Come Pick Me Up

This is an excerpt from my forthcoming–but still a long way off–book.

I got in my truck on Thursday afternoon, February 13^th, to leave the CUPD station and head back to Denver. The lead investigator told everybody involved they were ordered to go home and get some sleep; none of us—detectives, friends, or Vanessa, Lindsey or me—had slept since Tuesday night.

I hadn’t been listening to music. I didn’t want anything to later remind me of this experience and had driven to and from Boulder on Wednesday afternoon, night, and Thursday morning in complete silence, only the wind and tires, and the F150’s troubling engine knock, providing sound as I hunched over the steering wheel in shock. But the stereo display would still connect to my Spotify app each time I turned the key.

When I got in the truck on Thursday afternoon, I glanced at the display.

“Come Pick Me Up” by Ryan Adams was on, a random song I don’t think I’d ever heard, a song now etched into my living memory of the terror of those days.

I’m trying, Megan. We’re all trying.

For the next thirty-six hours, an army of friends, family, and professionals tried. Her remains were finally found under a silent blanket of snow in Boulder Canyon.

For the first few weeks, I drove and existed in silence, devoted to the idea that I didn’t want any music to remind me of this time. But one day a few weeks in, I got in my truck and realized that this time is what I have; there will be no time in the future that doesn’t remind me of this time. This is life, from here until the end of mine, so I might as well turn on the radio.

***

I’ve always been passionate about the music I love; I know that at my age, I’m not much different from millions of other people in that regard. I’ve always held on to the emotions that certain songs and artists create in me; these bonds with songs that span my life from the past fifty years. I treat REM and The Replacements and Wilco and Widespread Panic like figurines in a curio case—I open the door to the case and gently lift out a song like “Good Advices,” “Answering Machine,” “Poor Places,” or “Pleas,” blow the dust off of them, and simply be with them, for the memories they conjure or the specific mood they either bolster or put me into. I feast on the sentimentality.

I have songs for every mood, space, time, weather condition, season, group of friends, activity, event, everything. I always have a song that fits. But when I turned on the radio that morning, nothing immediately came to mind. I tried Fables of the Reconstruction. Nothing. I moved on to Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. Didn’t fit. What about Panic’s Everyday—a powerhouse of an album. That’ll do it.

Nope.

Everything I tried sounded tinny, distant, and without the carrying capacity necessary for the level of emotion I swam in. I tried a few more and eventually realized there’s no music for this. None. It was all small music for small problems or for celebrations which no longer existed. The memories of those songs belonged to the me before, not the me now. The me now couldn’t find anything in any of it. I thought about how far I felt from that earlier guy and I grieved, and I continued to grieve, because his life ended.

Without the weight of expectation, I settled on Bob Mould-Workbook, not because it offered a truth or connection to what I was feeling, but because it sounded okay enough. I’d never gotten into that album even though it came out when I was in college and I probably should have. I turned it on at about level two, barely audible, and let it play. And play, and play. It played for weeks.

Around the house, I listened to KUVO, the Denver jazz station. I kept it low, again barely audible, but always on. What appealed to me is that I’m not a jazz guy. I know little aside from Dave Brubeck, John Coltrane and Miles Davis. Most of the songs had no words. There were no words to help me, just music with no connection, no trigger. Good enough.  

***

On February 11^th, the night before we found out Megan was missing, I went to a concert with Stacey, a great lady I’d begun dating, and a couple who are old, dear friends. We saw ABC and Howard Jones at Mission Ballroom. It was not exactly my cup of tea, nostalgic synth pop, but like everybody else, I knew all the songs and thought it would be a fun double date; it was. We danced (me: poorly) to “Poison Arrow” and “Things Can Only Get Better” and had a lovely evening. “No One is to Blame” was a highlight. Love that song.

I didn’t know at the time that Megan was gone. I also didn’t know that February 11^th would be the end of whoever I was for fifty-four and a half years. That guy vanished the following day. I grieve him. Throughout his time on earth, he had no clue of how awful, how dark, how incomprehensibly difficult life could get. In the time since, I’ve tried to deal with the guilt of knowing now what I didn’t know that night. I was dancing.

