In Which We Move To The Outskirts Of Austin

Efficiency

by ELIZABETH BARBEE

I needed an apartment to match my bohemian lifestyle, so I found a small efficiency on the outskirts of Austin. The place was rundown and seedy, facts obvious upon sight, but my mantra was there is beauty in decay. I had just broken up with my boyfriend of four years and it felt hypocritical to discriminate against anything that needed mending. I trusted my ability to romanticize the yellowed walls, the stale cigarette stink, the fact that my neighbors had Wi-Fi names like “Bitches Cum” and “The Dave Matthews Band.” For at least the first week I made the best of it.

Immediately after graduating college I took a job editing erotica. It seemed like the perfect gig for a young English major desperate to demonstrate the depth of her open-mindedness, so I pounced at the opportunity. My first assignment was a gay vampire e-Book called Pack that the publisher described as SEXTREME. Because all of the characters were male there was a lot of pronoun confusion. I could never tell if the protagonist were masturbating or getting lucky. Most of my notes in Track Changes consisted of a single question mark. Regardless, I felt like Anaïs Nin. If only I had been brave enough to shave my eyebrows.

My only friend in town was a free-spirited University of Texas graduate named Saul. He had just sold a story to This American Life, so we were both in the literary biz. He was my first visitor. The moment he stepped through the door he began speaking in the third person. “It isn't bad, but Saul wouldn't live here,” he said. I think now this was his way of distancing himself from the filth of my living space. It was also the first sign of the horror to come.

Later that night, when I was in the early stages of sleep, I heard screams coming from next door. They were not the kind of sexual screams I read about in Pack. They were frightening. The logical thing to do would have been to call 911, but in my dreamlike state I saw only two options: go back to sleep and let my neighbor die, or put on a pair of pants and rescue him. Because of guilt rather than altruism, I chose the latter.

It took him five minutes to open the door, just enough time for me to realize I might get shot. When he finally appeared he was wearing a knee length Madonna concert t-shirt and casually smoking a joint. “Hey, girl, what's up?” he said. “You want to hit this?” I shook my head and explained frantically the reason for my visit. He looked amused. “I get night terrors sometimes. No biggie. I'm surprised you haven't heard me before.” I asked no follow up questions and bought a pair of earplugs.  

Shortly thereafter Saul took an assignment in South America. With my only friend gone, I started a tepid love affair with a first year law student I met at a coffee shop. He had all the markers of a serial killer (frightening intelligence, vacant eyes, distaste for pets), but he kept me company. Plus, he had lots of interesting views on intellectual property in the Internet age, so I decided to overlook his Ted Bundy quality. 

Because I had grown to hate my own place I spent a lot of time at his. It smelled always of fried potatoes, but as far as I could tell he never ate. Instead of going out to dinner we stayed in and rented movies, most of which were directed by Ingmar Bergman. Persona is an uncomfortable thing to watch, especially with someone you vaguely suspect of being an ax murderer.

Two weeks into our lackluster romance he mentioned a roommate whose existence seemed highly unlikely. “It's a one bedroom apartment,” I challenged. “Where's his toothbrush?” “Hugo is a busy man,” he said. “Always jetting off somewhere and taking his toiletries with him.” Perhaps if he had chosen a more believable name I would have stuck it out, but Hugo was too far fetched. I ended things that night. He rarely contacted me after that, but in a fit of paranoia I decided he was stalking me. Too cheap to buy mace, I kept a can of hairspray next to my bed. “If he breaks in I'll douse him with Aqua Net,” I thought.

I am embarrassed now by my egotism. I wonder where I got the idea that I was interesting enough to be stalked. The dude was weird, sure, but only slightly more so than average. Looking back I think it was the unfamiliarity of him that scared me the most. I had spent all of college curled up next to the same man and now I had to get used to this new body. It had hair in places my ex's did not, scars and tattoos I had never seen before. Everything about him, just like everything about that year, was foreign.

