's stuck to her. He can't let go. Till death do them part.

First one of them will die, then the other one will. They don't know which one will go first, and it doesn't matter. Eventually, you're both dead, and then finally you'll be as one, in the sun, and then it's over, you're married and buried and n.o.body will ever see you again. Where do do bad folks go when they die? bad folks go when they die?

The show ends with another scary marriage ballad, "Where Did You Sleep Last Night," a song about a woman with a dead husband. Maybe she killed him, maybe she didn't-we don't know. But she can't sleep in her marriage bed anymore. Kurt has nowhere to rest, so he stays awake and s.h.i.+vers the whole night through. Just an hour ago, Kurt was singing "About a Girl," a groom singing "I do" over and over. But here he is alone, in the pines, in the pines, where the sun don't ever s.h.i.+ne.

When you get married, you hope you die before your lover does. (Do they? Do people wish this consciously? Do they admit it if they do? Al Green sings about it in "Mimi," telling the girl he better die before she does because he couldn't take it; do people talk this way in real life?) I hoped it, but I sure never said so because I figured Renee hoped the same thing. I guess it's a long-term bet. When you get married, you make a plan to die, in a way. These thoughts had probably always been there somewhere in my brain. But I didn't like the way Nirvana made me brood over them. I hoped they'd go away. I didn't even tell Renee what an intense experience the Nirvana Unplugged Unplugged always was for me-I thought that would make it worse, so I kept my mouth shut about it. I tried sittin' on a fence like Mick and Keith. It didn't really work. always was for me-I thought that would make it worse, so I kept my mouth shut about it. I tried sittin' on a fence like Mick and Keith. It didn't really work.

I missed Kurt more the longer he stayed dead. He was one of very, very few male singers my age singing about love and marriage. The Notorious B.I.G. was really the only other one of his stature. Kurt and Biggie were the rock stars of my age who worried about the things I worried about, both of them in f.u.c.ked-up marriages and yet writing songs about them that felt real. They gave me the sort of tiny wisdoms I got from surrogate older brothers like Al Green and John Doe and Lou Reed. They sang about morbid thoughts, about feeling ready to die, yet at least the way I heard their voices, they were fighting to stay alive. Maybe I'm wrong. Definitely Definitely I'm wrong; they're both gone. I'm wrong; they're both gone.

But when I listen to Kurt, he's not ready to die, at least not in his music-the boy on Unplugged Unplugged doesn't sound the same as the man who gave up on him. A boy is what he sounds like, turning his private pain into teenage news. He comes clean as a Bowie fan, up to his neck in Catholic guilt, a Major Tom trying to put his doesn't sound the same as the man who gave up on him. A boy is what he sounds like, turning his private pain into teenage news. He comes clean as a Bowie fan, up to his neck in Catholic guilt, a Major Tom trying to put his Low Low and his and his Pin Ups Pin Ups on the same alb.u.m, by mixing up his favorite oldies with his own folk-ma.s.s confessionals. I hear a scruffy sloppy guitar boy trying to sing his life. I hear a teenage Jesus superstar on the radio with a song about a sunbeam, a song about a girl, flushed with the romance of punk rock. I hear the noise in his voice, and I hear a boy trying to scare the darkness away. I wish I could hear what happened next, but nothing did. on the same alb.u.m, by mixing up his favorite oldies with his own folk-ma.s.s confessionals. I hear a scruffy sloppy guitar boy trying to sing his life. I hear a teenage Jesus superstar on the radio with a song about a sunbeam, a song about a girl, flushed with the romance of punk rock. I hear the noise in his voice, and I hear a boy trying to scare the darkness away. I wish I could hear what happened next, but nothing did.

52 girls on film

MAY 1995.

Every time I have a crush on a woman, I have the same fantasy: I imagine the two of us as a synth-pop duo. No matter who she is, or how we meet, the synth-pop duo fantasy has to work, or the crush fizzles out. I have loads of other musical fantasies about my crushes-I picture us as a Gram-and-Emmylou country harmony duo, or as guitarists in a rock band, trading off vocals like Mick and Keith. But for me, it always comes back to the synth-pop duo. The girl is up front, swis.h.i.+ng her skirt, tossing her hair, a saucy little firecracker. I'm the boy in the back, hidden behind my Roland JP8000 keyboard. She has all the courage and star power I lack. She sings our hit because I would never dare to get up and sing it myself. She moves the crowd while I lurk in the shadows, lavis.h.i.+ng all my computer-blue love on her, punching the b.u.t.tons that shower her in dis...o...b..iss and bathe her in the spotlight. I make her a star. on a woman, I have the same fantasy: I imagine the two of us as a synth-pop duo. No matter who she is, or how we meet, the synth-pop duo fantasy has to work, or the crush fizzles out. I have loads of other musical fantasies about my crushes-I picture us as a Gram-and-Emmylou country harmony duo, or as guitarists in a rock band, trading off vocals like Mick and Keith. But for me, it always comes back to the synth-pop duo. The girl is up front, swis.h.i.+ng her skirt, tossing her hair, a saucy little firecracker. I'm the boy in the back, hidden behind my Roland JP8000 keyboard. She has all the courage and star power I lack. She sings our hit because I would never dare to get up and sing it myself. She moves the crowd while I lurk in the shadows, lavis.h.i.+ng all my computer-blue love on her, punching the b.u.t.tons that shower her in dis...o...b..iss and bathe her in the spotlight. I make her a star.

I am always fueled by my synth-pop fantasies. It's fun thinking up the names for these groups. These days I live a few blocks away from a store called Metropolitan Floors, which is the greatest synth-pop duo name ever, I think. I want to be in a band called Metropolitan Floors. (Never "the"-real synth-pop duos never have a "the" in their names.) According to the awning, "We're More Than Just Floors!" I actually stopped in Metropolitan Floors once to look around, before the guy started asking me what kind of carpet I wanted and whether I planned to lay it myself. I was unable to bluff, since "I want to build some 1982 synthesizers and learn to play them and attract a girl to be my lead singer so we can tour the world and make people dance and pretend to be German"-didn't seem plausible. I just took his business card and promised to call the next day.

