Another day, another conversation about Weezer. This one taking place in the receiving area of the Boise, Idaho Barnes and Noble. The Blue Album had finished playing, was part of a playlist Jen had on her phone. Her phone was connected to speakers on the receiving desk. Jen, Steve, and I were covering for the receiving manager, a truly irredeemable piece of shit, who was on vacation. When you had to work with him, he made you endure podcasts of people playing Magic: The Gathering or movie reviews by some guy who constantly tore down the all-female reboot of Ghostbusters while “pretending” to torture his wife. Jen was rocking the nineties. Weezer was followed by Ben Folds Five Whatever and Ever Amen.
“The Blue Album. Their only good album,” said Jen. She had shoulder length brown hair, was in a semi-secret relationship with one of the café barista’s and played lots of Red Dead Redemption. Her staff pick was Perks of Being a Wallflower by Stephen Chbosky.
“Pinkerton,” I said. My staff pick was Annihilation by Jeff VanderMeer.
“Who?” said Steve.
“Weezer. The band we’ve been listening to for the last 45 minutes.”
Weezer as a band had two popular albums in the mid-nineties, in that period after grunge faded with Kurt Cobain’s blood stains and everything became Alternative. The Blue Album and Pinkerton. Then lead singer Rivers Cuomo took a hiatus to attend Harvard. Weezers output since getting back together is more numerous and divisive. I’m not getting into it any more than that. SNL has a skit where Leslie Jones and Matt Damon go at it over Weezer. Watch that.
Steve touched his ear to fiddle with his hearing aid. A stint in the Gulf War had left permanent damage. His staff pick was Dune.
“They do that cover of Africa. The Toto song.”
“Not really my thing,” said Steve. “Too soft. KISS. I like KISS.”
I cut open a box of James Patterson’s newest bestselling hardcover. Stacked them on the table. Only in Dreams still playing in my head. And if Only in Dreams was in there so was Katie.
“No big deal,” said Jen. “They only had one good album.”
“Two,” I said. “Two good albums.”
“Pinkerton gives me creep vibes,” Jen said.
“Fair,” I said. Cut open a box of CJ Box paperbacks. Idahoans love their rural noir. The receiving manager had the table sharpied off into different sections. Mystery/Thriller, Sci-Fi/Fantasy, Self-Transformation/Personal Growth. Etc. The Mystery/Thriller pile was getting pretty high. Kind of wobbly.
“I met him,” I said. “Rivers Cuomo.”
“Rivers,” Jen laughed. “Really.”
“Well,” I said, “not really. More like I saw him standing in front of an elevator.”
“I’m sure he loved that,” Jen said. “What did he do?”
“He got back on the elevator.”
I liked Weezer okay. I was more of an obnoxious Radiohead guy. Wore out a t-shirt that stated “Kicking, Squealing, Gucci Little Piggy.”
Katie. She loved Weezer. Loved the Blue Album. Was spiritual about Pinkerton. Didn’t give up on them when the band got back together and produced the Green Album. Thirty minutes of mediocre fluff. We broke up before Maladroit came out.
Katie. I can still see her. Hair long and dark. That forest green sweatshirt she always wore. Always in whimsical, seasonally appropriate socks. The way she’d kick me lightly in the calf when she came up behind me.
Senior year and one day in early October of 2000 my mom needed to borrow my Plymouth Breeze. Her car was in the shop. I was walking home after school when Katie pulled over and offered me a ride. “Thanks,” I said and got in. Her car smelled like Burger King French fries and watermelon Bubble Yum. The Blue Album was playing in the CD player. Katie was in my English class that semester. We’d never really talked a ton. I did think she was cute.
“Rich,” she said.
“Richard” I said. “I’m too poor to be rich.” Then felt like a fucking idiot.
‘Ahhh,” she said and pulled back into traffic. “Why does everyone call you Trees?”
I blushed. I’d never explained my nickname to a girl before. “I don’t know,” I said. “Nerd stuff.”
“Nerd stuff?”
“Yeah. It’s pretty dorky.”
“Dorky? Is dork worse than nerd?”
“I wouldn’t want you to think less of me.”
“Go ahead and try me.”
“Have you ever read Game of Thrones? It’s fantasy, but way more intense than Lord of the Rings. It’s taken from that. Bastards have names based on where there from. Bastards from the north are called snow, bastards from the Stormlands are called storm. Like that.”
“Okay. And that has what to do with you?”
“Oh, I was being a dick.”
“Wouldn’t they call you Dick?”
“No thanks. We were playing basketball, and I was playing really tough defense on Brian Vicar. I Kept stuffing him every time he took a shot. You know Brian?”
“We’re in the same ward.”
“Of course. He called me a bastard. Since this is the city of trees, I was like, ‘Then call me Richard Trees.’ And they all started calling me Trees.”
She laughed. “That’s why? Richard, no offense but I’ll keep calling you Richard.”
“My mom still does,” I said. “So I guess that’s okay. It’s a really good book though.”
