Caught in the Carousel

It starts and ends with a thrill. It's fast and perfect. I don't want to like him. And I push myself further into the crowd of the party, hoping that I won't be able to see him. But he's everywhere. He's electricity. He's Cape Cod. He's London and Paris and Sao Paulo. He's Lisbon and San Juan and Tokyo. I was born into sadness and superstition and feel comfortable hiding here. He doesn't fit in. It's dark. He's smiling and happy and looks like a llama with his big, brown eyes and messy hair. He stands out among the grumpy rock-and-roll boys with their over-styled and bossy girlfriends. He's slightly over-dressed in his jeans and t-shirt because of the brown-tweed blazer draped over his shoulder. I'll find out later that he left New York to escape the sadness of September 11th, which he felt, even years later, hanging heavy and plastic all over the city. When he comes to me, I'm drinking beer that I don't even like out of a plastic cup. He says he likes my shoes. They're purple. He says I have pretty hands and that he likes my hair. He blushes when I put my fingers on his knee through a hole in his jeans. He tells me I'm the most beautiful girl here, and I believe him. He draws me a cartoon elephant on a cloth napkin. He has two first names. He's clever and charming and funny. I tell him I like books and birds. It's the Fourth of July.

We escape to the outside. When we finally kiss, we're surrounded by tall, old buildings. It's warm and gray and late. I lick his eyelashes. He tells me to meet him again on Tuesday. We'll shop for jeans and vegetables and feathers for our hair. I tell him, if I do, he might fall in love with me. He says he probably already is, and invites me to spend a lifetime with him. I'm al-ready so in love with someone else, but I agree to anyway. We are kissing and touching, and we're topless on the beach. We're the 1960's. We are fuzzy, white rabbits. We're revolutiona-ries. We're a circus free of people. We're lovely and rich and perfect. We are hippies and preppies dancing together. We are animals laughing.

When we leave each other, I can feel the sun is about to rise, and the street is littered with fire-crackers and newspaper. I wait for a taxi. Two teenage boys on dirt bikes, offer to ride me home on their handlebars. Their limbs are strong, but they take turns anyway, peddling me up the steep, city-hills to my apartment. Both wanting to play hero. At home, I can't sleep. I make le-monade and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. My phone rings. It's him. He says, "You're fun," and then, "I'm leaving next week." I'm glad he's leaving. I don't want anything to change this moment. Like Vampire Weekend's Contra, it's perfect. So beautiful and happy, I want to throw away everything that came before and everything that might come later. But I know this happiness is much better surrounded by sad and dark-ugly things. The contrast makes it more perfect and almost unbearable. We hang up. Months later, while dancing to Contra, loud and alone in my apartment, I remember. And it is thrilling. I crush hard and everything is just the way it is. Listen.

Vampire Weekend

Logo for our New Crush/Old Crush series is courtesy Andy McNally.

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