Short Story: "Three Chord Breakup"

Three Chord Breakup

I met him at Art in the Park when he stopped by my booth.  I was taken by his boyish grin, upscale clothes, and finely manicured nails. Definitely not my usual kind of guy. 

“I like your art.  Do you freelance?”

Those were the first words out of his mouth.

“Well, I suppose that depends on what you mean?”  It wasn’t long before I was agreeing to be a freelance designer for his distribution business.  He gave me his business card: Carson Petersen, CEO Dynamic Distributors. 

And soon after that we began seeing each other outside of his office.

I live in a small apartment with a room dedicated to my art studio.  I have been able to make a small living doing my jazz-inspired art, but this was the first time I worked for someone else in any way art-related.  I usually just pick up other jobs at coffee shops and bakeries just to make ends meet. And I usually date guys that aspire to be writers or artists themselves, that own nothing more than blue jeans and cargo shorts, and we usually break up over jealousy issues when one has a success and another one doesn’t.

But Carson – wow. He was different., and he brought me into a whole different world. His clothes were straight out of GQ and his office was finely designed in deep blues, burgundies, and grays.  I felt at home there immediately, although I still don’t know why.  I tended to go for a more natural look, and I used to make fun of people like him.  Yet, Carson endeared me to him through appearances, even though he didn’t have a decent piece of art on the walls.  We weren’t in any kind of competition, though.  I liked that. And he liked the work I was doing for him, and paying me quite well.  I could live with that.

We frequented the trendiest restaurants in town, usually meeting there.  It seemed like everything I liked, he liked.  I am a huge fan of vocal jazz and soul music, and his favorite singers are Ray Charles and Etta James.  Once I convinced him to meet my friends who like to hang out at a sushi bar, and he immediately agreed.  We had a great time that night – a lot of spicy tuna, liquor and laughs.  At least I thought we all had a good time, until my friend Valerie texted me the next day.

Valerie: Hey Jen, we should meet for lunch today. Want to grab a salad?

Me:  Sure

It was over our Southwest Chicken salads that Valerie gently told me her concerns from our sushi night.  “You didn’t act like yourself around him.”

“Well, maybe he brings out another side of me.”

She mumbled something.  “What?” I asked.

“Not the best side of you.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.  You seem fake around him.  Not really you.”

Needless to say, our lunch did not end well. 

I went back to working on a display that Carson had commissioned, and just dismissed it as a friend in a stable relationship worrying unnecessarily about a friend in a new relationship.

When I finally did sleep with Carson, it was at my house.  Somehow, we never managed to go to his house, although I already had it pictured in my head – a fancy loft in downtown, black leather furniture, the finest stereo equipment, and yes, better art on the walls.  He seemed to like my little digs, although I was somewhat embarrassed.  I obviously wasn’t doing as well as he was, and we were close to the same age.

“Let’s drive up the coast tomorrow,” he proposed one Saturday morning, after our second night together.  “I’ve got to work today, but I’ll be ready at 9 tomorrow.  Want to pick me up at the office?”

That’s when I broached the subject.  “Why don’t I just pick you up at your house?”  He hesitated.  That should have told me everything.  Finally, “Well, okay.”

He gave me the address.  It was downtown.  I breathed a sigh of relief.

Later that day, another text came from Valerie.  “Hey, want to see a movie later?”  I thought it was time to reconnect with her after our awkward lunch, so I replied, “Okay.”

And sure enough, after the movie, over ice cream sundaes, she tried again.

“Jennifer, this is really hard to say. Everett (her boyfriend) says that he knows Carson from high school.  His name is really Carl Pearson.  And he isn’t from the best part of town.”

“So?”  I pretended to be cool about this.

“Well, has he ever told you he changed his name?”

“No.  Why should he?”  Still faking the cool.  I think she bought it.

“I don’t know.  You’ve been seeing him for several weeks.  I would think it would come up.”

“No, I really don’t know why it would have come up.  We haven’t had the “deepest secret” conversation.”

“Well, just be careful.”  And then she changed the subject. 

Be careful? I was just taking him at face value – why?  Because I liked what I saw.  And I liked his name.  I wasn’t seeing Carl Pearson.  I was seeing CARSON PETERSEN and he was classy and smart and polished.  I’m sure Everett had the wrong guy.

The next day I picked Carson up at his downtown loft.  Well, not exactly a loft.  It was an old warehouse building retrofitted with apartments.  If I was honest with myself, I had to admit that it was a disappointment.  He met me out front, carrying a gym bag. 

“Brought bathing suit and extra clothes, so I’m ready for anything.”

Cool.  I hadn’t thought of that.

We spent the day in my car driving up the coast.  We stopped at a variety of parks, a lighthouse, various antique shops and old record stores.  On the way up the coast we listened to some of my favorites: Marvin Gaye, Norah Jones, Boz Scaggs.  We never did go swimming and his gym bag stayed in the trunk of my car.

On the way home, it all began to fall apart.  He said, hey, I brought some music.  And he put in Led Zeppelin.  Okay, I could handle that a little bit.  But after that it got worse. 

Nickelback.

“My favorite song is “Rockstar” he grinned.  I gritted my teeth.

I couldn’t get back to town fast enough.  We got to his apartment building parking lot, and he asked me to come up.  I felt so mixed about it, but really, I wanted to see his apartment.  I so loved the design of his offices; curiosity got the best of me.

Horror among horrors.  He was a packrat frat boy.  Sexist Budweiser posters on the wall.  Ratty sofa in the living room, busted up fake leather recliner, and a box for a coffee table.  Dirty dishes in the sink.  And a weird, sweaty smell.

How could someone be so….two-sided?  Is he the phony that Valerie and Everett tagged him to be? 

“Sorry about the mess,” he said, although it seemed like he was just saying it and wasn’t sorry at all.

He tried to get romantic, but I’ve gotta say, the turn off was real.  I excused myself to the restroom, pretended that I suddenly had my period, and begged off spending any more time there.  I didn’t even want to SEE the bedroom.

When I turned on my car, my stomach churning in dismay and disgust and humiliation that Valerie was right, then damn Nickelback came blaring on.  I ejected the CD and threw it like a Frisbee across the parking lot.  I proceeded to drive over it on my way out the drive.  “So long Carl,” I called out the window, happy to flee and become me again.