Nostalgia kills. That insatiable yearning for the good old days is the greatest lover and enemy of humanity. I do not regard myself as a particularly nostalgic person, but I have had bursts of flashbacks here and there. That one dark night, as the needle dropped to the soundtrack of my faltering youth, I strained my consciousness from the present and back to California.
For those who had never been to San Francisco, Chinatown is right next to Little Italy. I have always thought that their proximity was deliberate. I never did research on which came first, but I suppose that one must have wanted the other company in this strange, unfamiliar city. Both Chinese and Italian Americans must have been marginalized at one point. It is the common bond they share, the bond of trauma. Settling on the winding hills of San Francisco must have helped the immigrants overcome their loneliness all those years ago.
There is a Chinese proverb that goes, “Two tigers cannot share the same hill.” The Chinese and Italian mafia were at odds in their heyday. I remember watching a film, “The Year of the Dragon” in the cinemas down in Castro. It was 1985. The movie was set in New York City, but I resonated with the location of Little Italy and Chinatown in SF. Overthrowing mafia bosses, drug trading, and all kinds of shady businesses. It is like, loneliness breeds misery, and misery needs company.
My father owned the bakery on the street right between Chinatown and Little Italy back then. Although I had moved away for school at the ripe age of 20, I would go there from time to time to visit my parents. It happened on a cold night of Spring down in San Francisco, as I was about to go home for dinner with my parents. I turned the corner to Stockton with my car. Coit Tower cast its erected shadow upon the dimly lit streets.
It has been a while since I went back home, and a lot has changed around here. A new café across from the bakery has caught my eye. It was Sicilian. I can’t remember the name now, but it was full of island-themed decorations. On the wall of the side hangs oversized posters of Matrimonio all'italiana and Divorzio all'italiana. I do not recall seeing the latter, but I did recall seeing Sophia Loren’s ample bosom in the former. The decoration was alluringly suffocating, it was more Sicilian-tourist themed than Sicilian.
It was strange that a café would open this late at 11 pm, but its warm golden light compelled me to look inside. I have grown accustomed to my solitude, and I didn’t want to see my folks anyway. There I was, walking into this empty cafe without any particular intent. I sat right next to the Matrimonio all'italiana poster, right beneath Loren’s gaze.
I remember the first time I saw her. She passed me from the table swiftly, her shirt almost falling from her lean shoulder. I was too late to turn my head around to see her face, but I felt a slight gust of wind as she walked passed me. I caught a glimpse of her white skirt as it brushed against the side of my shoulder.
I did not know what I wanted going in. I was not hungry, and now I have to find an excuse to stay without looking like an asshole. She came out from the kitchen, this time with an apron around her waist. I looked up, and she looks back at me with her hands on the desk. I studied the expression on her face. It was the familiar emotion of tired bleakness from every waitress I had ever seen. She wasn’t particularly beautiful, but there was something unique about her face. She asked if I wanted to order anything. I knew three different Italian dishes, and I definitely do not want pizza or pasta.
“Tiramisu, please.”
She took the menu and left. I suppose that she is the only one working right now, so she also took up the roles of host, waitress, and cashier. I was scanning my surroundings, and there were a lot of intriguing things around me. I can’t remember it clearly now, but I believe that there were a few plants with heads as flower pots. The colorful porcelain eyes stare right back into mine.
Music started playing in the café. I looked up and saw small stereo speakers around the cashier table, with a spinning CD inside, and there it was playing softly, Jeff Buckley’s “Corpus Christi Carol”.
It is a sacred, haunting lullaby. Jeff Buckley’s falsettos were soft yet piercing, and echoing is the soft electric guitar that wanders through this crowded empty chamber.
She came out with the tiramisu. She placed it on the table and left.
The song comes to a close, and I waited in anticipation for the next. If “Eternal Life” is next, that means she is playing the album.
The soft guitar was traded for an aggressive, angry grunge riff. It was indeed, “Eternal Life”.
Buckley was influenced by Led Zepplin, more so than his father’s folk rock. The song forms a stark contrast from “Corpus Christi Carol”, and I adore the placement of the song here.
I wished to tell her how much I love this album. I must first find an excuse.
I barely touched the tiramisu. I was engaged with the music, bopping my head to the harsh rhythm.
“When will I find the strength to bring me release?
