Conor

When I wake up, I have no idea when or how I got to bed.

My brain's foggy from something that can't possibly just be alcohol, and my eyes burn from something that can't possibly just be crying.

In fact, they feel like they're bleeding.

I sit up, feel the headache of guilt attack my brain. Standing makes me feel motion sick.

What the fuck did I do?

Knowing exactly what my priorities are this morning, I stumble towards the bathroom, trying my best to keep my command over my own body.

Somehow, I manage to make it there successfully. I stop in front of the mirror, locking eyes with my reflection.

Jesus Christ. My eyes.

I cringe at the red pooling at the bottom of my lower eyelids. This isn't a smoked-too-much-pot or didn't-get-enough-sleep kind of red.

It looks like blood.

Lucky me. For my twenty-first birthday, I get a burst blood vessel.

I groan my displeasure and turn on the faucet, splashing cold water onto my face. Slowly but surely, the cool against my face wakes me up, bringing me back to reality. Reminding me just what happened last night.

I didn't bother much with substances, — just beer, three out of four of which were purchased for me by a pretty white-haired girl who looked kind of like Brigitte Bardot.

The two of us spent the last two hours of the evening talking in the corner of some humid little bar.

She pointed to what seemed to be her naked likeness on the wall as we shared a calorie-laden plate of warm apple pie and melting ice cream.

She talked about how the boys in her old neighborhood spent a lot of time watching her growing up, and, looking at what she grew into, I thought I understood why.

She asked me about my music, acting politely interested despite the fact that recognition never seemed to dawn for her, — and maybe I was glad for that.

I considered her proud assertion that she was a nude art model, looking back and forth between the painting and the girl. She looked up at me with her spoon hanging out of her mouth, and I felt my face get hot.

Then the bar closed, and the two of us ventured back out into the cold together. She stayed by my side, not offering to leave me behind, and, though I wouldn't come right out and say it, I was really beginning to like her.

I wanted to stop and look at her for a while, see what she looked like with tiny flakes of snow in her hair, all of her washed in moonlight. I wanted us to climb into another cab together and head back to my place.

I wanted to feel closeness again, with this girl.

So why didn't I?

Because of the fucking apple pie.

Suddenly, my stomach rolled, reminding me that I was bound to reject any food put in my system, regardless of how good the sweetness of it tasted in the moment. Dairy mixed with alcohol, volatile, too much. I was getting lightheaded.

Feeling the blood drain from my face, I muttered some apology before falling to my knees and puking all over the place.

Embarrassing. It was so embarrassing.

Still, when I put my head back up, I felt fingernails lightly scratch from my neck down to my back.

When I turned around, she was still there, looking worried for me.

Not disgusted. Not sickly amused. Not indifferent.

Worried.

That's when the half-drunk dumbass within me told me to bolt.

I stood back up, a slew of dismissive apologies coming from my mouth. She continued to watch me, her pale eyes suddenly sad, begging for a better explanation than the one I gave her.

I told myself not to think about that, to forget it all. I waved down a taxi and gave the driver my money, telling him to take me back home.

I left her, standing in the cold, arms wrapped tightly around herself as her profile faded from my view. The last thing I remember is the regret that set in once I was on my way back, knowing that I wouldn't see her again.

My final words to her come back, a haunting echo like the voice of a ghost.

I'm fine... Summer.

Summer. That was her name.

She looked like sunlight, melting the ice on the ground. Sunshine and blue skies and everything I'm not.

And she's gone.

Anger wells up inside of me without warning as I meet my own bloodshot eyes.

"You fucking idiot!"

My voice echoes off the bathroom walls, bouncing back to slap me in the face. My own insult, thrown back at me like a boomerang.

This is how I start my year: staring at my own bleeding eyes, hating myself. Pondering whether I should punch the mirror or puke again.

I decide that neither would be worth the effort.

Instead, I brush my teeth and comb my hair, trying to convince myself to start again. I tell myself that there will be more girls, that she probably meant nothing at all in the long run. That I'm stupid to even keep thinking about her.

I finally leave the bathroom, stopping in my bedroom along the way to pull on some random T-shirt and pair of jeans. I grab my shoes, pull them on, and keep moving.

