The Boy With The Thorn In His Side
The car came to a stop in a parking space of an unassuming strip mall-like part of town, which kind of describes most of the places around there. Her right hand moved suddenly, pushing the gearshift forward. And then I heard those unmistakable beginning guitar chords.
“Hey,” I reached to hold her hand, still on the shifter, “can we wait until this song is over?”
“Of course, liebe,” she said, with a modicum of surprise in her voice.
You never hear The Smiths on the radio. You never heard The Smiths on the radio when they still existed, at least not here in the U.S. But this is SiriusXM, where those with the privilege can hear songs from the past, via cleverly named stations with like “60s on 6" or this particular station, “First Wave”: all those 80's alternative songs, all in one place…with your paid monthly subscription.
The boy with the thorn in his side
Behind the hatred there lies
A murderous desire for
Love…
Murderous. That’s what it feels like, doesn’t it? Not that you want to kill anyone, but maybe you want to kill some undefinable something, because you want…because you love something so much. That’s how passion works. Nothing really cockblocks passionate love, you know? Circumstances? Maybe. Time apart? Distance apart? Other people? I suppose those could hinder love, but really, do they? Love is there, it’s always there. You just have to decide to want it, or to take it. Or decide if it’s yours to take…by force, if need be. Or decide to leave it.
It was warm, much warmer than Detroit. Having flown from the dry cold of winter to the warm, moist air of Houston made me feel as if I stepped back in time…but only six months back, to the end of Summer. To have seventy-five degree temperatures at the end of January seemed odd to me, but so did every detail of this city. The cars, the streets, the trees, the people…everything seemed strange. Could I get used to it? Definitely. Maybe. I can get used to anything depending on the situation, or the person.
How can they look into my eyes
And still they don’t believe me?
How can they hear me say those words
Still they don’t believe me?
“This is the recording that was on The World Won’t Listen, the single version. Listen to the staccato strings in the background. Can you hear them?”
“You know me and my hearing! Remember, I’m the deaf one…and you’re the blind one!”, she laughed, her eyes wide, with a bit of snarkiness in the delivery. Her left hand met her right, both grasping mine at once. She always smiled whenever I talked of things I was truly passionate about. There is not a music group out there that I am more passionate about than The Smiths. I don’t know what it was about them that made me feel so connected. I suppose I could go on with the clichés of Smiths fans: I was a loner, an outcast, someone no one understood, someone incapable of being loved, but who desperately longed for love. Someone who observed everything around them, but was never a participant. I could say I was an overdramatic, emotional teen, but I wasn’t, really. Or was I? I could say many things, half of them would be true. Maybe 90 percent of them would be true, 10 percent would be exaggerated for effect. Someone once told me that was a good guide for writing. And you know, it makes sense. If Morrissey’s inner-monologue based lyrics were 100 percent factual, I’m sure they wouldn’t be nearly as exciting or provacative. It’s that savory dash of exaggerated despair that brings out the sweetness of the truths.
And if they don’t believe me now
Will they ever believe me?
And if they don’t believe me now
Will they ever will they ever
Believe me?
“The version found on The Queen Is Dead has the string accompaniment from the very beginning, while the single version only has those brief staccato strings throughout the song, adding the string accompaniment at the end.” Her lips pursed. She had a much thinner upper lip when compared to her lower lip. This was once a topic of cattiness between her and her best friend since childhood. Why your best friend would ever point out how she thinks your lips are slightly flawed, making you, in her opinion, unattractive, I will never understand. Girls can be so hurtful with their words. Guys don’t do such things. If there is an issue we have with another guy, we just get into physical altercations: shoving into a wall or locker, brawl after school, knife fights, etc. I never even noticed the supposed unattractive thinness of her upper lip until she pointed it out, and told me the story of her best friend saying that her lips weren’t attractive. I watched her smile — flawed lips and all — change into a look of deep concentration as she focused, trying to hear what I hear.
The boy with the thorn in his side
Behind the hatred there lies
A plundering desire for
Love…
That feeling hit me. Why was I telling her these things, pointing out these song details? I withdrew my hand slowly, bringing it close to my leg, and then ran my fingers on the smooth, black leather of the passenger seat. BMW seats that have the back-of-the-knee seat bolster always intrigued me. I have manually-actuated bolsters on the sports seats of my E30 325iS; a powered version was on the seats of that E60 5-series. A movable bolster at the front of the seat can be extended to support the area behind your knee; beneficial, I guess, if you have longer thighs. But as the bolster extends, you notice that there is loose leather bridging the gap between the extensions and the seat bottom, and it creates this valley, of sorts, that dips down, a suspended leather trough. My fingers traced the valley, littered with lint and small crumbs, seemingly to distract myself from my own thoughts. Again, why did I tell her these things? I find myself explaining things when I’m nervous, or when I don’t want to talk anymore…which sounds incredibly backwards, doesn’t it? Who talks more when they are tired of talking? I find that my mind tries to spew out knowledge when all I want to do is be locked in an embrace, or a kiss, or an intense gaze, or when I just want to be alone, away from everything and everyone. Those moments of silence trigger my mind to come up with something to fill the audible void. “Blah blah blah this single version came out months before The Queen Is Dead album release blah blah blabiddy blah blah…” No one cares about this. Maybe they do. Maybe I do.