I always always pictured Renee and me in our synth-pop duo. I never told her about this. In my dreams, she tossed her fake-red locks and stood tall in expensive platforms. We had lots of band names: Multiplex. Metroform. Angela Dust. Unpleasant Pleasures. Schiaffiano. Criminally v.u.l.v.a. Indulgence. Appliancenter. She never knew any of this. pictured Renee and me in our synth-pop duo. I never told her about this. In my dreams, she tossed her fake-red locks and stood tall in expensive platforms. We had lots of band names: Multiplex. Metroform. Angela Dust. Unpleasant Pleasures. Schiaffiano. Criminally v.u.l.v.a. Indulgence. Appliancenter. She never knew any of this.

It's odd that I've never pictured myself as a solo rock star. I've always dreamed of a new wave girl to stand up front and be shameless and lippy, to take the heat, teach me her tricks, teach me to be brave like her. I needed someone with a quicker wit than mine. The new wave girl was brazen and scarlet. She would take me under her wing and teach me to join the human race, the way Bananarama did with their "Shy Boy." She would pick me out and shake me up and turn me around, turn me into someone new. She would spin me right round, like a record.

It was a pipe dream-I could never play an instrument, not even a simple keyboard. In all my years of fiddling with keyboards, all I ever learned to play was "Way Down upon the Swanee River," and even that required playing the melody by numbers (3-2-1, 3-2-1, 8-6-8, 5-3-1-2, thank you good night). Operating synthesizers and sequencers was way beyond my skill set. But when I slipped into my fantasy world, I was bolder, juicier than I was in any facet of my real life. I would turn from cherry red to midnight blue, sixteen blue, blue blue electric blue. So I would daydream names and clothes and set lists for this band. I would pick out our songs, and make tapes of our greatest hits. The band name was one or two words; the alb.u.m t.i.tle was a pompous full sentence, like I've Been Undressed by Kings I've Been Undressed by Kings or or I Cannot See What Flowers Are at My Feet I Cannot See What Flowers Are at My Feet. (There were even synth-pop duos who picked names names that were complete sentences, like Johnny Hates Jazz or Swing Out Sister or Curiosity Killed the Cat, but this is just trying too hard.) And of course, I would pick out a new wave girl singer. That was the whole point. that were complete sentences, like Johnny Hates Jazz or Swing Out Sister or Curiosity Killed the Cat, but this is just trying too hard.) And of course, I would pick out a new wave girl singer. That was the whole point.

The boy-girl synth-pop duo is my favorite band lineup. Yaz were the ultimate. After Vince Clarke quit Depeche Mode, he went and found a new singer, Alison Moyet, who sounded like a real person real person-quite a breakthrough in new wave terms. They laid it out in the Upstairs at Eric's Upstairs at Eric's credits: "Alison Moyet-voice and piano. Vince Clarke-noises." They called one of their records credits: "Alison Moyet-voice and piano. Vince Clarke-noises." They called one of their records You and Me Both You and Me Both-two kids conning the world together, a boy who needed a human touch and a girl who needed a cerebro-electro henchman. They made a strange pair: Vince tense and introverted, Alison loud and rude. And according to legend, they hated each other in real life. But it was fun to imagine that one night Alison had reached out a hand, smudged a little glitter on Vince's cheek, and left him never the same. You could hear it in the music, couldn't you? I could. And I'd listen to those records and think, Well, if it could happen to him, there's hope for all of us. Now she's in control, she's his lover. Nations stand against them, but he's her brother. She'll get to you somehow.

There were loads of new wave hitmakers who followed the same formula. Eurythmics were more famous than Yaz, though not as good (but I loved "Who's That Girl?" and "s.e.xcrime (1984)"). St. Etienne was one girl and two boys. Blondie had Debbie Harry and Chris Stein. Nena had a boy, I think. The Divinyls fit the format, even if the boy technically played guitar. The Pet Shop Boys worked wonders when they had a new wave girl singer up front, like Dusty Springfield ("What Have I Done to Deserve This?"), Patsy Kensit ("I'm Not Scared"), or Liza Minnelli ("Losing My Mind"). It's the perfect band lineup: You take simple elements-one boy, one girl-and use them to configure a whole pageant of s.e.xual ident.i.ties, dangerously mobile and dangerously musical.

The girl singer means it means it. She's into it into it. She didn't come for the finger food. Wherever she shows up-A song? Me? Well, if you insist-and before anyone can call security she's dancing on a table. She wants an amen, and she gets it. So many amens, so little time. The girl singer likes to wave her hand when she sings, wiggling spirit fingers or just raising a no-I-can't-go-on palm. Renee explained to me that this is a Southern Baptist thing. When you go to church, you raise your hand. It means you are testifying; you are under conviction. The new wave girl singer lifts her hand because she is giving witness to the spirit she feels, but she learned the move from other pop singers, not in church. Dusty Springfield always raised her hand whenever she sang. According to legend, she couldn't remember the words, so she wrote them on her sleeve. I love that story, Dusty raising her hand to read her little cheat sheet. John Lennon couldn't remember lyrics either. But it's typical of Dusty's brilliance that she turned her dirty little secret into a flamboyant flutter.

Hardly any synth-poppers made it as functional romantic couples. The only one I can think of is the Thompson Twins, and they chose to keep it a secret-they probably never even told the other guy in the Thompson Twins. But that fantasy is there in the music, anyway. The reality of boy-girl life gets harsh, but in my fantasy, the music keeps them together. Even when we know the people in these bands hate each other in real life, we hear something different.

Take the Human League. Everybody knows "Don't You Want Me." Everybody loves this song. n.o.body would remember it except for the girl who sings the second verse. It's some of the clumsiest singing ever smuggled into the Top 40, a common voice, a girl who has to be free and has no special reason to give, nothing clever to say. She's just speaking her piece, and not even taking any pleasure in that. Part of the joy of the Human League is Phil Oakey indulging his vocal melodrama-"dooon't! don't you waaant me!"-versus the dippy flatness of the girls in the band. They sing "(Keep Feeling) Fascination" and they can't keep a straight face. In the video, Phil is preening, seducing the camera, while the girls swing their hands back and forth, lock eyes, and know that teenage boys in America are watching closely to see their tongues flicker out when they p.r.o.nounce the "l" in "love so strong." I know I waited for that moment every time.