I know I didn’t know. That doesn’t help. The cruelty of the universe is one giant, shape-shifting mass, finding spaces in our lives large, tiny, or otherwise to fit into and smother any light. And as a live music fanatic, this cruelty was no more awful than the rest, but awful all the same.

***

Up in Boulder Canyon searching for evidence sometime in March, an old friend and former LSU/Murphy’s DJ (elder DJ guru—he preceded me at Murphy’s and enjoyed deity status to us youngsters) who lives in Boulder came up to help out. As we searched in the rocks, we talked about music. I told him I’d been listening to Bob Mould Workbook exclusively. I told him none of the music I thought I loved made any sense anymore. At one point, he asked a simple question.

“When’s the last time you listened to Boston’s first album?”

“Boston? Never, except classic rock radio.”

The search continued, the conversation continued.

A few days later, I was driving to a meeting, utterly tired of Bob Mould. My buddy’s voice popped in my head, like an echo effect from a movie inner monologue. “Boston…Boston…Boston…”

I found the first Boston album and pushed play. The intro to “More Than a Feeling” crept up and filled the cab of the truck. I remember this. Who could forget it? I grew up with classic rock radio. I know all these songs. But today, it sounded…harmless. I had no emotional connection to it, except maybe childhood, that time before life did what life does, when everything sounded good, even Phil Collins-era Genesis.

I listened to that Boston album on a loop for weeks. It meant nothing; it was like elevator music I knew all the words to. I could put it on barely audible and follow the songs with my mind, but not celebrate anything. I could just have something in the background to keep me out of my grief for long enough to operate a vehicle and make basic decisions. Soon I was finding other classic rock: Jethro Tull, Styx, whatever. It filled the space. This would be the pattern for the entirety of Spring.

***

Stacey bought tickets to Turnpike Troubadours on advice from her cousins in Texas. I had heard the name but not the band; they were playing at Red Rocks so why not check them out?

The whole crowd was from Oklahoma and proud of it. The songs were about tailgates and cold beers and grandpa’s shotgun and proposing to your best girl on the Fourth of July on the tailgate with Grandma’s ring and the farm and more cold beers and America. It was a gorgeous early May night; still a little chilly and exhilarating. I didn’t fit in—I didn’t overthink it–but I enjoyed the evening as an anthropologist, an outsider observing a population having a good time. But I didn’t feel anything in terms of the music.

***

Scrolling through Facebook on a Saturday morning, I came across an NPR article about some singer-songwriter named Ben Kweller. He had just released an album dealing with the grief of losing his teenage son in a car crash a couple of years ago. The article certainly caught my eye. He was on tour, playing at the Bluebird Theater in Denver on July 8^th. I read the article, very heartfelt and honest, then downloaded the album. I listened to it all the way through, only once, on that cloudy Saturday morning, then proceeded to the Bluebird website and bought tickets.

***

Next up for live music was one of Stacey’s all-time favorite bands, Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, performing in early June at the Paramount Theater in Denver. I was a last-minute addition; we met her friends at Henry’s downtown for dinner beforehand. I knew one of the couples. I was meeting the other couple for the first time. They knew who I was. I could see the terror in their faces when we were introduced. But soon we sat down to dinner and drinks and everybody relaxed. I think I hit it off with the guy in the new couple; he was wearing a Sammy Hagar t-shirt and owned a ’57 Beetle. I liked him immediately.

At the Paramount, we made our way to our seats in the middle of a row in the balcony section. The lights went down and the band started, nostalgic synth pop from the eighties. I could feel my stomach tensing up, and sweat in my pits and on my forehead. Nostalgic synth pop from the eighties. Megan was gone in February while I danced to nostalgic synth pop from the eighties.