All of my discomfort during that time was self-inflicted. I made decisions based on the person I wanted to be (Anaïs Nin) instead of the person I actually was (Elizabeth Barbee, a suburban-bred geek with an affinity for stability). When I came to this realization, I found an administrative job that was boring as hell but allowed me to move to a nicer place. I submitted my final thoughts on Pack to the publisher. “Can we change the main character's name to Hugo?” I asked. “It sounds more vampiric.”  

Elizabeth Barbee is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Dallas. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here. She last wrote in these pages about her vital signs.

"When We're Fire" - Lo-Fang (mp3)

"Blue Film" - Lo-Fang (mp3)

The new album from Matthew Hemerlein is called Blue Film, and it was released on February 24th.

In Which Our Vitals Look Vaguely Normal

Sisters Before Misters

by ELIZABETH BARBEE

As a child I preferred the nurse's office to the playground. Tetherball wasn't my thing, and after an unfortunate spill, I swore off swing sets. To be clear, I wasn't a wimp. I was sophisticated.

Like many Americans, elementary school teachers view disinterest in contact sports as evidence of a deeper problem. Convincing them to let me skip out on dodge ball was a struggle. Feigning illness seemed like my best bet. I faked sore throats and stomachaches. I became so adept at mimicking the symptoms of sickness that I began to believe I actually was sick. I staggered through the halls almost daily, the back of my hand pressed against my forehead like Greta Garbo. If I had known the expression “woe is me” I would have used it.

When I reached Nurse Hoover's office I flung myself onto one of several white cots and demanded peppermints. Their mentholated taste made them seem medicinal. “Could it be Lupus?” I asked. “Give it to me straight.” Basically, I was Anna Chlumsky in My Girl only not as cute. I had a jaggedly cut chili bowl that my mom tried to feminize with grosgrain bows larger than my head.

I knew about Lupus because I had recently discovered a series of young adult novels centered around teenagers with incurable diseases. They were authored by a woman named Lurlene McDaniel, who must be a really intense person. Her books are titled things like Too Young To Die and Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep, so you look hardcore when you read them in public. I do not think my hypochondria could have reached the heights it did if not for the aegis of these texts. They provided me with great material.

Any time a mysterious bruise appeared on my body I knew the end was near. This inspired  many philosophical questions. If I die, who will take care of my Tamagotchi? Should I leave my rock collection to my best friend, Allison, or my crush, Derrick? Derrick works at Cracker Barrel now and is probably not into rocks. Thank God I went with Allison. Sisters before misters!

My parents were fairly supportive of my macabre habit, because I am their only child. If they lose me, they don't have a spare kid to prove they can keep something alive. The second I complained of a twitch in my left eye or a faint tightness in my chest, they rushed me to the pediatrician.

Dr. Murphy was no Nurse Hoover. For starters he charged. At the end of each appointment he offered my mom the bill and me a lollipop, which was a real blow to my ego. He also had a moderately famous twin brother, Vince, who didn't do his reputation any favors. Vince owned a local music store notorious for terrible commercials that I was sure Dr. Murphy had a hand in producing. Reflective sunglasses and screeching guitars seemed just his style. Worse still, he was onto me. “You aren't running a fever and your vitals look normal,” I remember him saying. I wanted to wipe the smile from his face and seek a second opinion.

It was not that I wanted to be sick. It was that I did not want to be crazy. Our culture is more forgiving of poor health than insanity. Cancer gets you pity, but an imagined medical illness just lands you in the looney bin. People do not send flowers to the looney bin. I learned this from watching Girl, Interrupted.

In my experience, hypochondria is not something you overcome so much as it is something you learn to ignore. After taking myself to the emergency room twice in college, I decided it would be better to die quietly in my apartment than suffer the embarrassment of learning I was just having a panic attack. This has greatly influenced my interior decorating. I refuse to go down looking at a mass produced Breakfast At Tiffany's poster. If you have any hand drawn art at a reasonable price, send it my way.

Elizabeth Barbee is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer, graduate student, and adjunct professor living in Dallas, Texas. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here.

