CASSETTE FROM MY EX

I met Robert at a Purple Rain party. It was 1992 and my spring break trip to Santa Cruz, where my friend Crina was going to a much cooler school, was almost over. But I had one last night and a party full of Prince before my departure. While Crina’s roommates rehearsed their band in the garage, beating their way through a Dokken cover then smoothly transitioning into a track from “Freaky Styly”, we hung lavender vinyl in the windows and baked pot brownies for the party. I was not looking forward to flying back to Poughkeepsie where everyone at my east coast college was trying to convince each other that they had bought “Bleach” before they had bought “Nevermind.” Including me.

They say that California is a different country, but I hadn’t realized to what extent until that night. There were ubiquitous tattoos and piercing, Betty Page haircuts and dreads down to asses, shaved heads, Mohawks, platform shoes, thigh high Doc Marten’s and the most enviable collection of vintage rock t-shirts one could imagine. I downed three purple martinis in a row, made a weak attempt to find my friend, and sunk into the couch in the corner. Twenty minutes later Robert sat down next to me. He paused momentarily then glanced at me sideways through his Woody Allen glasses as I noted his well-worn army pants, black Chucks and Fear T-shirt. I was just about to introduce myself, when his round, sweaty buddy took up the rest of the couch real estate and handed Robert a drink. With his back now turned to me I was alone again, mouthing the words to “Little Red Corvette”.

When his friend got up to leave, Robert stayed and stared into the crowd dancing on an ecstasy cloud. He chain-smoked, bouncing his knobby knee to the beat but he did not speak. Thank god for cigarettes in awkward moments. I asked him for one, he asked me my name – and the floodgates were open. At first I thought maybe it was the weed and booze, or that I knew I was leaving in 24 hours - but I was falling for this skinny guy with the buzz cut and an endless stream of LA/Jewish colloquialisms (hella menschy’??). Hours later the party was dying down to drug induced bullshit sessions. We both agreed it was good to meet each other and he wished me well and was gone. I fell asleep on those furry, purple couch cushions wondering who the hell Fear was.

The next morning, the phone rang way too early. Wiltsy, one of Crina’s metal head roommates staggered across the living room floor and picked up the neon green receiver. “Who? Oh, yeah - Okay – wait a sec – chill.” Wiltsy scanned the room of passed out bodies and squinted in my direction. “You have a phone call.” I nodded, grabbed a blanket and wrapped myself in it as I made my way to the phone. “Katy?” said the voice on the line. “Uh huh” I mumbled. “Sorry if I woke you up, it’s Robert”. I paused, then remembered, “Oh – hi”. He continued, “I think you said you were flying out of San Jose today and I was wondering if you needed a ride. I could come pick you up if you want. What time does your plane leave?” I told him to come by at 9, and he showed up at 8:30. His vintage yellow VW bug was full of cigarette packs and antifreeze bottles, but he had cleared a space on the passenger side, and even opened the door for me, which made me nervously giggle. The drive through the hills was full of slanting sunshine, epic fog and cascading eucalyptus leaves. Robert played DJ as we drove, shoving one 8-track cassette after another into the retrofitted player, telling me about each band I had never heard of and why this specific riff broke his heart while this other one made him want to mosh until his nose got broken – again. When he pulled up to the curb at San Jose International, I was ready to quit school and listen to his music collection forever. We wrote down phone numbers in scraps of paper and he gave me a quick, determined hug.

Six months later I told school and my parents that I wasn’t coming back for a while and took off across the country in a gold station wagon with some high school friends who had also had enough of college. Our final destination was the floor of Crina’s new place in Santa Cruz. Although Robert and I had exchanged some postcards since our San Jose drive, I had never gotten up the courage to call. But the day before we crossed the California border I dropped a million quarters into a gas station payphone and told him I was going to be in Santa Cruz the next day. He said he had something for me. The following night we all watched ‘Scarface’ on cable and drank 40’s of Old English. When it was over Robert followed me into the spare bedroom, closed the door, grabbed me and kissed me. Then he looked around and asked, “Is there a boom box around here?” We searched and found a pink tape player under the bed. He pulled it out, plugged it in and slipped in an unmarked tape. As the first bars of X’s “We’re Desperate” began he looked at me and gulped. “I made you a mix”, he said.

So this is that tape, and I still don’t know what all these songs are. I occasionally still listen to it – wondering when it’s going to break. Robert died a couple of years ago from a heart attack – but I still have this precious piece of his heart that he made for me.

“I’ve been working in film production in New York City for over 10 years as a director, editor, 1st AD and producer. I’m also the Program Director of the “Made in NY” PA Training Program which works with urban youth to get them started in the film industry. From 1996-2004 I published the independent ‘zine “Falsies”. I still try and go see live music but nothing beats Bikini Kill’s High School gym tour of ‘93.”