Southern Fried Heartache

Let me tell you about loss. Not the ethereal loss of God which Mr. Morrison speaks of. I’m talking about the kind of loss that makes you question the validity of your own existence. The kind of loss that booms like a cancer eating your belly. The kind of loss that sends you into the annals of deep-fried and sanctified southern rock and roll, searching for a remedy to the emotional rigor mortis that has a tight bead on your ass.

It was the early 80’s. What can I say? A though my very popular peers were going ape shit over the hot new sounds of The Cars, The GoGos and Human League, the AOR people, at the radio station out in the woods, were holding my heart captive. I followed the FM frequency scent like a crack-fiend and knelt at the altar of Lynyrd Skynyrd , Molly Hatchet and the holy of holies…38 Special. Daily. These were prehistoric times. We had no lovely, lilting lyrics from the pen of Chris Martin, and “The Joshua Tree” was not even conceived yet. What we did have was Barnes, Carlisi and Van Zant. And any Van Zant was a good Van Zant. These guys were my Rilke. My Neruda. My Whitman with spurs and six-shooters. So, when I needed just the right response to my first encounter with loss, where else could I turn but to 38 Special 6:1 (that’s album # 6, track # 1). The song…”So Caught Up in You”. Don’t fool - You know it well.

I never knew there’d come a day, when I’d be saying to you
Don't let this good love slip away, I can’t believe that it’s true…
So caught up in you, little girl, that I never want to get myself free…

You get the picture. That little girl was Joyce Swindon - 15 years and 125 lbs of smoking hot - and after 9 steady months of “going together”, she was calling it quits, despite my obviously conflicted feelings. We had shared so much in so short a time. And even though we had perfected the art of making out while staying mobile, sometimes you just have to park it. You know? This was before cell phones. Hands free meant something completely different. And wouldn’t you know it - one of the few times when we decidedly camped out in our own little lover’s lookout, the cops showed up with multiple flashlights. It was a very vulnerable moment. And although I felt it only brought us closer, I believe it is the singular incident that pushed her over the edge. I was desperately “caught up in her”, but she had had enough. Her 15 year old self wasn’t getting any younger. She needed options. I’m not making this up. These were actual quotes. I can show you the journals where I wrote this painful shit down. Anyway, I needed a plan…

So, I trapped her in my car - a blue Pinto station wagon (not my first choice) one Friday night after a varsity basketball game. I remember it like it was yesterday. She said, “What are you doing?” And I said, “I just want you to listen to these words, and know that they are my heart. Truly.” (I used that moment to reference another very popular song by Lionel Richie - from the same year. Even though I found it detestable.) I pushed the pre-cued cassette into the Audiovox deck I had purchased from Kmart and installed myself, and I let that beautiful ruckus emitting from the door panels speakers be my Cyrano de Bergerac. And, as you might have guessed…it was one of the most mortifying moments in my entire young life. As beautiful as the strains of that perfect song are - as melodious, as significant, as captivating as the passion in that redneck voice from Jacksonville, Florida is, it just didn’t come out right. It was plain cheesy. And I wanted to crawl under the blue vinyl buckets seats.

I couldn’t really tell if she was embarrassed or not. Her response was a series of, “What is this? What is wrong with you? Why do you listen to this trash?” So, even before I began, I had ended. And the loss set in. Like a enormous freshly dug grave in your gullet - you stand over it with a tiny shovel and infinite mounds of dirt, and you fill and you fill and you fill. Because it just hurts so bad. And you have to medicate. Because if you do not…you will die.

I am sure much greater loss awaits me on the horizon. I do not want it, but I accept its stealthy coming. But for that moment - in that blue Pinto station wagon - when Joyce Swindon slammed the car door and I felt her scent waft over me for the last time, I knew loss. Granted we hooked up a couple of years later on a soccer trip when we were both really bored and in-between partners, but that’s another story.