It's a pop cliche that the ideal band partners.h.i.+p is between the guy who lives it and the guy who writes songs about it. Like the Stones: Keith Richards did all the drugs and broke all the laws and got busted in all the hotel rooms, providing raw material to inspire Mick Jagger, who wrote some of his best songs about how f.u.c.ked-up Keith was. Or the Beach Boys: Dennis Wilson went surfing and hot-rodding and girl-chasing and around-getting, while Brian Wilson sat in his room writing songs about the fun he thought Dennis was having. (In reality, they were both pretty miserable.) Brian Wilson never went surfing in his life, but Dennis never could have written "I Get Around." Think of Johnny Thunders and David Johansen, Liam and Noel Gallagher, Bob Stinson and Paul Westerberg, Elton John and Bernie Taupin, Ray and Dave Davies, David Lee Roth and Eddie Van Halen. In a synth duo, this dynamic is right out front. One partner hides behind a bank of synthesizers and watches as the performer takes the stage. One is is voice, celebrity, performance; the other voice, celebrity, performance; the other is is music. music.

The new wave girl knows what pop dreams are made of. She knows that Debbie Harry was just kidding when she sang, "Dreaming is free." She knows dreams are something you have to steal. The new wave girl scams on other people's ident.i.ties, mixing and matching until she comes up with a style of her own, knowing that nothing belongs to her, that she just gets to wear it until somebody else comes along with faster fingers to s.n.a.t.c.h it away. She knows pop dreams are a hustle, a deception, a "glamour" in the witchcraft sense of the word. She knows how to bluff and how to scam. She sings about counterfeiting, shoplifting, bootlegging, home taping. She's in on the hustle-you steal it, it's yours, it's legal tender. The new wave girl knows all this, which is why she is dangerous. The new wave boy knows how dangerous she is, which is why he stands behind her.

The boy and the girl, together in electric dreams.

crazy feeling

APRIL 1997.

May 11, 1997, was a lazy Sunday afternoon. Renee and I had spent the entire weekend lounging in the new summer sun, reading and listening to music. We spent Sat.u.r.day night at home, just the two of us. She sent me to the bookstore and the fabric store with her shopping lists. After I got home with her loot-fas.h.i.+on mags, rock mags, Annie Proulx and Claire Messud novels-we sat on the couch eating Indian takeout and watching a terrible old Joan Collins/Richard Burton movie on AMC. It was called was a lazy Sunday afternoon. Renee and I had spent the entire weekend lounging in the new summer sun, reading and listening to music. We spent Sat.u.r.day night at home, just the two of us. She sent me to the bookstore and the fabric store with her shopping lists. After I got home with her loot-fas.h.i.+on mags, rock mags, Annie Proulx and Claire Messud novels-we sat on the couch eating Indian takeout and watching a terrible old Joan Collins/Richard Burton movie on AMC. It was called Sea Wife Sea Wife. Joan and Richard were stuck on a raft with two other guys after their s.h.i.+p sank. Richard was the only one who knew that Joan was secretly a nun, but she made him promise not to tell the others since the hope of sleeping with her was the only thing keeping them alive.

Renee a.s.signed me to DJ duty while she sat at the sewing machine. We stayed up late that night playing CDs, mostly old favorites: R.E.M.'s Murmur Murmur and and Reckoning Reckoning, Liz Phair's Exile in Guyville Exile in Guyville, The Replacements' Let It Be Let It Be, The Feelies' Only Life Only Life, Marshall Crenshaw Marshall Crenshaw. I remember the playlist because I left the pile of discs untouched on top of the stereo for weeks afterward. We listened to Freakwater's "Wild and Blue," Paul Revere and the Raiders' "Just Like Me," The Dream Syndicate's "Halloween," Everything But the Girl's Amplified Heart Amplified Heart, Buddy Holly's Greatest Hits Greatest Hits, Gregory Abbott's "Shake You Down," OMC's "How Bizarre." The top CD on the pile was the last one we played, Dean Martin's Sleep Warm Sleep Warm, which stayed on continuous play as we drifted to sleep.

May 11 was Mother's Day, so we left phone messages for our moms. Renee did some more sewing and listened to the Baltimore Orioles playing the Seattle Mariners on TV. Joey Cora, her favorite Mariner, was having a good day. I was in the kitchen making lunch for Renee-cinnamon toast and coffee. Renee stood up, took a step, and then suddenly fell over onto the chair by her desk. I ran to her. I held her up with my arms and tried to talk to her. I grabbed the phone with my right hand, propping her up with my left arm.

"It's important that you remain calm," the 911 operator said.

The coroner later told me that she died instantly, that pulmonary embolisms kill in less than a minute, that even if it had happened in a hospital, the doctors would have been powerless to save her. But I was still propping her up, trying to breathe into her mouth while the 911 operator gave me instructions over the phone. When the ambulance came, the EMTs came into the living room and one of the cops led me outside. When the cop asked me questions about Renee, I figured he was gathering information for the hospital. I was worrying that she might have suffered harm from the oxygen deprivation. The officer and I were leaning on his car, out on Highland Avenue. Every minute or so, our next-door neighbor would peek over the fence. One of the EMTs came out to talk to me. "We're taking her to Richmond for the autopsy," she said. "It's standard procedure when somebody so young dies."

That was the first moment anyone said anything about Renee dying. It seemed like such a long time before I heard my stupid voice asking, "She died?" The sun was streaking through the leaves in the yard next door. The upstairs neighbors' air conditioner was right over my head, drip, drip, drip. The EMT said something about G.o.d, but she was just trying to be kind. Maybe it was a heart attack, she said; it was too soon to tell. I was sure they would find something in Richmond they hadn't found here, and I knew they would be bringing Renee back later that day.