I’m stuck in the middle of this row. I can’t leave because why would I leave? I can’t make a scene, I can’t burst into tears, I can’t rage at anybody around me or beat the hell out of my seat. I can’t go anywhere because it doesn’t matter where I am. It’s already here with me, this terror, and it will have its way with me until it is satisfied for now. All I can do is stand here, slightly dancing, and stare at that stage. My life is in ruins but that’s no reason to put anybody else out, especially Stacey. This is her favorite band. It will last two hours, it will be over, then we will be outside. In the meantime, every cell in my body is being shredded apart with anger, sadness, powerlessness, self-hatred, and guilt.

As predicted, the show did end. I didn’t do anything or show anything out of the ordinary (but nobody was paying attention to me—OMD was up there.) We walked out to the lobby and talked about how good the show was. And it was good. When you’re with a crowd that absolutely adores the band, and the band is so grateful and having so much fun, the connection is undeniably beautiful. I was happy to have witnessed it from wherever I was, that little fragment of me not in terror. I could see it from in there, and it’s probably what kept me from coming apart at the seams.

Perhaps I need to tap the brakes on live music, I thought. Maybe I’m just not ready. But on July 5^th, there was a free show up at Granby Ranch ski area, Root Beer Ritchie and The Reveille. They’re a new favorite with two Louisiana natives in the band who appear to be gathering momentum locally, and I wanted to see them. We picked up another couple in Fraser last-minute and headed up to the hill.

With our camp chairs strategically placed in the soft green grass close to the stage but not loud-close, we sat and soaked in sun and listened to music. The three of them drank beers and canned wine while I had my Cokes. It was a glorious afternoon. The band was fantastic. It was all perfect.

Except from the moment we arrived, all I wanted to do was go home. I felt guilty for being there.

Could be worse, it’ll be fine. Try to enjoy it. Please, please try to enjoy it.

But what if these people in this crowd know who I am? How could I do this, out at a celebratory summer event, when my beautiful daughter is gone, and it’s all unsolved and unresolved.

It was no use. I was nervous, unable and unwilling to get out of my camp chair, even when the eighties cover band headliner started. Nostalgic eighties music. God get me out of here.

Again I survived. We came home, and we agreed it was a great time. I really did like the Louisiana band and I knew that a little speck of me truly enjoyed it. But I had this dreadful feeling that live music was no longer okay. I couldn’t escape the weight of it.

***

That Monday after the holiday weekend, I looked through my calendar and saw a name atop the little Friday cube: Ben Kweller.

Who the hell is Ben Kweller? I truly had no idea. I googled him and realized he was the singer songwriter whose son had died tragically. Wait, I remember this. I checked my live music account, AXS or Ticketmaster, and saw two tickets to Ben Kweller.

It came back to me. These tickets seemed like a good idea over a month ago when I bought them. But I’m not going. I don’t want to go. It was a dumb idea and live music is not doing it for me. And what if he turns out to be some kid and the place is full of teenagers? Nope. Not going. Not even going to sell the tickets. I’ll just eat the cost and we’ll forget the whole thing.

I looked him up on Wikipedia. Age 44, he had been in influential bands and nothing had truly taken off. But, he had been prolific, churning out albums over the years. I didn’t investigate any further. Maybe.

I texted Stacey.

So I realized this morning I have tix to this show on Friday at the Bluebird, Ben Kweller.  

Oh fun. Did you already get a date?

I was sorta hoping that maybe you’d entertain the notion of exploring the possibility of potentially considering a near-future reality in which you would be my date.”

I’m so glad you asked—I’m in!

I texted a couple of buddies the NPR story and wrote that his situation seems like a connection, so we were going to his show; tickets were cheap and it’s at the Bluebird, which gives any show credibility—we love the Bluebird.

One friend was in; the other couldn’t make it.

Friday rolled around. I was nervous all day. This was another show by another performer I knew little about. Even at the venerable Bluebird, a mere twenty blocks or so from my house, I could foresee not wanting to stay once we stepped through the metal detector. I feared that the band didn’t matter, the venue didn’t matter, none of it. But eventually we headed for the theater.