Tell me where is the love in what your prophet has said.”
Buckley proposed furiously.
I couldn’t help but sing along. I believe that it might have caught her attention. She shuffled from her kitchen with a cup of espresso.
“You listen to Grace?”
“I do. Jeff Buckley was an amazing artist.”
“I know. It is like his ghost haunts me every time I hear his voice. It is a shame that he only made one album.”
I nodded as she took a sip from her cup.
We took a second to listen to the song.
“I love your voice and your dance insane
I hear your words and I know your pain”
“Extraordinary debut album,” I replied. “Sometimes I wonder if he hadn’t died so soon, would he make mediocre music and have a vastly different legacy.”
“Like the James Dean of his time.”
“Exactly like the James Dean of his time.”
I turned in the direction of her voice. Her body was leaning against the bar table, with the cup sitting on the edge.
She smiled. “Are you not enjoying the tiramisu?”
I told her I wasn’t actually hungry.
She offered a cup of espresso.
Sure, I replied. I liked where this was going, so I used that as an excuse to continue our conversation.
She came back with her cup and mine. I was caught off-guard by the strong aroma of the bite-sized cup of Italian espresso.
She asked me if I wanted sugar. I declined.
“Y’know, Italians do put sugar in their espressos.”
“I prefer the stripped-down version of things,” I responded, looking at her from above, unaware of the innuendo.
She chuckled lightly.
“Now, why didn’t I expect that from a Jeff Buckley listener?”
“You should’ve.”
She sat across from me at the table. She was leaning towards my side, and I remember thinking that it meant that she wanted to further our conversation. She asked me which song was my favorite from Grace.
“Forget Her” was playing.
I told her, it was this one.
I told her about my story of how this song was almost tailor-made for me when I was 18. Looking back, my teenage heartbreak did not compare to the melancholia evoked in the song.
She swayed left and right to the slow rhythm of the song. She told me it was a nice one, but it wasn’t her favorite.
I finished my cup of espresso.
“Which one is it?”
“I have one in mind.”
“Tell me about it.”
She chuckled, her eyes wandering to the clock. I smiled and pleaded for her to tell me. It wasn’t fair that she knew my favorite song and I don’t know hers.
It was “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over.”
She got up, took my empty cup into hers, and told me to wait for the bill. I couldn’t help but grin at her answer. I thought she was hinting at something. She wasn’t, but I was hoping that she was. It was the song right before “Corpus Christi Carol” on the album.
She placed the tip tray on the table with a receipt. I put a $20 dollar bill on the tip tray, and she took it to the cashier's desk. My thoughts persisted in her direction. “Forget Her” was the last song on the album, so the disc would have been finished at that point.
I read the “Thank you, Please Come Again” from the sign hanging on the door. But I didn’t want this to be over. I got up and walked towards where she was.
I hummed the tune of “Lover, You Should’ve Come Over”:
“Maybe I’m too young
To keep good love from going wrong
But tonight you're on my mind”
She looked up. For a second, a rush of embarrassment and adrenaline came over me. This was the most ingratiating thing I have ever done, like a suitor singing from the balcony of a fair maiden.
If anything, she should have walked away and pretended this never happened.
I reached out with my hand over the counter, continuing my serenade in grace.
“Too young to hold on
And too old to just break free and run”
“That’s my favorite lyric,” she responded to my plead with a slightly judgmental smirk.
I withdrew my hand, assuming that it was a rejection.
I walked out of the door, still singing the rest of the tune in my head. I did not dare to look back, wondering if Eurydice was ever going to spare a response. And I did not want to say goodbye, I’d never walk this street again. The street was freezing, I could see the vapor of my breath as I walked across the street.
I unlocked my car parked right next to my father’s store. The thinly frosted metal on the car proved how much time had passed as I spent time there. I looked back to the Sicilian Café, and I see the silhouette of her from the window. She was wearing a long, burgundy coat, with her back facing towards me. She held her hair from her neck with both hands, then adjusted its position to keep the strands on either side of her shoulder. I was still standing on the side of my car, eagerly waiting for a reply.
She dimmed the lights of the Café and walked out of place. Her eyes met mine.
“You’re tearing me apart!” I yelled across the street, giving my best shot of a James Dean impression.
