Sound Bites: A Rock & Roll Love Story (4 page)

I groaned and continued to toy with the lock. Dylan watched me for a good thirty seconds before reaching out and taking the key from my grasp. “Allow me,” he said, unlocking the door in one swift move. I stared at him in bewilderment.

“Try turning the key to the left and then to the right,” he explained. “Works every time.”

I nodded and scooped up the pile of junk mail into my arms.

“A thank you would be nice.”

I feigned a smile and mumbled “thanks” before turning to walk away. I could feel his glare as I began to ascend the stairs.

“Why are you such a bitch all the time?”

I spun around to face him, but said nothing.

“Christ, I know we didn’t exactly get off on the right foot,” he continued. “But I’m trying to be cordial and say hello and you act like a stuck-up snot and walk away.”

I felt like I had suddenly teleported back to middle school, back to when the class bully would poke fun at you in front of everyone, and instead of coming up with a wise comeback, you’d be too frazzled to think of a good response. I remember racking my brain for something clever to come back with, but I always ended up sputtering off at the mouth and sounding like a complete idiot.

Which reminded me that in most circumstances like these, it’s better to keep your mouth shut.  

Without another word, I turned around and stomped up the stairs to my apartment. Somehow, I could feel Dylan laughing at me as I made my way up the stairs. I couldn’t see him, I couldn’t hear him, but I could feel him. And the bastard was laughing.

Chapter
5

Being unemployed whisks you into this magical world where you lose all concept of reality. You never know what day it is, what time it is, and can’t understand why you’re still constantly late for everything when you have no job. People have a tendency to blame everything on work: the reason they’re behind on chores, the reason they’re late to events, the reason they need to go home early after a few cocktails. Ironically, all these things still take place when you’re jobless, except now, you have nothing to blame it on.

My life, up until a few weeks ago, had consisted of cramming in school work, actual work, and time with my then-boyfriend and then-best friend.

My life now consisted of sleeping until noon, checking my email, applying for jobs, watching reruns on Soapnet, fielding calls from my long lost friends and relatives, and running the occasional food shopping or laundry errand. I’d lose count of how many days it had been since I last showered until someone actually invited me out into the real world.

I came to the realization it is not impossible to become extremely busy doing absolutely nothing.

I also came to the realization that I was in desperate need of a job.

***

Surely there are worse things in life than going from a music writer to a resume writer. When I find out what they are, I’ll let you know.

With my minimal experience, the only job that I could find was writing resumes for Staffing Pros, a recruiting firm that occupied the fourth floor of the Fiduciary Trust Building in South Station. In addition to the fact that I had now been demoted from an entertainment industry expert to a corporate suit, I was also forced to take public transportation, since ninety-nine percent of places downtown didn’t provide on-site parking.

When I arrived, Elaine Curtin, my new boss, barely said two words to me before leading me to a cubicle-infested room and pawning me off on my co-worker. The girl, a short brunette who didn’t look much older than me, pulled up a chair beside her and motioned for me to take a seat.

“I’m Angela,” she said, peering up at me through her purple Vogue eyeglasses. “I’ll be going over your job duties with you, but they’re pretty easy. You’ll speak to candidates over the phone, ask them about their job responsibilities and put together a nice, formatted resume that highlights their experience.” She handed me a stack of sample resumes. “You’ll also need to provide them with a cover letter, as well as a thank you letter that they’ll send to clients post-interview.”

She wheeled her chair towards the computer screen and opened a resume template. “Basically, you want to make sure to emphasize how the candidate’s role affected the business as a whole, instead of just listing their individual responsibilities. I always recommend searching for similar resumes and job postings online to get ideas.”

I nodded. “Sounds easy enough. Is this what you do, too?”

She shook her head. “I’m a recruiter. Basically, after you’re done with the resume, it’s my job to find the candidate a job with one of our clients.” She pointed to the row of cubicles to our right, where two middle-aged women were typing on their computers. “That’s Nancy and Linda. They’re the other recruiters. And over there,” she said, pointing to our left, “is where Kerry sits. She’s the other resume writer.”

“What about the girl in the front?” I asked, motioning to the six-foot tall Asian
woman who was seated at
a desk in front of the entrance. She looked like she weighed about ninety pounds, and her hands were the size of my entire head.

“Oh, that’s Kim. She’s a temp who’s working as Elaine’s assistant.” She leaned in closer to me and whispered, “But we call her Shanghai Surprise.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because we’re convinced she’s really a man.” She grinned, then looked over her shoulder at the clock. “Do you want to go grab some coffee before we get started? There’s a great little café downstairs.”

I grinned back, stood up and followed her to the door. And for the first time since I’d moved back home, I got the feeling that things were starting to look up.