It wasn’t sold out, but a jovial, excited crowd awaited the show. I could tell instantly there weren’t many tourists like us here—these people knew who this guy was. When he came on stage, they roared. He broke into a song and they knew all the words. He smiled and joked and laughed, they all followed along. The songs ranged from acoustic country to Dinosaur Jr.-tinged heavy rock. All of his music had a breezy air, a melodic quality which meant that even if you had never heard any of it (us), it was still infectious and engaging.

At one point in the show he dedicated a song to his deceased son, playing his acoustic and pointing and looking upwards at the end. My buddy found it very touching; I simply related to it. When you’ve lived in this world for a while, it becomes less likely that you cry at another’s grief. You simply accept it, feel it, and perhaps are even calmed by it.

At the conclusion of the show, the lights came up and the three of us walked outside. I felt different. It occurred to me I hadn’t wanted to leave once during that show. Granted, at my age that’s partly because I got a great parking spot and because it wasn’t sold out and we had plenty of good space to hang out, but the fact remained that I enjoyed that concert. I didn’t feel bad, or guilty, or really anything; during the show I never once thought of the exit. Walking out, there was nothing but that pure, warm feeling of having just seen a great show with people you care about. That was it.

I listened to Ben Kweller exclusively for a week or so, then put his music in my “good pile” on Spotify. While the show had been a minor breakthrough, I was still afraid to peek out from under my blanket of Bob Seger, REO Speedwagon, and Boston.  

***

I ran into another old friend a few weeks later. He said, “Uh, I know you have your thing with music, (I had discussed my live music issues with him at some point) but are we still on for Wilco on August 16^th?”

“Yeah, of course,” I said, the knot in my stomach forming.

***

Back in April on a plane ride to Denver from a wedding in Baton Rouge, I couldn’t listen to anything on my headphones. Not even voiceless jazz sounded palatable. I tried a Jeff Tweedy solo album. It sounded small, weak, distant, like he was strumming his guitar right outside the window of the plane, his heartfelt lyrics erased by the turbulence. Jeff Tweedy on the wing. “There’s a Jeff Tweedy on the wing!” Since then, I hadn’t listened to any Wilco or anything like it. It simply didn’t matter anymore.

It was with this attitude that I attended Wilco with two buddies. We went to dinner first; I was a nervous wreck. I don’t know if anybody can tell when I’m a nervous wreck. I can’t tell if anybody knows anything about me. I don’t know what they’re thinking, how they feel, how they think I feel. These are all formerly elementary skills for me which seem to be gone, but really aren’t important in the grand scheme. I’ve learned that people respond to Vanessa, Lindsey and me in myriad ways: sadness, sympathy, denial, sheer terror…The list is long. But these two would probably just chalk it up to me being different now.

I hadn’t thought about the show at all; I’d kept it out of my mind. I didn’t know what to expect but I also didn’t have to manage expectations; there were none. There was nothing except seeing a couple of good friends again after a long summer without much contact.

After dinner, we headed to Mission Ballroom for the show. There was no opener; all Wilco. One of my top five favorite bands whom I’d seen scores of times, a security blanket of a band. We found our usual Mission spot in the balcony. They then went to hit the bathroom and get drinks.

Standing alone, I felt it creep in.

You shouldn’t be here. This was a mistake. It’s emotional music and you can’t handle it. Or you’ll feel nothing at all, even worse considering your three-decade relationship with this band.

How can I get out? I’m here. But there has to be a way out.

I felt my chest tighten as excited fans crowded into the floor section below me. There are songs that will make me collapse in front of this world. I couldn’t do it.

As I gained focus on how to escape, I felt her.

I could see Megan in my mind, looking at me with incredulity, gearing up for a delightfully sarcastic remark about Dad Rock.

My chest relaxed. It’s Wilco. Perhaps somewhere in there I can still love this.

I won’t say there was a massive change in the way I approached the show; I watched and listened with a sense of detachment, as an observer, where I once experienced Wilco with a serious emotional investment. I enjoyed watching the crowd experience it that way.

I loosened my grip and allowed myself to enjoy one of my favorite passions again, even if, as this different version of myself, it’s not the same. But nothing ever will be.