We went silent. I felt that if stopped concentrating my slight body tremors would go to full convulsions. She was wearing dark socks with a neon form that made me think of Slimer from Ghostbusters. “What’s with your socks?” I said. “Is that Slimer?”
“Slimer?”
“From Ghostbusters?”
“Richard,” she laughed. “Those are corn cobs.”
“Oh,” I said. I was blushing again.
“You don’t like my socks?”
“No. No. They’re neat. Very festive.”
Katie dropped me off and the next day during break she came over to my locker and the day after that I went over to hers.
We were together a little over a year. She made me listen to a lot of Weezer. I made her listen to a lot of Radiohead. Katie never did learn to appreciate Kid A, but she thought The Bends was cool. That was good enough for me.
Jump a year. November 2001. Weezer was touring to promote the Green Album. They were playing at the Bank of America center with Tenacious D and Jimmy Eat World. Both Katie and I were enrolled at Boise State. It had been a numbing semester, real world events casting a pall over the start of our adult lives. I kept thinking the sixties had returned and was hitting the classic rock hard. Wondering if I should join up to fight terrorists or protest the inevitable war. Katie’s LDS faith was becoming more and more of a thing. She kept needling me about her Heavenly Father, trying to get me to admit I was a full-blown atheist. Then she’d have to leave me.
The Friday night before the concert a bunch of us went downtown. Plenty of our friends had come back to Boise for the concert. My party friends from University of Idaho and Katie’s Mormon friends from BYU. Both groups had the tendency to talk down to Katie and me. Like they considered us children for staying in Boise. It got old fast.
We were downtown looking for Rivers Cuomo. Katie had heard the band was already in town and she needed to meet him. And sure enough, not five minutes after entering the hotel adjacent the Bank of America center, who should get off the elevator.
River Cuomo. That Rick Moranis looking mother fucker.
“Rivers!” Katie screamed.
He didn’t even look our way. Stepped backward into the elevator before the door could close.
Katie pulled at me to start moving. Her shriek had embarrassed me deeply. Her eyes shut, face red. Displaying her desires in front of so many. Our friends standing behind us watching this. Even thinking about it all these years later makes me cringe.
“Richard,” Katie said. “Come on.”
I did not budge.
The elevator doors closed and up it went. Taking Rivers Cuomo with it.
The night of the concert a U of I friend introduced me to screwdrivers (vodka and orange juice) and that was the end for me and Katie. When all the different friend groups met at the Bank of America Center, she could tell I was drunk. And I, in full Fuck Shitter mode, said “What?” Knowing I was ruining something important to her. The look on her face is something I won’t get into. The only comparison is years later when I told my mom I was drinking again. Katie wouldn’t talk to me, drug her friends to another section of the arena from me and my friends. In response I hogged my friend’s flask so much he never hung out with me again.
The Weezer portion of the concert remains a blur, but I do remember they played Only in Dreams.
***
We met up in January after the start of the spring semester. At the Blimpie that used to be on campus. Katie needed a proper ending. I’d been putting it off, but I’d caught up on all my comic books and was getting familiar with loneliness. She’d started seeing the returned missionary she’d marry before Operation Iraqi Freedom began.
We ate and made useless chat. The Best was bland that day. All I could taste was the vinegar. Katie had cut her hair short. Truthfully, she looked beautiful. I made the conscious decision not to look at her socks. After the sandwiches were eaten things got quiet.
“Trees,” she said. She started calling me that after we broke up.
“Katie,” I said and thought, I want to go home.
“It makes me sad,” she said, “but I feel like you won’t let yourself be happy.”
This surprised me. Even though it was something I’d thought myself half a billion times.
“Ha,” I said. “Ha.” And then I said, “Probably.”
Katie started to cry. Not full on. No sobs or anything. Just tears running down her face. I sat there and watched. Awkward and embarrassed. I wanted to reach out to her. Apologize. Tell her I still loved her. Knew it wouldn’t change anything. Katie cared too much and I… Man, I don’t, I don’t fucking know.
I would never see Katie again. I’d hear things from time to time. At some point we became Facebook friends. You know people. Then you don’t. Most days, even when I hear Only in Dreams, I can’t say any of it matters.
***
I opened a box full of different versions of the bible, each one with larger and larger print. Soon it would be my time for lunch. When I would take a piss in the most pube magnetizing urinals in town, then head to the café for a soggy broccoli and cheese flatbread pizza. I didn’t know if the pile of Mystery/Thrillers would make it until then without collapse.
“How was the concert?” Jen said. “Tenacious D? Were they funny?”
“Sure, they were funny,” I said. “The lead singer of Jimmy Eat World was drenched in sweat. Like he got sprayed with a hose.” I stacked bibles on the Religion/Philosophy pile. “After Ben Folds can we listen to Radiohead?”
“Sorry,” Jen said. “No Radiohead.”
Steve shook his head like he was sorry for us. “KISS,” he said again. “KISS.”
Ross Hargreaves has an MFA from the University of Idaho. His work has appeared in Mikrokosmos, Quibble Lit God's Cruel Joke and Fatal Flaw. He lives and writes in Idaho.