"Grace" - The Crystal Method ft. LeAnn Rimes (mp3)

The new self-titled album by the Crystal Method was released on January 14th.

In Which Adam Levine Lent His Brave Story To Them

Perfect Body, Perfect Soul

by ELIZABETH BARBEE

My gym has several TVs that provide a constant source of nuisance, primarily because I am already angry that I am exercising. The treadmill has a way of turning things which would otherwise be mildly irritating (Kelly Ripa) into personal offenses. A few nights ago my workout session coincided with the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show.

Unfortunately I had not dressed for the occasion. My shirt, a freebie from my college dorm, was decorated in chili stains and sported the ironic words “Ellsworth Hall- We're Bringing Sexy Back!” I had chosen the stationary bike next to a full length mirror for reasons unclear to me now, and my iPod had just run out of battery. Not since middle school had I found myself in an environment so conducive to self-loathing. With a mind set on masochism and nothing to distract me, I peddled away and zeroed in on Cara Delevigne's thighs.

Thighs, I think, attract envious female eyes the same way that breasts attract lustful male eyes. They are the things that most dramatically separate supermodels from the rest of us, the parts of the body that are the most difficult to tone and virtually impossible to buy. The Victoria's Secret runway was full of long, lithe pairs like Delevigne's, each tanned set virtually indistinguishable from the next. The models' bodies were so uniform I might have forgotten other physiques existed if not for my own reflection in the mirror and Taylor Swift, who started bellowing near the middle of the show.

Don't be deceived by my use of “bellowing.” I love Tay-Tay. Her lanky, Gumby-like presence was a welcome relief. Although  appropriately dressed, she seemed just as victimized by the festivities as I did. Unlike the other acts that night who performed on a discreet platform, Swift was forced (I presume) to share the runway with the models. She served as both sound system and foil. Next to her stick straight hair the Angels' manes looked even more bouncy. Her much discussed virginity only amplified the naughty nature of the show.

She first sang a particularly vengeful version of “Trouble” in a sequined mini-dress and then joined Fall Out Boy in this sort of Union Jack/Ring Master getup. Both performances involved exaggerated arm movements and heavy footsteps as though she was determined to take up as much space as possible, which I respect. Periodically she bowed down to the models, pointed at them in a way that was supposed to be meaningful, or slapped them on their rumps.

I got the sense that all of this was very embarrassing for Swift, that the minimal but dramatic choreography was someone else's idea. The hilarious thing about her is that she always looks as though she thinks her grandma is watching. She is willing to capitalize on her looks but not her sexuality. That's why she was only sort of in underwear that night. She's modest.

Although Victoria's Secret is a company that depends upon women for its survival, it seemed like only men were enjoying the show. The camera cut several of times to a smug Adam Levine who, after lending his brave story to those Proactiv infomercials, makes so much more sense as a person. I imagine for him the night was a sort of retrospective of all the women he has dated, his presence in the front row a fuck you to the kids who made fun of him for having the occasional pimple.

Dehydrated and breathless, I transferred all of my feelings about the runway onto the only other person in the gym – a twenty something boy working the night shift. “I bet you think you're really something,” I thought as he played with his phone. Paranoia and leg cramps convinced me that he had intentionally programmed the TV to this station to whip me into shape. “Oh, you think I'm fat, do you,” I thought, burning another couple calories, while he remained disinterested. “I will show you!”

My anger eventually subsided but my feelings of inadequacy did not. I have downloaded calorie counting apps, taken to weighing myself daily, and vowed to never buy Victoria's Secret underwear again. I am proud only of the last point but feel compelled to mention all three, because I am unabashedly looking for pity. I probably need to work on that more than I need to work on my figure.

Elizabeth Barbee is a contributor to This Recording. This is her first appearance in these pages. She is a writer, graduate student, and adjunct professor living in Dallas, Texas.

"To Be Young, Gifted and Black" - Donny Hathaway (mp3)

"Just Another Reason" - Donny Hathaway & June Conquest (mp3)