Fargo-Moorhead 1988

I wish I could say we were the kind of creatively misguided geniuses that solved our ‘who sits in the front seat’ dilemma with a spirited game of Rock Paper Shotgun. I wish I could claim that we used our combined brainpower to make music and art and poetry that could have changed the world. I wish I could say that we were the best of friends, banded together in the worst of towns. We were all those things, though, we just didn’t realize it. Mostly we just sat around and drank.

The nights were ours. Many were spent at my house, listening to The Clash and working our way, quickly, desperately, through a case of warm Schaeffer beer. Others were made for roaming around Fargo – aimlessly walking, pointlessly talking. There were warm summer evenings spent outside, dodging mosquitoes on the merry-go-round. There were cold winter nights, bundled up in each other for warmth.

Matt and I knew all the downtown alleys. He was going to open a speakeasy and I was going to be his doyenne. Small, dark, close, a cabaret, a salon, a coffee shop, a bar, an opium den. A library, a flophouse, record store, an oasis. A blue light bulb was going to be our beacon.

Thad and I were going to set up a home together. He’d quit drinking and I’d quit smoking and all of our furniture would be black and we’d dance in our living room at midnight. Everything was an occasion to be dressed and distressed for, no occasion to formal and green eyeshadow was our trademark. We’d create our wardrobes from vintage treasures and live every injuriously decorated moment to the fullest.

Mike and I would road-trip. His little white Honda would take us anywhere; he’d drive and man the clutch while I’d shift. I’d navigate and steal the Pringles, and he’d keep a steady stream of Violent Femmes and The Cult blasting into the night. We’d park on moonlight country roads and talk for hours, just watching the stars sweep by.

Tim and I knew everything about indie college pop. His band would play songs about me and my friends would dance, unknowingly. We’d bicker incessantly, for the benefit of whomever was in earshot, but when alone we’d whisper because our words didn’t need to carry far. The words were for each other, partly, but mostly just for ourselves; saying them out loud took the sting off their insincerity.

We were hungry, as teenagers tend to be. Not just for excitement or stimulation, or even kicks. We were pretty easy to please – just give us some food, some beer, and something to do. Those of us who worked in food service brought home what we could, and others of us stole. Sometimes we’d grocery shop through our parents’ cupboards and once, we dumpster dove at McDonald’s. There is no honor among the ravenous, and no shame among friends.

We read poetry by Henry Rollins because he was hard and Bukowski because he was drunk and Tom Waits because he was Tom. We listened to Pailhead and Scraping Foetus and Tin Machine and even Mussolini Headkick and everything we could get our hands on. Knowledge was limited and resources were shared and there was power in having and giving and listening.

Bands rarely came through Fargo, so we ordered VHS tapes out of the back of Maximum Rock ‘n Roll. Kids from all over – Kindred, Glyndon, West Fargo, Felton – would come over to watch Punk and Disorderly or a copy-of-a-copy Minor Threat bootleg. Likewise, we made our own hair dye (with various levels of success) by boiling crepe paper, and we dreamed of shops that sold Bogey’s clothing. Roadtrips to Minneapolis often brought back purloined Manic Panic and fluorescent tights from Tatters.

We danced by bonfires and crashed through the woods. We skateboarded through parking ramps and climbed atop apartment buildings. We rearranged letters on reader boards to tell our own stories.
I keep saying “we” as though this was a gang, a clique, or even a club. Far from it; there was just me. There were a few core people who were always there, the true friends of the thick-and-thin variety, and there was a rotating cast of hangers-on and hanger-outers. There was never a pretense of being together forever and always, but there seemed to be strands of invisible thread that banded us. Within that, though, I was still alone.

I burned most of the people close to me. Not intentionally, but all the same, Justin, Eric, Bill, Paul, they all bear the marks. Justin got his at the Silver Spike motel, we’d been drinking Diet Coke and champagne and watching “Kiss of the Spider Woman” and I was pointing at the ceiling and so was he and my cigarette hit his hand and lingered. Bill’s was similar, drunk, talking, gesturing, falling over. Burn. Eric fared little better; a careless flick of the ember missed its mark. I don’t remember Paul’s at all, but I’ve been told it happened the night he taught me how to jump off buildings, there’s a way to do it if you wanna end it all, and a way to do it if you want to walk away.

I don’t know how to document our lives now; most of us have disappeared. I don’t think any of us are doctors, but some are probably lawyers. Some of us wear our Failed Academic flags high, while others suffer through various jobs that are comfortably beneath us. Some are musicians, one is a plumber. There are families and psychiatric hospitals and funerals and form-letters on the holidays. There are teething rings and high-school football Friday nights and if we’re lucky, the occasional phone call.

We’re far away now, and I don’t know if we’ll ever be close again; the days of all for one and one for all are definitely over. What I do know, though, is that I will always have those years. I keep them close.