***

After my first day on the job, I arrived home from work a little after six, just in time to catch Dylan bidding farewell to his sleazy girlfriend in the parking lot. Her hair was a tornado of poorly bleached curls, her shirt looked like it was laminated to her breasts, and her jaw line was sporting a fresh trail of orange facial concealer that went along nicely with her giant layer of black eyeliner. A walking Halloween party.

I hustled through the parking lot, trying to pretend that I didn’t see them, but I could feel Dylan’s gaze on me. I always felt it. Even when I wasn’t looking at him, I sensed his stare burning a hole in the back of my head. I kept my eyes focused on the ground, hoping that he would ignore me.

“Hey, California.”

Damn it.

“
Hi
, Dylan.”

“Who’s that?” God, even his girlfriend’s voice was annoying. She sounded like a whiny four year-old.

“Some girl who just moved into the building.”

“Oh. How do you know her?” A certain suspiciousness crept into her voice.

Oh boy. Not only was his girlfriend tacky and whiny, but she was also insecure, which I assumed was probably because he cheated on her. No, he definitely cheated on her. Of course he did. What man didn’t cheat?

Note to self: all men are cheating, lying scum.

I spent the remainder of the evening unpacking what was left of my things, which was really just one box, the box I had been avoiding since I’d moved in. I sat cross-legged on the floor and sliced open the cardboard with a pair of scissors, removing the contents one by one.

Justine’s passion, ever since we were teens, had always been photography. I’d listen to her rant for hours on end about the evolution of technology and how no one bothered to develop photos in print anymore.

“They’re going to lose everything,” she’d say. “Everyone just saves their pictures to their computers or to websites instead of developing them. Sooner or later, their computer is going to crash, or another social networking site will take over, and somewhere down the line those pictures will be lost.” She’d hold up a giant photo album for emphasis. “But no one ever loses these.”

To prove her point, every Christmas, I’d receive the same gift: an album of all the pictures we’d taken in the past year.

And now, here they were, laid out in front of me. Smacking me in the face with reality.

I knew better than to sift through the recent albums, the ones that would make my eyes bleed, reflecting back on my beautiful lie of a life in L.A. I stacked the albums on the top shelf in my closet, a safe place where they’d never block my path or catch my eye. But when I got to the bottom album, the archives from 1997, I opened it.

Maybe I was hoping to discover some clue, some inclination of where it had gone wrong. But all I found was a seri
es of Polaroids of two fourteen-
year-old girls, laying side by side behind the football field, whiling away another fall in Rockland. Justine had always been a boy-magnet, with her small frame, giant blue eyes and teeny nose that crinkled when she laughed. I had a blonde shoulder-length bob and short bangs that looked like they belonged on a first-grader. We were both fashion disasters back then, Justine constantly wearing dark lipstick that contradicted her pale complexion, while I was caught in the middle of a grunge versus goth identity crisis. 

I stood up and relocated to the couch, my head propped against the armrest as I flipped through the pages. There was the freshman semi-formal, the dance that Justine and I dressed up and pretended to go to, but instead snuck out the back door to get drunk in the woods with the senior boys. There was my first boyfriend, Ethan Blackwood, the typical high school bad boy who was notorious for his crass humor and irresistible charm. There was the time Justine and I MacGuyver’ed a bong out of a Sprite bottle and tin foil and spent the night blowing hits out of her bedroom window and laughing hysterically.

Ah, high school. How I missed it…

I hadn’t realized I’d fallen asleep until I was awakened by a familiar melody coming from directly above my living room. It sounded like it was flowing from the vents, but it was hard to tell. I listened to the words as they drifted through the walls, like some sort of distorted lullaby.

It's never over,
My kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder
It's never over,
all my riches for her smiles when I slept so soft against h
er
It's never over,
All my blood for
the sweetness of her laughter
It's never over,
She's a tear that hangs inside my soul forever

I couldn’t believe it. Someone, somewhere in my building, was playing “
Lover You Should’ve Come Over
.”
The Jeff Buckley ballad that had altered my
entire
perception of music.

As I haphazardly transferred myself from the couch to my bed, I realized that something about the song was off. It sounded almost identical to the album version, only it was softer. An acoustic version, maybe. I couldn’t place it, but whatever it was, there was something brilliant about it.

***

Two nights later, it happened again. I was in the midst of a dream where I was working back at the
Pace
offices. Karen had assigned me my first profile story on a local band, but as soon as I finished piecing the article together, my computer crashed and the entire document was lost. I kept trying to restart the computer, but all I saw was a giant, black screen in front of me. 

When I awoke, the same familiar sound was seeping through my vents, and I realized that was what woke me. Only this time, it was a version of Buckley’s cover of “
Halleluiah
.” I listened until the song ended, and then heard the first notes of “
Lover You Should’ve Come Over
”
strike up once again.