The cops were extremely kind. They were young and scared husbands, like me. They wouldn't leave until I called somebody to come over. But I didn't want to call anybody because I didn't want to have to call them later and apologize for the false alarm; of course Renee would be coming back. I let the cops call St. Thomas, and they sent a young priest over right away. Renee and I knew him as the guy who'd given a sermon in which he mentioned the Primitive Radio G.o.ds, which seemed at the time like a strange way for a young priest to try to be hip. He arrived in a polo s.h.i.+rt and khakis, just out of the shower, and he seemed annoyed to be there. I tried to make conversation but he had nothing to say, not even some drivel about G.o.d. I asked if he could give Renee extreme unction, and he said, "We can bless the body at the funeral," like I was too dumb to know the difference. Fortunately, it wasn't difficult to get rid of him. After a few minutes I told him I was okay, and he believed me. I needed to be alone.

Our living room was just the way the EMTs left it: The couch was pushed up against the bookcase, and there was medical debris all over the floor-yellow plastic caps, syringe wrappers, needles, styrofoam pads for the heart-jumper-cables. I was grateful that the room was so trashed because it offered visible proof that something bad was happening, that this wasn't just a bad dream. I cleared a little s.p.a.ce and sat on the floor between Renee's purple desk and her bureau-where her body had been-in the fetal position, my knees up, holding the phone.

I sat there alone for hours. I'm not sure how much time pa.s.sed. It was maybe four in the afternoon, about an hour after Renee collapsed. Renee (unlike me) had a notebook in which she kept people's phone numbers, so I started there. Everybody I called was surprised to hear my voice on the phone in the middle of a Sunday afternoon. I simply told everybody, "I have bad news. Renee died." There was no way to tell people-n.o.body had seen her sick, n.o.body had had any idea she was about to die. Many of the friends and family I called had spoken to her within the past couple of days. It was Mother's Day, so both my mom and hers were expecting happy calls. Pavement was playing in New York that night, so most of our friends there were out at the show, and I couldn't reach them.

I didn't want to get up off the floor because I wanted to be there when Renee called and said she was coming home. People wanted to come over, but I told them to wait. Her parents, Buddy and Nadine, asked if they could come and get me, but I didn't want to leave the house, since I didn't want to miss the call from Richmond that would explain that it was all a mistake. I couldn't bear the idea of leaving the room where she died; I guess I must have known I couldn't get back in.

The sun set and the house grew dark. The call from Richmond didn't come. I have no idea how long I sat there. Finally, our friend Susan came over, even though I'd begged her not to. Talking to her face-to-face, I realized that I had said something that could never be taken back-Renee died-and that saying it made it true. The change had come. It was irreversible. It was ten or eleven before I left the house. I packed the beagle in the car and drove to Pulaski County. I took the phone, even though it was a land line and would be totally useless in the car. But I couldn't stand to leave the phone behind, in that room. I thought if I left it there, Renee might call, trying to get back home, and she wouldn't be able to reach me, and I would have lost her for good.

It was a long drive, about three hours. I tried the radio only once, after the turn off of Route 646 onto the main drag in Christiansburg, a long string of truck stops and gas stations. The radio was playing "American Pie," but I only made it a few seconds before I had to change the station. I got Jerry Lee Lewis on the oldies station. He's still alive, I thought. Jerry Lee Lewis. Reagan is, too. The Pope. I turned off the radio and left it off. The beagle and I were both making a lot of noise, howling in our complete privacy. The signboard outside the Pulaski Baptist Church read NO MAN IS POOR WHO HAS A G.o.dLY MOTHER. NO MAN IS POOR WHO HAS A G.o.dLY MOTHER.

The next few days were a blur. Less than twenty-four hours after I was making Renee's cinnamon toast, I was driving around Pulaski County with her parents, shopping for grave-sites. The saleslady wore a blue prom dress and carried smelling salts. She leaned on me hard to buy a grave for myself; I guess she thought it would seem romantic. I told her, No thanks, not today. She smirked a bit. "You're young now," she said. "A few years down the line, you'll be changing your tune, and that spot will be taken."

We found a spot for Renee on the side of a hill, in Sunrise Burial Park on Route 11. It was better than flat ground. You could hear the roar of the racetrack, just an exit away.

Now everybody knew it was true. I hated telling people because I thought I would have to apologize later for scaring them unnecessarily, but slowly it became obvious that the bad news wasn't going to change. Her family was so kind to me, although I felt ashamed that their daughter had died on my watch. Neighbors brought over trays of sausage biscuits. I picked out a casket (they show you a catalog) and wrote an obituary for the Roanoke paper. Friends were calling each other instead of hearing it from me. It was out of my hands. I stayed down the hall from her parents, in the room where she grew up. We'd stayed here many times as a couple. I lay there in the dark but didn't sleep, surrounded by her records, her photo alb.u.ms, her Nancy Drew mysteries, her high school yearbooks, the model horses on her bureau.

Our friends and family converged on Pulaski County, even though it's an hour from the nearest airport and has hardly anywhere to stay. People who barely knew each other were squeezing into EconoLodge singles together. People drove hours to attend the wake, bringing me little things of hers to drop into the casket so she could be buried with them, Beowulf Beowulf-style. Karl brought a guitar pick because he used to teach Renee guitar. Matt brought her batting gloves; they used to drive out to the batting cage in Richmond together, and he kept her gloves in his glove compartment. I lost track of how many people brought baseb.a.l.l.s. Uncle Zennis's car broke down on the drive from South Carolina, which was a blessing in a way, since the uncles then got to spend the whole week in the yard working on a car together. It was just the distraction they needed, and I heard the comforting clank from the front yard all week long.

