A. Scott

“We shone like sea-glass, broken bottles, washed up yet shining on the shore.”

“Bras are just constructs created by the man to KEEP US DOWN!”

Those were the first words you tossed my way along with your black lace bra outside the cafe we would soon frequent.

It tickled my nose and smelled like Dolce and Gabbanas’ Light Blue. Not unlike your eyes. You were 14 when I met you. And so free.

we giggle ran into the park to smoke pot with our mutual friend and jogging partner Joey Carvahlo who asked-

“Do you party?”

And we did. We always did. Abbey Scott. This one’s for you.

Several memories stick out for me but I’ll only talk about the good ones.

There was one day we broke into the apartment complex that had been foreclosed like so many houses around us. I found this dusty tape recorder and pressed play…

“I can take losing our child. I can take losing our apartment. But I can’t take losing you. Goodbye Jere — “

I dropped the sad woman’s last words on the floor because I didn’t want to hear any last names and be held accountable for finding out EXACTLY where this asshole lived and straight kicking the ever living shit out of him for being such a horrible partner in crime. I had vengeance in my heart.

“Yo that dude can suck a bag of poisonous darts. Check this out man.”

She was sitting in the corner, her daddy-long legs wrapped around an upright double bass in near perfect condition. She picked up the bow and began to play the double bass solo in Mahler’s symphony number one.

I don’t recall exactly how it goes. But it sounds a bit like ‘three blind mice.’

We took the double bass back to my apartment and our winters breath billowed concerto clouds into the cold New England air.

“Who has two thumbs and no place to live?


In all seriousness though…

Call me or something.”

I would receive these messages a lot over the years. Neither of us had the greatest track record for stable living conditions.

Whether it be her mother’s drug addled boyfriends putting tape over her mouth while she slept or the kid Tom she dated for two years with paranoid schizophrenia who drank all her money whilst simultaneously draining the remainder of her sanity or you know that time my own father almost put my head through the passenger seat window driving 80 miles an hour down Connecticut back roads

(which are twisty-turny as fuck and down right terrifying on their own even without some asshole screaming obscenities beside you, thanks dad!)

We collectively proclaimed FUCK IT because we always had each other.

Hell. You were my one phone call from the clinker when he pressed charges against me for grand theft auto-ing the aforementioned vehicle above (for obvious escapist routes and reasons) and the first person who saw me on the outside.

(‘cause that shit CHANGES you man.)

“So what are you like a hardened criminal now?”

Vigorously brushing tears from my face I sputter laughed —

“Criminal yes. hard? always.”

She tweaked and turned my nipples like knobs to capture the frequency from some FM radio station. Her ear pressed close upon my breasts she proclaimed in a soothing 90’s talk show radio host tone…

“Whats the frequency, then hmm? Are you calling from a broken home? Well buck the fuck up buttercup! We don’t need another Delii-lahh talk radio show tragedy on our hands. Don’t be some small town sad girl cliche. No angels in the airwaves dude, come on! You gotta stay right here. On earth. With me, Ok?”

I cried laughing in her camel blue smokey jacket.

We’d chain smoke cigarettes and watch the trees melt from the porch post mushroom tea consumption singing Spin Doctor’s Two Princes. We’d below out —

“Marry him or marry me,

I’m the one that loves you baby can’t you see?

I ain’t got no future or a family tree,

But I know what a prince and lover ought to be,

I know what a Prince and lover ought to be so — -”

Suddenly, the angry tube top donned, broken heeled boot wearing heroin marked prostitute known fondly around the neighborhood as “Bootsy” crawled up from the bottom of our porch and hurled a full can of unopened soup at us.

“Ya’ll ah tone deaf. I’ll take losing liquid dinah over havin’ to listen to you squawk fuckin’ chuckle heads sing another second. BE QUIET.”

We lost our shit.

But also admired “Bootsy” and her resilience despite her liquid dinner-less station in life.

After you went through a particularly bad breakup we popped percocets, got drunk and drove aimlessly around town. You hit a fire hydrant on some side street and blew out a tire. Panicked you said —

“Fuck it I’ll leave it till the morning. My phone is dead and I don’t have a proper story for my grandparents when they see Bu-Bu all bent out of shape.”

She drove a mint green Subaru and coined it, fondly, her Les-baru.

“It works wonders with the ladies — she winked. My room is close enough let’s just crash at my place until we come up with a game plan.”

My head was foggy from gin and synthetic heroin so I followed suit. We crashed into her bed. She exhaled —

“Ughh fuck men, fuck everything.”

She took off her tights and I saw the small circles of cigarette burns singed into her milk white thighs. Branded like a bovine by the hands of some bastard.

“Abbey, we really need to stop doing this whole nice guys finish last charade. These look bad.”

I peered closer at the small pock marks like position markers on a fret board. I placed my fingers gently on each one.

“Does this hurt?” I queried

“No” she said shutting me up by grasping my fingers and placing them inside of her. She kissed me hard and deep and without abandon unlike the grey dress and tights now lost in a sea of sheets and dirty laundry on the floor.

I wonder still about their whereabouts.

Mahler’s symphony played in my head. I thought about the conjecture about whether or not it should be one bass playing the part or the collective bass section… I figured it had to take more than one upright bass to create those sort of vibrations. The wavering breathes between each bar. The simple, gracious, subtle fingerings and the mere fact the piece was strategically composed with breathe marks and comas to achieve the non muted sound that floated above your room that night.

I sighed, “I can’t believe this is happening. I don’t know what I’m doing…I’ve always loved you.”

She whispered, “Just do what feels good for you.”

And it did feel good. For both of us.

We didn’t talk for awhile after that night. You got back together with that asshole and well…I began dating another one.

You were the Thelma to my Louise. The grey in my garden. My Sacajawea through the chartered mission of exploring the depths of my sexuality…interpreting the snake language that had lain dormant within me for years awakened with wagging dual tipped tongues.

You were my first. And I’ll always love you. I remember your naked back arched atop the mattress while you sipped seltzer off your vanity and I thought of that time in the abandoned apartment complex. I dropped the un-smoked cigarette in my hand, approached you from behind, cupped your breasts and rocked your shaking body to sleep humming the double bass solo from Mahler’s symphony number one against the nape of your osprey neck. And we slept well for the first time in ages.