I only stop in the kitchen to grab my car keys and mark the day off the calendar. The occasion is written in the box in my own handwriting, as if I really needed to remind myself: Conor's 21st birthday.

Not 'my.'

'Conor's.'

I cross off yesterday, — Valentine's Day, — and put down the pen.

Then I pinch myself as hard as I can.

This only results in drawing more blood, of course, as if I needed that.

I stand there for a second, with my bleeding eyes and my bleeding arm. I breathe, in through the nose, out through the mouth, making myself aware that I exist.

Maybe that's what I need to achieve this year: not being so fucking detached from everything.

Yeah. That sounds good.

I grab my car keys and force myself to smile.

I, Conor Oberst, am taking myself out for my birthday.

🖤

I stop outside of the record store, looking for my sunglasses. I pat the collar of my shirt, the pocket of my jacket, the pockets of my jeans. I don't find them.

Well, shit. They must be at home.

I force myself to grin and bear it. So what if anybody sees my red eyes?

Who will worry about it, other than me?

The bell on the door jingles as I say fuck it all and walk inside.

As soon as the door closes behind me, Mike looks up from his magazine and steps out from behind the checkout counter, smiling broadly.

"Hey, man!" he greets me, sauntering over to stand beside me. He claps a hand down on my shoulder in a much rougher fashion than I would like, leaving me cringing, wondering if I heard something crack. "Happy birthday."

"Thanks." I shift, attempting to subtly free myself from his grip.

Mercifully, Mike seems to get the hint. He lifts his bear paw of a hand, allowing me to stand fully upright again as he continues to talk.

"I've missed you the past couple months. Guess you've been busy, though." He strokes his goatee contemplatively. "So, how've you been? How's the music coming along?"

"I've been fine," I lie. "Working hard on a few projects. Writing a lot. Recording some at home."

"That's great to hear," Mike replies, overzealous as ever. "Truth be told, I was sort of worried you'd fallen off the face of the Earth. Just keep on your grind, man. You're on your way to the big time."

My throat starts to burn. I swallow, hoping that my stomach isn't threatening to spill its contents again.

"I don't want the big time."

I'm pretty much saying this to my shoes, — that's where my gaze is fixed, anyway, as the words leave my mouth without my asking them to. I'm not even quite sure that Mike heard me.

Apparently, he did, because he heaves a sigh almost the scale of his gargantuan body.

"Oh, Conor." Disappointment laces his voice as he shakes his head. "Humble, humble Conor. Just as self-deprecating as they come."

Much to my chagrin, he claps his hand on my shoulder again.

"Quit feeling sorry for yourself, kid, and go buy yourself something pretty."

He gives me a light shove that I know was supposed to be good-natured. And yet, as I stalk off into the rows of used vinyl, I find myself seething.

Quit feeling sorry for yourself, kid. Yeah, Mike, easier said that done.

You're just excited about the extra money some new CD sales would bring in.

I ruminate over the fact that Mike is a greedy bastard as I flip through a bunch of jazz albums, — though the fact that I'm about to give my own money over to him is not lost on me. My hands shake, and I find myself longing for a cup of coffee and a cigarette.

I'm considering walking over to the coffee shop and coming back later when someone calls my name.

"Conor?"

I lift my head, turning in the direction if the voice that definitely doesn't belong to Mike, soft and unsure.

I look across the aisle, and there she is. Her.

Summer.

My breath hitches as I see her in the daylight.

She looks much different than she did last night. Her tight pink top has been abandoned in favor of blue jeans and a long black coat, the white hair that she kept in a tight ponytail hanging loose down her back. Either last night's makeup or lack of sleep shadows her eyes.

I clear my throat, wiping my palms on my jeans.

This is it.

The world is giving me a second chance.

"That'd be me," I mutter, sounding wholly unsure of myself.

Wordlessly, she walks down the aisle, coming to stand by my side. She tilts her chin up so that she can meet my eyes, her face carrying an expression of grave concern.

"Good God," she says. "You look like shit."

I chuckle. "Well, thank you."