I wish I'd been together enough to organize a funeral, the kind of funeral people imagine when they say, "I want this song played at my funeral" or "Dress s.e.xy at my funeral." But I wasn't. Renee was a gal with many fantasies, but as far as I knew she never spent her time fantasizing about funerals, which was one of the millions of things I loved about her. So I left it up to the preacher. I knew she had a favorite hymn ("Shall We Gather at the River") and a favorite psalm (the forty-third), so I mentioned those. My dad called around and found a Catholic monsignor in Roanoke. I went back to Charlottesville to pick out some glam burial clothes with Renee's sister, Drema, and her friend Merit. We spent an afternoon at our house picking out the shoes. We thought about the platform black-and-white creepers, but we decided to go instead with the pink patent leather pumps she'd bought at Fluevog in Boston. We picked out some jewelry and a green dress she'd sewn and some photos to put on the casket so people could see her the way she really looked in life. Drema checked Renee's speed-dial just to make sure she was number one. She was. Drema and Merit then drove me back to Pulaski County. On the way we talked about the road sign BRIDGE ICES BEFORE ROAD. BRIDGE ICES BEFORE ROAD. I always wondered, If that's a problem, why don't they just build the bridge out of the same stuff they use to build the road? Drema explained that the bridge isn't made out of different material than the road, but that the bridge ices quicker because it's alone, hanging there without the land under it to keep it warm. I always wondered, If that's a problem, why don't they just build the bridge out of the same stuff they use to build the road? Drema explained that the bridge isn't made out of different material than the road, but that the bridge ices quicker because it's alone, hanging there without the land under it to keep it warm.

The funeral was Thursday afternoon, May 15, in Renee's old radio time-slot on WTJU. n.o.body wanted to be there. My mom and dad sat in the pew right behind me and literally held me upright. During the funeral, I could hear a baby crying, which meant that our friend Heather had flown out from Utah with her month-old son, Eli. I counted ninety-six cars on the way to Sunrise Burial Park because I knew Renee would have counted. I was grateful for every pedestrian who took off his hat, everyone who sent flowers, every state trooper who saluted as the procession went by. We stood at the grave and listened to the cars on the racetrack make their noise.

After the service we all went to the bas.e.m.e.nt of Fairlawn Baptist Church for lunch. It was a strange crowd: poker-night buddies, hometown pals, fellow baseball freaks. People sat with strangers, friends, enemies, exes, former coworkers, people they'd hoped they'd never have to run into again. They were all in one room, for the worst reason. I buzzed around the room, trying to take care of everybody; that's what Renee would have done.

We had come to say goodbye to Renee, but many of us were saying goodbye to each other. I didn't know which of our friends I'd never see again. Neither did they. I caught a ride back to Buddy and Nadine's with the two friends who'd hooked up at our wedding, plus one of our groomsmen, plus Tyler, who got carded when we stopped for cigarettes. We stayed around the house all day, telling stories about Renee, arguing about the things she liked to argue about. The uncles kept working on the car in the front yard. Duane ran around to the neighboring farms to roll in cow s.h.i.+t. The coroner called to explain how it had happened. "Pulmonary embolism," he told me. "She never knew what hit her." The coroner was very kind, and stayed on the phone with me for forty-five minutes. I'd never heard of a pulmonary embolism; he explained to me that a blood clot in her leg broke off and got carried through her bloodstream to her heart. I asked why. He said, "She was just unlucky." What can I say? Renee was healthy. She was young. She didn't do drugs, not even pot. She took zinc and used all-cotton organic tampons. She walked the dog. She recycled gla.s.s. She wrote thank-you notes and slowed down for yellow lights. She was planning to live a long time. Still, she died, just because her blood stopped working.

I drove back to Charlottesville with Duane. She was howling because she knew that Renee wasn't going to be on the other end of the drive. She was way ahead of me there. Stupidly, I stopped at the grave the morning I was going back. I parked in the Wal-Mart parking lot at the foot of the hill, bought a carton of Camel Lights, and walked up to the Sunrise Burial Park. There were no trees, no shade, just the widow boy standing on the side of a hill, with a dog waiting in the car. The sun was shriveling me up, the air was draining out of my lungs, but there was nothing to see. She wasn't here. I couldn't have felt farther from her anywhere else. Duane and I drove away with nothing inside us. I talked to Duane a bit, kept repeating to her the line Harvey Keitel says to Tim Roth at the end of Reservoir Dogs Reservoir Dogs: It looks like we're gonna have to do a little time.

It was high noon, and I remember it all-the nausea, the dizziness, the way my head felt like it was melting in the heat. I pulled off at a gas station in Syria, a small town near the Natural Bridge, and bought a souvenir shot gla.s.s. It was a Florida souvenir gla.s.s, with a big smiling yellow sun. We had always liked this town. It had a few junk shops, a Little League park, a movie theater. It was p.r.o.nounced "sigh-REE-a," for the same reason Buena Vista was "BYOO-na-vih-sta" and Buchanan was "BUCK-cannon." I got back on 81 and tried the radio. Biggie's "Hypnotize" was comforting; George Jones's "He Stopped Loving Her Today" was too hard. I knew I would have to relearn how to listen to music, and that some of the music we'd loved together I'd never be able to hear again. Every time I started to cry, I remembered how Renee used to say real life was a bad country song, except bad country songs are believable and real life isn't. Everybody knows what it's like to drive while crying; feeling like a bad country song is part of why it sucks. There was an empty house on the other side of this drive, and I had no idea what it would be like to try to go inside it. There was n.o.body there. I wasn't driving back home-just back.

As I started to approach Afton Mountain, I heard a Prince song I'd never heard on the radio before, and I haven't since, either. "Adore" is a slow jam from 1987, the last song on Sign 'O' the Times Sign 'O' the Times, and I always thought of it as one of those Prince songs that should have been a hit. But it's over six minutes long, and there's no way to trim it down without losing the whole point. "Adore" might be the most beautiful make-out ballad ever-six minutes of erotic bliss that's more delfonic than The Stylistics and more stylistic than The Delfonics. I don't know why they played it. It was one of those lonesome stations you pick up between mountains when there's nothing else on the air, no mike breaks or commercials, just a song or two before the signal fades.

Prince was singing in his falsetto about heavenly angels crying tears of joy down on him and his lady. It was hard to hear. I pulled into a rest stop on 64 East, at mile 105 in Greenwood, on the side of the mountain. I parked and listened to the rest of the song, then got out and walked the dog. I sat on the trunk of the car in the sun and smoked a cigarette. It made me dizzy. I made my plans for the day. I was going all the way over the mountain, just another half-hour to Charlottesville. What would happen on the other side, I couldn't tell you.