I couldn’t tell if she was rolling her eyes or smiling at me, but she turned her back to me once again and locked the door of the Café. I needed to think of something quick to get her attention. I looked over to either side of the street and walked towards her. I could feel my hands getting colder and colder. Yet, the audacity that I had at that moment overcame the freezing temperature.
“Before you ask, we already had coffee.”
“I was just going to say that I have the Legacy Edition of Grace at home if you’re interested,” I came up with this excuse right before I walked up to her. She was only a few inches shorter than me.
“Right, I’ve yet to hear that one yet.”
“You should’ve expected that from a Jeff Buckley listener,” I replied. We met an hour ago, and we already have our own little inside joke.
I will be honest, I do not recall the intricate details past this point. This was the story of how she and I met, and somehow we ended up at my place. I was too caught up in acting cool, and the truth is, I did not own the extended version of Grace. I saw it in a record store once, but I did not buy the record. I prayed to the Gods that she had never listened to the extended version, so I could carry on pretending that what I owned was, in fact, the extended version. I made sure to put the album on a loop, so this night could last forever.
The night thickens. We spent our time together listening to Grace, from start to finish.
"Kiss me, please kiss me
But kiss me out of desire, babe, not consolation
Oh, you know it makes me so angry
'Cause I know that in time, I'll only make you cry
This is our last goodbye"
Every moment we touched, I was begging my record player to not malfunction so this would last for a while. Every song flew by, and I wished I had the extended version. I was getting to know her, getting to know every inch of her. My mind glitches every time our eyes met, wondering if it was all but a delicate fantasy. It was as if she had awakened something in me, something that had been dormant since I was eighteen.
I have no idea when we winded down, but I remembered the last moments when I looked over at her sleeping, “Hallelujah” was playing. A beautiful rendition of the Leonard Cohen song, Jeff Buckley changed the gospel-styled song into a soft, melancholic ballad. I turned around to observe the subtle rise and fall of her chest as she breathes under the dim light.
“But remember, when I moved in you
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah”
That had always been my favorite part of the song. It reminds me of that moment. An eclectic mix of thoughts was at the back of my mind, but all I could focus on was that tranquility with the girl who loves Grace. Her silhouette echoes my lingering gaze. I was studying her ebbs and flows. I thought to myself, there was something asymmetrical about her body. The transition from her waist to her hips was just as peculiar. She was nothing like I have ever seen.
A lump came to my throat, and I was ashamed of my voyeuristic impulses. My dimwitted ingenuity had put my mind at unease, and now I must pay for the price. I paused the record and fell asleep on the sofa, wishing that I had never thought of that.
She was gone the next morning. She came and left without a trace, except for the spinning Grace disc in the player. I don’t know her name, but I would like to think it might be Grace. I never liked how it ended, but I assumed that she liked how we ended. I rarely return to my father’s store afterwards, fearing that I would see her again and not knowing what to say.
As I grew older, I realized that it is unwise to find a lover that shares your personal tastes. If you want to separate your individual personality from hers, it is wiser to find someone that you know you are not going to latch on to. I dated women that had vastly different passions and tastes in music from mine. Although I would try to withhold my judgments, I cannot help but feel superior with my objective subjectivity, and not even my wife is immune to my snobbishness. The only woman that I allowed to have the same opinion as me, was the girl that liked Grace.
As for the album, I no longer feel the same adoration for it as I did in the past. Whether it was because of the events of that night, or my own fault for overplaying, I simply do not feel the same about that album over time. It was like an old friend that I haven’t heard from for decades.
That was, until a few days ago, I discover a copy of Sketches for My Sweetheart The Drunk at a vintage record store. My old Grace disc has already been severely scratched, so I thought it was about time to give Jeff Buckley’s posthumous sophomore album a listen. He was only 30 years old when he died of accidental drowning. The album had confirmed my assumptions: it was not as good as Grace, not nearly as good as Grace.
To this day, I still don’t know if she knew I lied about owning the extended version. Perhaps it didn’t matter: although Grace’s extended version has a second disc of studio outtakes from the album, it doesn’t have “Forget Her”. And if I can have anything in common with that, it would be that I haven’t either.
Inspired by:
An Assortment of Short Stories by Haruki Murakami
One line from Taylor Swift’s Cornelia Street
And, of course, Jeff Buckley’s Grace