i like my coffee black just like my metal...

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The Thirteen Loop Blues Revisited:

How to Rip Open an Emotional Scar

By Kelsie Smith

“He kept at true good humor’s mark
The social flow of pleasure's tide:
He never made a brow look dark,
Nor caused a tear, but when he died.”
- Thomas Love Peacock



"You might hate me after this. That's okay. People say 'I'll never forget you...'"What the hell is this guy talking about? Strange old man. You're too nice to hate, buddy. What's going on? Why would I want to hate you?...


"Grant called me last night crying... He was talking about how much he still loved you and missed you... He said that he had realized losing you... fueled his alcoholism. He wanted to know whether or not you would want to give it another try with him..."

Sarah's voice repeats herself over and over and over again. The off-white construction paper is stiff from sweat and a little weathered, the faded pencil is getting harder to read. I clutch my "Cristmas" glass heart close in my other hand, and close my eyes, never wanting to let go.


Sarah, my sister thrice removed. In my 6th grade year, Sarah and I were the best of friends. Summer of seventh grade, her house was my second home. When school started up, she went to Covington Middle School and I went to Bailey, so we barely saw each other. Despite our separation, we managed to talk on the phone or hang out every day, if not every other day.

She started talking to her friend Grant and, to make a long story short, she hooked us up. However, there was a catch to this: he lived in Wimberley over 30 miles away, and neither one of us knew what the other looked like. This was no problem for me because I suffered from ugly duckling syndrome, and I had the upper hand with a yearbook from his 7th grade year.

Our relationship was based on daily phone calls for hours at a time, talking just to hear each other's voice. We lasted one year, three months, and some days--only to end when he got a job and had less time to devote to me. He'd go for months at a time, never contacting neither Sarah nor I. He appeared or called randomly, and every time he did, he'd get hell from us for not checking up with us.


The beginning of sophomore year, I had missed the bus or something, so I didn't see Sarah until the morning. She told me to sit down and she handed me a letter scrawled on a folded piece of construction paper. It spoke about how Grant called her at 2 am crying, wanting to get back together with me. My heart skipped a beat and ran. I called him that night and we decided we were going to play by ear and hope we had anything left for each other. During the winter, we hung out more than we ever did when we were going out. That Valentine's Day, he was my first Valentine.

Needless to say, I was getting hopeful for a second time around. But then it got to the point where he didn't reply to my messages or answer the phone, so I stopped calling, figuring it was another period of withdrawal from Austin interaction. If he wanted to talk, he'd call me.


Three months later, I got the call I was waiting for. My dad picked me up from newspaper layout and told me Grant had called that afternoon. I got home to find my big brother Dylan, and Mikey, a stupid parasite in the intestines of society, in my front yard. So I figured I'd put the call off until tomorrow afternoon or evening since I was hanging out with them.


Towards the end of school the next day, I was getting hopelessly excited. Daydreams of us getting back together and eventually settling down fluttered in my head--somewhat extreme I know, but I loved this boy. He was my first for everything and the only one I could ever see being with forever.

I get home from school, all peachy keen. There is a random old man at my door: silver hair, gentle blue eyes, and warm smile. I smile and excuse myself, walking around him to go upstairs to fulfill my after-school routine: drop my backpack on the bed and plop down next to it, turn on the radio, and get comfy.

"Kelsie!! Kelsie come downstairs for a minute!!" my mom calls from the living room.

The old man had moved from the threshold to the living room--what's going on? My mom doesn't get visitors often--if at all--and she sure as hell doesn't invite me to join in their conversation. My mom was sitting on the table and the old man was sitting on the couch.

"Is this her?" the old man asks my mom.

She nods.

He looks at me and smiles. I smile back, confused.

"You might hate me after this. That's okay. People say 'I'll never forget you...' People say 'I hate you!' And it's okay. It's okay if you want to hate me, hit me..." He looks at my mom, and I look at her too. Her face is pink, eyes glazed, and she smiles at me as if to say "I'm alright. Don't worry about me. Nothing's wrong."

"Something very bad happened last night. It's about your friend Grant King..." My heart drops.

"Last night, Grant committed suicide..." My insides implode and I burst into tears, doubling over and pulling my kitty hood as far as it can go over my face.

He's still talking but I don't hear him. I think he's babbling something about... something. I hear the door open and close, a new voice follows closely. She wants to talk to me about... something. I think she’s brought cookies.

My sister, also crying, comes to hold and comfort me. I hate being comforted. I hate being touched when I cry. I hate the fact that the stupid bitch never knew him and she cries. I want to rip away, but I don’t bother. I just want to be left alone in my upright fetal position, my mind a slosh of lamenting nostalg--“SARAH! I NEED TO SEE SARAH!!” I look at my mom, she understands. I apologize and thank them for coming.

On the walk over to her house, I compose myself the best I could, incase she hadn't found out yet. I knock on the door; she answers red faced and sobbing. I bust out in tears and we hold each other.


At his wake, bawling my little blue eyes out, I remember seeing him in the coffin, and wanting to touch is soft, blond hair, but I couldn't. I remember hearing someone say, "Who is she?" I was the only Austinite, and I was bawling harder than anybody in the sanctuary.

At his funeral, bawling my little blue eyes out, I wanted to touch him again, but I couldn't bring myself to it. I kept thinking, "That's not my Grant...That's not my Grant... That's not my Grant..." My nana's friend told me of a poem that brought her comfort; she offered to send me a copy for his family and myself. I gave a copy to his dad, who never showed any emotion. That irked me in unbelievable ways.

stock:
The glass heart he made me for Christmas back when we were going out. "Merry Crismas. Love ya!" carved into the back. I never let him live down his misspelling.
His love of Ween, Rush, and the Doors has become a musical memory and a part of me. Ween and the Doors, in particular, I have an undying, raging, obsessive love for.
His obituary, the only picture I have of him (when he was 16), the piece of paper I wrote his cell phone number on, and the prayer card from his funeral, has become my shrine and one of the few things I'd save if somehow my house went up in flames.