I thought about this tape, Crazy Feeling Crazy Feeling, and wondered if I would play it when I got back. I kept hearing a song in my head, the first song on the tape, Sleater-Kinney's "One More Hour." I didn't know if I would play that song when I got back, or whether I'd ever want to hear it again. But ever since Renee died, I'd been thinking about "One More Hour," the saddest Sleater-Kinney song ever. It was blaring in my mind all week, whether I was at the funeral home, or trying to sleep, or sitting on the floor waiting for Richmond to call and say it was all a mistake. It was all around and in my head, like the train rumble Al Pacino hears in The G.o.dfather The G.o.dfather right before he shoots the Turk. right before he shoots the Turk.

"One More Hour" is a punk-rock song where Corin Tucker sings about how she has to leave in one more hour. Once she leaves this room, she can't come back. She doesn't want to go, and she tries to talk her way out of it. But Carrie Brownstein sings to her in the background vocal, telling her it's over. The way their voices interact is like nothing else I've ever heard. Corin sings about walking out of a place she can never return to, leaving something she never wanted to let go, trying to haggle with someone who can't talk back. The guitars try to hold her in check, but she screams right through them, refusing to go quietly because it's already too late for a graceful exit. Corin snarls and she stalls, all for a little bit, just a little more time.

paramount hotel

JUNE 1997.

There was a lot of music that summer. I made tapes for the long nights when I would sit out all night in my backyard chair, smoking Camel Lights and listening to my Walkman, staring out into the black woods at the edge of the backyard. I'd watch as deer with glowing eyes would tiptoe out of the woods, and then tiptoe back. Anything to keep from going back into my empty bed in our empty house. that summer. I made tapes for the long nights when I would sit out all night in my backyard chair, smoking Camel Lights and listening to my Walkman, staring out into the black woods at the edge of the backyard. I'd watch as deer with glowing eyes would tiptoe out of the woods, and then tiptoe back. Anything to keep from going back into my empty bed in our empty house.

My mix tapes were the life rafts that I held on to. I sat out there in the yard all night and listened to Frank Sinatra sing about waiting in vain, when the moon is on the wane, because he'd rather be swingin' down the lane with you. I would listen to the Germs scream L.A. punk noise about damaged kids sharing secret agonies n.o.body else can understand. I would listen to Bryan Ferry serenade his lonesome star in the sky.

I would listen and dream along. Sometimes I would sing to Renee; sometimes I would let her sing to me.

Sleep was the worst. I would lie in bed and my s.h.i.+ns would ache, remembering how she used to kick them while she slept. Who knew s.h.i.+ns had feelings, much less memories? I had no idea how to eat alone or sleep alone. I didn't know how to cook alone, go out alone, listen to music alone, shop for groceries alone. The things we used to do together were alien now. Lonesome star, s.h.i.+ne on.

A few days after the funeral, a box arrived in the mail from New York's Chinatown. Inside was a bright green cuckoo clock, the old-fas.h.i.+oned kind with bells on top. On the dial were a couple of orange chickens. With each tick of the second hand, the big chicken would peck at the corn. Renee definitely definitely picked this thing out. According to the credit card slip, she ordered it a few days before she died. She hadn't said a word about it to me. I had no idea where it came from or why she wanted it. I put it up on her purple desk and let the orange chickens peck away. picked this thing out. According to the credit card slip, she ordered it a few days before she died. She hadn't said a word about it to me. I had no idea where it came from or why she wanted it. I put it up on her purple desk and let the orange chickens peck away.

I kept everything in the house exactly how Renee left it, so she could find her way back. I left her toothbrush hanging right by the sink. Her boxes of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese stayed on the same shelf where they'd always been. I didn't move a thing-her lipsticks, her cookbooks, her clothes, her shoes, the Pee Wee Herman bicycle she hadn't ridden once in all the time I'd known her. The pile of CDs we were listening to the night she died stayed right where it was. I wore her old Sonic Youth and Boss Hog T-s.h.i.+rts every day. I put my keys on her Guided By Voices bottle-opener key chain and used her Pavement ashtray. Sometimes I opened her sweater drawer to breathe in traces of her scent. I knew every time I opened the drawer, more of the scent would get lost for good. Duane kept scuffing over to her notebooks or her baseball glove, looking for any scent she could find.

At night, I would sometimes go out and drive in the mountains. I stayed out on the roads for hours, listening to Renee's old George Jones and Hank Williams tapes. Sometimes I'd go find roads we used to drive on together; other nights, I'd look for somewhere new. I had shrines and altars for her all over town, cruising around Route 33, "The Gateway To The Blue Ridge," or Waynesboro, where we went to the movies on our honeymoon. I decided to revisit the outlet mall where we got The Best of the Best of Skeeter Davis The Best of the Best of Skeeter Davis, so I just popped Skeeter Davis in the tape deck and let her guide me there. Now that I lived alone, I could do all the driving I wanted, and n.o.body would know or care. Renee's old country tapes kept me on the road. Hank Williams would sing all night about Jonah in the belly of the whale, Daniel in the lion's den, and how they tried to get along. If you don't try to get along, brother, you don't get another chance. Dear John, I sent your saddle home. I was looking for glimmers of light, but I only wanted to go looking for them in the hills where the dead spirits hung out.

I drove out to the 7-11 in Ruckersville to fill out a ballot for the baseball All-Star game. If Renee had had time to leave me a to-do list, I'm sure that would have made the top five. I cast her votes: Andruw Jones, Mo Vaughn, Joey Cora, Chipper Jones, A. Rod, Wade Boggs, Kenny Lofton, Brian Burks, Jose Canseco, Javy Lopez-all her faves. I knew Canseco wasn't a real All-Star, but I punched his box anyway because Renee always had such a ma.s.sive crush on him. I completed her ballot and drove away.

