Hi Darling Ones,

One minute it is the summer of 1997 and you’re sitting on the cool stone porch steps of your college best friend’s post-college rental smoking Camel Lights. It’s Sunday morning, though it still feels like Saturday because you haven’t gone to bed yet. It’s so late/early that you don’t even feel drunk anymore, but you were at some point in the evening.

She’s propped a speaker from her stereo into the window of her basement apartment and Tom Wait’s “Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis” plays softly. Of course it’s that song, because you are in Minneapolis at that exact moment.

“Marty’s really got me into Tom Waits lately,” your friend says between drags.

You are skeptical because you’re neck-deep into your Replacements’ phase. However, you are going to be endlessly delighted to discover “Date to Church” in a few months. But you aren’t there yet. You’re still skeptical, but trust her musical judgement. So you smoke cigarettes and close your eyes to listen because you are young and it is August and time is not a concern.

And when you open your eyes it is August still, but a different Sunday morning, Tom Waits floating through another pair of speakers. You are putting a chorizo & black bean chili in the crockpot trying to muster patience for your Floppy Scoop as you chop chipotles.

It all happened that fast. One moment smoking Camel Lights and discovering Tom Waits for the first time, the next recovering from a stroke and making chili, using a crockpot, and having definite opinions about Tom Waits backed by 25 years of listening.

I’m glad this was a thing I can’t forget.

Nostalgically yours,
Jodi

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Total gas station used to be on the corner of First Avenue and Atwood in Shakopee. The house my parents’ rented was right across the street. I worked the 3-11 shift most nights in 1996 and 1997. I hated the job because I thought I was too good for it. Yes, I was an insufferable jackass as a twenty-something. Thank you for noticing.

My coworkers and I didn’t have a lot in common, well except for Sister #2, who also worked there, but never with me.

Angie was a mean girl with bad skin, bleached-blonde hair who tight-rolled her pants and drove a purple Corvette. She had her own tanning bed in the trailer she shared with her, allegedly, abusive boyfriend. Shari was an eighteen-year-old who looked like Alanis Morissette and struggled a lot. In the year I knew her she had two abortions and gave birth to a super-preemie who died after a few days.

One day as Shari was counting out and I was counting in, “Santeria” came on the radio.

“Did you know that Santeria is like a real religion?”
“Really? How do you know that?” I asked.
“I saw it on Pop-Up videos.”
“Huh,” I said. “I had no idea.”

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I was 16 the first time I passionately stated an opinion and after a grown man laughed at me and said, “Tell us what you really think.”

It was Mr. Davids who laughed at me. He was one of those short, square men who coached wrestling. He had been my US History teacher the year before, and the reason I’m such a dummy about US history. We spent most of our history class watching Sally Field movies because he thought she was cute. I know a lot about Sally Field movies and very little about history.

This happened to me more and more frequently as I got older, reaching its pinnacle when I worked at a software company in the early-aughts. Ever single white guy with a VP or Chief in his title did that to me, laughed and then told me to tell them what I really think.

My reaction to this bullshit usually varied from a weak smile to deadpan bitch face depending on how comfortable I was in the situation. I wish I could go back and ask those fuckers if they would like me to make it simpler since they obviously didn’t understand me the first time.

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During my sophomore year of high school the seniors were the class of 1988. We were the class of 1990.

A lot of Fridays we would have pep fests in the school gym. They’d pull out the bleachers and all 1500ish of us would pour in to the sound of the pep band. The cheerleaders would lead us in the fight song. “On ye bengals go mighty bengals, victory will bring us fame. Let’s fight for the might of the blue and white, come on lets win that game!”

(if that is correct I’m either the smartest or dumbest person to ever attend Blaine Senior High from 1987-1990)

I don’t know if there were speeches or anything. I know the dance team (different than the cheerleaders) would do a routine. There’d be a rousing rendition of “We’ve got spirit. Yes we do!” We’d also do these class cheers. Pitting each class to against the others to see who were the loudest and therefore the most full of school spirit.

The cheer involved just chanting the class year — eighty-eight, eighty-eight, eighty eighty eighty eight!

The class of 1990 never won. Because saying ninety, ninety na-na-na-ninety sounds stupid.

I’m positive this cheer was only popular from 1981-1989.

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News of Dolores O’Riordan’s death has picked me up from where I sat on the chilly blue couch here in 2018 and plummeted me back to Eau Claire circa 1993 (or maybe 1994).

Specifically it’s deposited me in that apartment on Gilbert that I shared with Sister #2 and Ben. A place that was often filled with underage skatepunks illegally drinking 40s and playing Legend of Zelda on a 9″ TV while I was off at editing the college newspaper and getting legally drunk on Water Street (as pictured above in a photo by Maarten Daams I swiped from Wikipedia).

I’m not sure what confluence of events led to Ray and I sitting alone in the apartment, something that happened quite rarely back in the day. The alone part, not the hanging out with Ray part. For the record, I just hung out with Ray before Thanksgiving. That friendship is going on 25 years now and even though we go years without seeing each other, whenever we meet up it’s like no time has passed. And every time I see Ray, I retell this story. I’ve told it so much he claims he’s not sure if actually remember the night or just me talking about it.

On that night in 1993 (or 1994), Ray and I were alone in the apartment. I was sprawled on the tator-tot sectional, he was on the floor next to the CD boombox.

“Do you have The Cranberries?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said.

Then we proceeded to lay around and listen to “Linger” on repeat for about 10 hours, or at least it felt like that. I believe we were both sober, but who knows? We were college students.

Ray tried endlessly to explain why he was so obsessed with the song. Why it was the best one on the album. I’m sure it had something to do with the delicious way O’Riordan sings the word “linger” or maybe it was the “I’m such a fool for you line.”

I’m not sure of all the hours and hours I’ve spent with Ray over the years this one sticks so stubbornly in my brain. I don’t exactly remember what we said or what else we might have talked about. I just remember that song over and over, Ray pressing the back button every time it ended.

Maybe it sticks in my head because it was one of those last times when I just laid around lazily discussing a song with a friend. There was no ulterior motive, no hoping he liked me or wondering if I liked him. I wasn’t trying to impress him and there was none of that bullshit “I know more than you do” that happens so often with music fans (especially if one of them is male).

We just had nothing else to do, no worries on our minds, just Delores and the way she said linger.

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