How can they see the love in our eyes
And still they don’t believe us?
And after all this time
They don’t want to believe us…
We listened with intent. We kissed with intent. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay in that car, at that moment, forever. Our reservations were at 8:30. We had ten minutes, now even less, since the song was half over. I didn’t want to go into this French restaurant. I mean, I wanted to go, I love French cuisine, but I just didn’t want to go right then. Not right then. I didn’t want to order the “Duo de Canard”, even though she knew I loved duck. She asked me to peruse the large wine selection and pick out a bottle while she went to the ladies’ room. But I didn’t want to think about wine…not then, not anymore. How did I ever get interested in wine in the first place? Was it to impress someone? I don’t even know. I bet it was. I remember nine years earlier. I was reading this book about the Bordeaux region. Was I that fuckin’ serious about wine back then, serious enough to read books about it? And I wonder, was I really interested in wine at all? Was I just a cliché? Do fans of The Smiths like wines from the Bordeaux region? At a horrible, life-sucking job I once held, I had a supervisor who was younger than me, but looked ten years my senior…and I think he actually believed he was older (and far wiser) than me.
“You know,” he explained with faux authority, “I’m at that age where I need to be more mature. I should get into wine.” He said this as we were looking at a wine mini fridge in Target. I chuckled a bit, and turned to him, and saw his eyes transfixed on the glass door of the fridge. “Yes. Wine and cigars. That’s what you get into when you’re mature.” That guy was dead serious. That guy was a cliché.
And if they don’t believe us now
Will they ever believe us?
He wasn’t mature. But neither was I. That wasn’t me. I mean, it was, but it wasn’t. I was that person, sitting in that car, listening to that Smiths song, with that person I love the most. But I wasn’t that. I wasn’t. I’m not. Just like how I’m not a food person…a foodie (how I hate that term). Yes, I had spent a good amount of my early adult life learning to cook French cuisine, in order to escape from a life of eating ramen. But, really, that’s not me. And I’m not a wine connoisseur. Yes, I had spent some of my earlier years learning about wine and regions and grapes. I don’t remember any of it. I’m trying to remember it right now, at this very moment, but I can’t. I draw a blank. Is everything I know about wines gone? Maybe the knowledge is back there, in my mind, and it just needs a push to get it out, to force it out. I don’t want to force anything…not anymore.
And when you want to live
How do you start?
Where do you go?
Who do you need to know?
It felt forced. Not that moment, listening to that song. No. Sitting in that black BMW 545i was the cocoon, the protective shell from all the things on the outside, that would hurt us, or make us face the questions everyone we know would ask. That role we played every few weeks or months, of being this young couple, living a life that’s familiar to everyone who dreams of owning a Lexus, having a granite-countertopped kitchen island, and subscribing to Netflix, that is what felt forced. Maybe I didn’t feel it at the time, or maybe, just like my dormant wine knowledge, it was there all along, and I just didn’t force it out. Or I did force it…inward, hoping it never comes to the surface. Push it down. Don’t stir the pot, and things will stay as they are. But this doesn’t hold true when the pot is on the heat, with its contents soon coming to a boil.
Morrissey’s yodeling signified that this bubble where we existed, safe from harm, was about to burst. We faced each other, our foreheads resting against one another, my right hand on her cheek. My fingers felt her voice before she spoke, my lips felt the warmth of her breath. “We should go in now. We shouldn’t be late for our reservation.” I moved back slowly, straightened my tie, and took a deep breath. I wanted to ask her if she had ever seen the official video for the song. It shows the band playing in a studio, and by the end of the song, the day has progressed into nighttime. It’s a really cheesy video, but one of only a few videos they had actually done. The Smiths were always against doing promotional music videos, and I understand why. It’s just a pony show, really. When people see music videos, the focus isn’t on the music anymore. The focus is now on the visuals, or on the band miming, with the music now forced to the background.
I opened the door and felt that strangely warm and humid January air against my face. I walked beside her,and watched the blue sequins on her dress catch the light of passing car headlamps. We headed to the door, my right arm swung forward, and she grabbed my hand tightly, instinctively. We didn’t look at each other. We just looked forward, towards the door.