When I had to go home, I would brew coffee and smoke cigarettes. I used to be such a great cook, but now I just ate chewy granola bars and peanut b.u.t.ter sandwiches. I was hungry all the time. I would drive to Arby's or Burger King and find a s.p.a.ce in the parking lot and eat something hot and salty that would make me feel even hungrier when it was gone. I was surrounded by friends and family who wanted to help, but I was too frozen to admit how much I needed it, so I forced them to help on the sly. Friends sent me food, books, tapes. My cousins Joan and Mary sent me homemade blackberry jam from Alaska.

Whenever I got near the edge of sleep, my heart would race and I'd bolt upright, hyperventilating. So I watched a lot of late-night TV, especially old movies about hit men and gangsters and pillowy dames. I watched movies starring Renee's favorite movie stars: Ava Gardner's cunning body, Rita Hayworth's hungry dumb flesh, Jane Russell's sullen sneer. I loved the scene in The Killers The Killers when Ava walks up to the piano in her black dress and sings her little torch song. "The more I know of love, the less I know it / The more I give to love, the more I owe it." Ava Gardner didn't lie. when Ava walks up to the piano in her black dress and sings her little torch song. "The more I know of love, the less I know it / The more I give to love, the more I owe it." Ava Gardner didn't lie.

When I fell asleep, I had dreams in which Renee was trying to find her way home, but she got lost because I'd moved a chair or something. In one dream, she was stranded in England after she joined the Spice Girls without telling me. (That is so so something she would do.) She spent six months in Madrid, trying to get back to the United States, but she couldn't get a visa, and she cried for me to come and get her. something she would do.) She spent six months in Madrid, trying to get back to the United States, but she couldn't get a visa, and she cried for me to come and get her.

It made no sense for me to get morbid over Renee; she was the least morbid person I knew. Tragic, gaunt people bored her. She liked noise, she liked people, and she especially liked noisy people. She had no interest in death at all, so I stopped going to the grave because it made me feel too far away from her. G.o.d knows she didn't want to be there. I felt closer to her in Taco Bell-she loved the Choco Taco as much as she hated cemeteries. When I started feeling morbid and empty, I felt like I was turning into a different person from the guy she fell in love with. I had no voice to talk with because she was my whole language. Without her to talk to, there was nothing to say. I missed all our stupid jokes, our secrets. Now, we had a whole different language to learn, a new grammar of loss to conjugate: I lose, you lose, we lose; I have lost, you have lost, we have lost. Words I said out loud, every day, many times a day, for years and years-suddenly they were dust in my mouth.

Once, around supper time, I pulled over at a little general store in Crozet. I remembered this place-Renee and I went there one night, looking for a corkscrew, since we'd gone up into the hills with a bottle of red wine but hadn't brought anything to open it. How many years ago was that? Couldn't even guess. The guy didn't have a corkscrew, but he sold us a jackknife, and we did our best. I thought about going into the store and looking around, for old times' sake, but I didn't. I just killed the engine and sat there in the parking lot. I watched porch lights flicker in the hills around me. The headlights on the roads went dark, two by two, as everyone got where they were going. Soon the porch lights went dark, too.

mmmrob

JUNE 1997.

My friend Stephanie sent me this tape from San Francisco a few weeks after Renee died. She was totally obsessed with Hanson. Hanson's "MMMBop" and Missy Elliott's "The Rain (Supa Dupa Fly)" were the first new pop songs I loved that I couldn't share with Renee. She would have loved them both. this tape from San Francisco a few weeks after Renee died. She was totally obsessed with Hanson. Hanson's "MMMBop" and Missy Elliott's "The Rain (Supa Dupa Fly)" were the first new pop songs I loved that I couldn't share with Renee. She would have loved them both.

Stephanie, as you can tell, wors.h.i.+ps The Who. I do not, and we have been arguing about this for years. Stephanie once explained the plot of "Rael" to me, but I forgot it. As you can also probably tell, she has an extremely mod and generous new wave So Cal soul. She was a friend of ours in Charlottesville who split quick for the West Coast, but she was the coolest. She was the first friend I told when Renee and I got engaged. Her reply was, "It makes cosmic sense." She and Renee were tight. A few nights after the funeral, Stephanie called and told me about a crazy dream she'd had where all the dead people she had loved were riding b.u.mper cars, and they were teaching Renee how to drive.

"If you're feeling happy vibes, they're from me," Stephanie told me after she mailed the tape. "I'm vibin' you real hard. I'm building a wall of love around you, three inches all around."

Did I mention that Stephanie went to Ridgemont High? She did. Her high school, Claremont in San Diego, was the school in the book, which later became the movie. She had Mr. Hand for history. I knew her for years before she ever brought this up, and I was p.i.s.sed that she hadn't mentioned it before.

Hanson had such a cheery sound. Steph called them "Tony DeFranco for an Ani DiFranco world." Hearing Hanson segue into the Osmonds, I had to admit there was a cosmic connection there. I always had to fast-forward past the Soul Asylum song, but I listened to the Who songs a few times. (Steph labeled the tape with song t.i.tles on the front but no artist names, just to keep me from skipping the Who songs.) I didn't know what to do without Renee. I didn't know what I was. I didn't have a noun. I was casually calling myself a widow, but was I really a widow? All the widows I knew were old people. I didn't know any young widows, and neither did anybody else. n.o.body even had friend-of-a-friend stories. How could I be a thirty-one-year-old widow? I was a husband before any of my friends were, and just when I was getting used to the word "husband," what was I supposed to do with the word "widow"? After a few days, people started saying the word "widower." That was a surprise. Do people still say "widower"? Isn't that one of those archaic Victorian words, like "poetess" or "co-ed"? The verb is to be widowed, not to be widowered. I also once saw "widowed persons" in a book, but that was somehow even worse than "widower." I didn't know whether widowers existed, and I hoped we didn't since it was an even more brutal word than "widow."

All the songs on the radio started to sound like they were about Renee's death. I would hear the Radiohead song "Creep," and it sounded like Thom Yorke was singing, "I'm a creep, I'm a widow." Or I would hear Heart's "Crazy on You" and hear Ann Wilson whisper how last night she dreamed she was a widow beside a stream. Before Renee died, I always thought Radiohead was singing about a "weirdo" and Heart was dreaming of a "willow." Now, I could never go back to hearing them the way I heard them before.

