1995 Kill Rock Stars
You wore a suit. At the time, I didn’t know you owned a suit, yet wasn’t surprised to see the jacket hang over your shoulders like it was stolen out of your dad’s closet.
Even when we moved in, I didn’t see a suit. We moved boxes and listened to Elliott Smith. His self-titled was your favorite, but Roman Candle was the only one not hidden in box. I had just gotten back from following Phish around the mid-west, and hated anything I couldn’t get stoned too. It took me several listens before I came around to liking his music.
The night you wore the suit, you stormed in the house with your work polo on, and played Christian Brothers off Elliott’s self-titled. The irony wasn’t lost on me as we tossed the brown bottle back. I tried to cheer you up about all the loss you suffered that week. We took shots and you spilled half the bottle of whiskey all over your grease stained denim. Looking back on it, I should’ve put it together when you uncharacteristically through a fit to your room.
I didn’t see you for a while and got worried. My shoulder forced your locked door open to the sound of Alphabet town. It was dark, but the orange pill bottles stuck out like a stop sign on your desk. You shivered as you tossed on the bed, forcing my gray windsor knot to unravel. I heard you mutter, “I’m sorry,” over Elliott’s harmonica. I ran over and called an ambulance.
I was relieved when you survived, but I knew I couldn’t live in that house anymore. I went back to college and we eventually lost touch. A few years back, I got a deal on Elliott Smith’s self-titled at the record store. Although it was one of the first records I ever bought, I have never listened to it once. It just sits in my closet, wrapped in plastic with my gray tie over it, and haunts me.
Drink: Christian Brothers straight from the bottle