Early October 2000
It was autumn. Shortly after my birthday. Kid A by Radiohead was released just the week before, and a ton of us stood outside Record Collector during the Midnight Sale like a bunch of slackjawed fanboys, a delightful little gift to myself. The Ped Mall downtown was usually a bustle of activity: Students rushing to classes or drunkenly shuffling around aimlessly, townies shopping locally from pushcart vendors, and the occasional vagrant playing music for pocket change. Any time of day, round the clock. But this was 5 in the evening. Dinner time. For a good hour and a half, the wide expanse of brick-paved walkways and gazebos line with newly-renovated benches gave way to a Brigadoon-like period of stasis. AdSheets rolling around like tumbleweeds. None but a straggler walking to and fro amongst the fallen leaves.
The Tobacco Bowl was almost as empty as outside. I was inside, sitting, tending to my projects. Since graduation I wanted to get back to my creative roots, and I was spending my time constructing at first a screenplay and then a series of monologues about the price of fame. My girlfriend, The Girl, walks in and gives me a clipping about a new release in books. It's a history of the Second City, stories and interviews from the people who gave it life and made it big. Complete with a 2-disc set of classic routines culled from live recordings. She asked me what I thought of it.
I loved improv. I practiced on my own and even tried to break into a local improv troupe. But I wasn't in a good mood. Especially with her. We had started to drift apart. She was still in school, I was a graduated working stiff. Her life is lively, mine is mundane. I never saw her at home anymore. I didn't like the guy she was hanging out with, a long-haired hard-drinking intellectual English major who captivated her just a little too much too easily.
I said the book was alright. Nice idea, but I don't know how much of a market there is for it. I wouldn't spend money on it.
She looked hurt. I didn't really care. I went back to my monologues. She disappeared. A few minutes later she came back in, left a plastic bag on the table, and walked out. Inside was a brand-new copy of the Second City book from the article. And the receipt.
I knew it wasn't going to end well.
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Now playing: Radiohead - Everything in Its Right Place
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