The terrible thing about widows, is widows are terrible things. Their eyes are covered with sungla.s.ses. Their fingers are covered with rings. They're jumpy, dumpy, frumpy, glumpy, dumb dumb dumb dumb dumb. But the most terrible thing about widows is I'm the only one. I'm the only one.

"Widow" was bad enough. Widow, widower, widowest. Widow's walk, widow's weeds. Grieving, merry, professional, peak, golf, gra.s.s, black. When copyeditors at the magazine need to cut a word at the end of a paragraph because it wastes a whole line, they call it a widow. But "widower" has that nagging "er" to remind you that you're not just a bereaved spouse, but a failed husband. You failed your wife by not saving her, or not dying along with her or before her. You're a widow with an asterisk.

I was ashamed to show my face anywhere, although my friends refused to let me disappear. Whenever I had to leave the house, I wore my wedding ring. I didn't know if widows were supposed to do that or not, so I just did it. I'd always been casual about wearing or not wearing it, but now I wore it every day. I would also wear my big Yoko shades. I always had thought of the widow's veil as a degrading medieval tradition, but now I realized it had a practical purpose because when you cry all day, your eyes become sticky and dust gets in them constantly.

There is so much about being a widow or widower that n.o.body tells you. There are no handbooks, and there aren't really role models. You learn a lot of useless knowledge you would rather not know. For one thing, the junk mail about being a widow or widower that n.o.body tells you. There are no handbooks, and there aren't really role models. You learn a lot of useless knowledge you would rather not know. For one thing, the junk mail never never stops. I am still amazed by this. It's been years since the funeral, and I am still getting junk mail and catalogs for Renee. It doesn't matter how much you call or write. It doesn't even matter how many times you change addresses. For example, today I got an envelope addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Robert J. Sheffield," promising "Updated Information" from Pinelawn Memorial Park and Garden Mausoleums. There's a personalized letter, plus a leaflet t.i.tled, "Let's Face It Now." It reads: stops. I am still amazed by this. It's been years since the funeral, and I am still getting junk mail and catalogs for Renee. It doesn't matter how much you call or write. It doesn't even matter how many times you change addresses. For example, today I got an envelope addressed to "Mr. and Mrs. Robert J. Sheffield," promising "Updated Information" from Pinelawn Memorial Park and Garden Mausoleums. There's a personalized letter, plus a leaflet t.i.tled, "Let's Face It Now." It reads: Dear Friend, Dear Friend, There are a number of questions that every family must have the answers to. That's why Pinelawn Memorial Park wants you to have the information you need right now to provide your family with total protection and peace of mind.

The letter invites us to call for "our free family-planning booklet." Renee and I got a free family-planning booklet from the City of Charlottesville when we got married, but this is a different kind of family planning-junk mail from a cemetery. Who decided to send this to "Mr. and Mrs. Robert J. Sheffield"? Do they have any clue that the Mrs. is already in a cemetery? Or do they a.s.sume there is a new Mrs. by now? I'm impressed.

Another envelope came in the mail today, this one promising Renee "New Hope for Debt Consolidation!" Come on, give death some credit. At the very least, it takes care of your debt consolidation.

Another thing I learned as a widower is that you get a check from Social Security for $255. This is their way of paying back the decedent (another word I'd never used before) for all those years of work. I had to do an exit interview by phone with Social Security to confirm that the decedent had indeed died-it's required by law. They just wanted to check to make sure Renee didn't skip off to Brazil or anything. They were very nice on the phone.

The funeral cost $6,776.50. The guys at the funeral home were very cool about it; they said I could just pay it whenever I got the money, with no interest or anything like that. I sent it to them in checks, piece by piece, over the next year, until I paid it off. Copies of the death certificate from the State of Virginia cost $35 apiece. On my tax form, I checked the box, "Qualifying Widow(er)." I paid off Renee's credit cards after I paid off the funeral home. Her federal student loans were cancelled. Check this out: I sent Sallie Mae the check for her student loan on Friday, May 9, and they refunded the charge because they deposited the check on the following Monday, when she was no longer alive.

It is difficult to explain being widowed at the DMV, at the bank, at the post office. People get freaked out by it. Some people will give you a break, some won't. The very nice woman at the DMV let me re-register our car (it was in Renee's name) even though my copy of the death certificate was a Xerox because at that time I couldn't afford the $35 to order another. That was very kind of her. She didn't have to give me a break, but she did.

That was one of the strangest things I learned as a widower-how kind people can be. Renee's work kept coming out in magazines after she died, and people wrote in to these magazines to say that they were fans of hers. I remember a call I got about a year later, after Tammy Wynette died. I played a bunch of Tammy songs on my radio show that day, because honoring Tammy would have been Renee's beat at WTJU, and I wanted to take care of it for her. A total stranger, someone who just knew us from hearing our voices on the radio, called to say he liked the show. He said he was always a fan of Renee's show, and Renee would have been proud that I did right by Tammy. He also said that the next day was the Richmond Braves' home opener, and he was going to attend and think of Renee.

You lose a certain kind of innocence when you experience this type of kindness. You lose your right to be a jaded cynic. You can no longer go back through the looking gla.s.s and pretend not to know what you know about kindness. It's a defeat, in a way. One afternoon, I sat by Tonsler Park in Charlottesville and watched a Little League game and remembered my own days as a right fielder in the tall gra.s.s. I thought, None of these kids knows yet how much a coffin costs. None of these kids knows anything about funeral bills or the word "decedent." But there's a lot I know that I wouldn't give up. People kept showing me unreasonable kindness, inexplicable kindness, indefensible kindness. People were kind when they knew that n.o.body would ever notice, much less praise them for it. People were even kind when they knew I wouldn't appreciate it.

I had no idea how to live up to that kindness. There were so many people on the edges of Renee's life, and I didn't know how to take care of them. How do you tell her hair stylist? Her optometrist? Her shrink? The lady at the Barracks Road pizza place where we would hang out on Friday afternoons? I went back there often by myself, and saw recognition in her eyes, and heard curiosity in her "h.e.l.lo," but she never asked. Sometimes I was scared she would, or hoped she would.