Two Out Of Three Ain't Bad [part I]
AC moved out of my building yesterday, and — shit, I hope he never reads this — I'm glad. You see, he's the man who's loved me for more than half my life, and maybe he's the man I should love, and I did, once, for a little while, but that was a long time ago and I don't any more. I just don't.
You can't help whom you love.
AC was part of the triumvirate at Radio McGill the summer after my first, overwhelming, year of university, when I walked through the door of the station's offices in the basement of the Union Building for the first time. AC, Carl, and Adam ran the place, and had successfully converted the station's format into alternative music of all kinds. New Michael or Janet Jackson albums that arrived from the record companies were consigned immediately to the bottom shelf of the old record library; the spot we referred to as the OFS section. Old fucking shit. We felt a responsibility to keep all records, since we were, after all, a radio station. But that didn't mean we had to play them.
The three of them adopted me, and became my musical mentors. Here I was, this girl from rural southern Ontario with her Rush t-shirt stumbling into a big city enclave of The Buzzcocks, The Gang of Four, and Joy Division. Their attitude toward me that summer was that of the home owner who discovers a wet, scraggly cat living on his back porch, takes pity on it, and, before he knows it, it's his cat.
Before long I had sold all my Saga albums; dyed my hair pink; and started going to all the alternative club shows. I eventually became the station's music director, and built a rather impressive record collection, both for the radio station and for my home. Carl and Adam were like the big brothers I had never had, but always wanted. They looked out for me. They made sure I got home safely if I'd had too much to drink. They screened my boyfriends. Sometimes, even now, they do those things. Adam and his wife, Lisa, were at Sara's wedding — she doesn't have a real big brother either — and they met Jack.
My relationship with AC was different. Though he was older, and also somewhat protective of me, I never thought of him as a big brother figure, the way I did with the other two. So the year I bought my first British import (Depeche Mode) was also the year I first experienced what I now think of as the Viking principle: that you can be pals with someone for years, and then one day, for no reason at all, you find yourself wondering what it would be like to kiss him.
It was also the year I lost my virginity. Technically, that is. I mean, I hardly considered myself virginal any longer, at that point, having had sex in the Bill Clinton sense of the word more than once. But something about the mechanics of the conjugal act, as described in sex education textbooks, had eluded me despite three years and the best attempts of as many boyfriends. Everybody can have all the right equipment and have studied the diagrams, but that doesn't mean execution will come easy.
I used to figure skate, and I know what a double axel is — doesn't mean I can perform one.
I did eventually learn to do that other thing, though, and AC was my coach.
We were together not quite a year, and then I broke his heart. It broke my heart to break his heart, but I was young, and a student, going wild in the big city, and not at all inclined to settle down with one guy. When he left my bedroom for the last time, he took both my hands in his, looked into my eyes, and said, as simply as if he were commenting on the rain outside, "I will always love you."
So, almost twenty years later, when my mother died and the golf ball was unravelling, AC is who I called.
* * *
In part II Sass will tell you more about her second time around with AC.
You can't help whom you love.
AC was part of the triumvirate at Radio McGill the summer after my first, overwhelming, year of university, when I walked through the door of the station's offices in the basement of the Union Building for the first time. AC, Carl, and Adam ran the place, and had successfully converted the station's format into alternative music of all kinds. New Michael or Janet Jackson albums that arrived from the record companies were consigned immediately to the bottom shelf of the old record library; the spot we referred to as the OFS section. Old fucking shit. We felt a responsibility to keep all records, since we were, after all, a radio station. But that didn't mean we had to play them.
The three of them adopted me, and became my musical mentors. Here I was, this girl from rural southern Ontario with her Rush t-shirt stumbling into a big city enclave of The Buzzcocks, The Gang of Four, and Joy Division. Their attitude toward me that summer was that of the home owner who discovers a wet, scraggly cat living on his back porch, takes pity on it, and, before he knows it, it's his cat.
Before long I had sold all my Saga albums; dyed my hair pink; and started going to all the alternative club shows. I eventually became the station's music director, and built a rather impressive record collection, both for the radio station and for my home. Carl and Adam were like the big brothers I had never had, but always wanted. They looked out for me. They made sure I got home safely if I'd had too much to drink. They screened my boyfriends. Sometimes, even now, they do those things. Adam and his wife, Lisa, were at Sara's wedding — she doesn't have a real big brother either — and they met Jack.
My relationship with AC was different. Though he was older, and also somewhat protective of me, I never thought of him as a big brother figure, the way I did with the other two. So the year I bought my first British import (Depeche Mode) was also the year I first experienced what I now think of as the Viking principle: that you can be pals with someone for years, and then one day, for no reason at all, you find yourself wondering what it would be like to kiss him.
It was also the year I lost my virginity. Technically, that is. I mean, I hardly considered myself virginal any longer, at that point, having had sex in the Bill Clinton sense of the word more than once. But something about the mechanics of the conjugal act, as described in sex education textbooks, had eluded me despite three years and the best attempts of as many boyfriends. Everybody can have all the right equipment and have studied the diagrams, but that doesn't mean execution will come easy.
I used to figure skate, and I know what a double axel is — doesn't mean I can perform one.
I did eventually learn to do that other thing, though, and AC was my coach.
We were together not quite a year, and then I broke his heart. It broke my heart to break his heart, but I was young, and a student, going wild in the big city, and not at all inclined to settle down with one guy. When he left my bedroom for the last time, he took both my hands in his, looked into my eyes, and said, as simply as if he were commenting on the rain outside, "I will always love you."
So, almost twenty years later, when my mother died and the golf ball was unravelling, AC is who I called.
In part II Sass will tell you more about her second time around with AC.
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