Summer doesn't laugh. She just keeps staring at me, jaw set. She looks so terribly solemn that I consider the possibility that it is not my birthday at all, but a strange vision that I'm having in my last few moments of a coma, mere moments from my imminent demise.

"Seriously, Conor," she says. "What the hell happened to your eyes?"

I shrug, going back to flipping through a stack of records. "Mike punched me in both," I reply. "Said it was a birthday tradition for men my age."

Summer sighs, sounding and looking utterly resigned. And still, she stands next to me, watching as I pick up another album.

Finally, she cuts through the silence between us. "I'm really sorry about last night," she begins. "If I had known—"

I stop flipping through albums, my eyes locking with hers. "It's not your fault."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, both of us freeze again.

Summer stares at me curiously, as if she knows exactly just much truth about myself is wrapped within her exoneration.

I look back at her, challenging her to make her guess, to figure it out.

To tell me what's wrong with me.

But Summer says nothing, and I'm not about to volunteer to her the little that I know myself for free.

So I throw up my white flag, hoisting my small stack of records up and heading towards the counter, back to Mike.

"I'm going for my birthday coffee after this," I say. "You wanna come with me?"

Summer

Conor drinks his coffee like most artists I've known do: black, with a cigarette in his other hand.

He tugs on said cigarette occasionally, causing the old lady behind us to shoot him dirty looks. He ignores her, bloodshot eyes set on something just outside of the window of the coffee shop.

I can't believe that he actually happened to show up at the record store, — the place where I'd hoped to find him once again, or at least traces of his existence that might lead us back to one another.

For a good thirty minutes before he appeared, I had stood in front of the local events board, trying to find the name of some band he'd mentioned the night before. I racked my brain, trying to recall the names he'd listed. Time after time, I came up empty, frustrating myself greatly.

I didn't quite know what it was, but I was convinced now that I would meet Conor Oberst again, even if it took all my life.

So I could figure out why he looked so terribly melancholic in the first place. Why he felt the need to escape me as soon as he showed some form of vulnerability.

And then, out of nowhere, he appeared before me, fate's answer to my silent pleas.

Now, unfortunately, I just find myself with more questions.

Namely: why did he invite me for coffee if he isn't he talking to me? And why are his eyes bleeding?

He sighs, puffing out another plume of smoke. He reaches for the napkin dispenser, pulls a napkin out to tap the ashes out on.

Feeling rather uncomfortable, I shift in my seat. "Conor?"

He looks up from the ash, eyes swimming between honey brown and bright red. "Yes?" he asks coolly.

"I have an appointment for a job in like, thirty minutes." I smile at him apologetically. "So if you've got something to tell me, I'd suggest..."

He shakes his head, returning his attention to the cigarette butt. Apparently, it's much more interesting than me. "I didn't bring you here to discuss anything in particular, " he says. "I just... figured you might want some coffee."

I look at him: this sad, skinny boy, frowning down into his coffee mug on his birthday. My mind goes back to a few hours ago, when he was on his hands and knees in the alleyway.

Once again, I say his name tentatively. "Conor?"

He lights up a new cigarette, not looking at me as he challenges me in return. "Summer?"

I hesitate for a moment before coming out and asking the question that I know should follow. "Are you okay?"

I sit, patiently waiting for his reply. It never comes.

I open my mouth again, picking up where I left off. "Because I know what it's like. To not be okay, I mean." The silence offers another brief interlude before I deliver the most crucial part of my message.

"I'd be there for you, if you needed a friend."

Finally, he straightens his posture. He pulls the cigarette from between his lips, grinning after he exhales a puff of smoke.

"You know, Summer," he says quietly, "I'm not quite sure that I am okay. And that's not really your responsibility, but..."

He grabs another napkin from the dispenser, reaching for something beneath the table. He comes up with a pen, pushing it towards me along with the napkin.

"I'll give you a call," he says, "if I ever need a drinking buddy."

I nod, pulling the napkin into my hands and beginning to write down my number. I stare down at my own writing when I'm done, wondering how far the title of 'drinking buddy' goes for him, if he ever will call me.

And that poses yet another question: why do I care?