May Day
The following is an excerpt from a memoir in progress based on my experiences in the Pacific Northwest during my twenties and early thirties. Names and some details have been changed to protect privacy.
Saturday, May 10, 2014. The late afternoon sun filters through the leafy canopy outside my kitchen window and the brightness stings my tired eyes. I sit at the table, guitar in hand, staring at the frayed transition where the linoleum meets the carpet. My fingers move mechanically over the strings trying to recreate the songs I’ve lost.
Just yesterday, I'd driven to Spokane for a show - a CD release party for a band my friend had produced. The night had ended on a sour note. I'd returned to my '98 Corolla to find the rear driver's side window smashed, my backpack gone. With it went my toiletry bag, Kindle, and the leather folio containing all my works in progress. But the real disappointment was the loss of my grandfather's hand-engraved ID bracelet. He'd passed away just a year ago, and that bracelet had been a tangible connection to him.
I set the guitar aside and move to the window, looking out at the quiet streets of Moscow, Idaho. A year out from graduation, and here I am, still orbiting the university like a lost satellite. My English degree gathers dust while I spend my mornings as a paraprofessional at a local elementary school and my afternoons working in group homes for adults with disabilities. The jobs barely bring in $20,000 a year, just enough to keep me afloat but not enough to escape.
The past week has been a stark reminder of paths not taken. My mom and I had helped her friend pack up her things to move to Montana. While there, I found myself face to face with the friend’s daughter – my ex from Bible college – and her kid. To give them space to pack, I offered to take her son to the park. As I pushed him on the swings, I couldn't help but wonder how different my life could have been. Here I am, two weeks shy of 27, babysitting my ex's kid and dating around. Some of the greatest rockstars had built their legacy and died by this age. Meanwhile, I'm stuck, unknown, struggling to book shows or even be noticed in the local scene.
In between gigs, recording, and failed attempts at networking, I've been spending more time trying to make sense of my evolving identity. Since leaving the church, I've discovered podcasts and books that challenge my previous worldview. But my most recent obsession is OkCupid.
I've been on the site for a while, answering thousands of questions out of a mix of loneliness and curiosity. Who am I now, three years into atheism but only recently open about it? What kind of people do I want in my life? It was on a podcast that I first heard about the science behind OkCupid's matching system.
The host had interviewed an anthropologist whose research had partly inspired OkCupid's questionnaire. She talked about how our romantic personalities were influenced by brain systems tied to specific hormones and neurotransmitters. Each of us, she argued, had a unique blend of these chemicals shaping our approach to love and relationships.
OkCupid relied heavily on elements of this research to inform their own algorithms. The result was a detailed personality profile that compared me to the average user. The site displayed these comparisons as a series of bars, showing how much I deviated from the average user in each category: far less spiritual, more artsy, far more open to new experiences.
My best matches are inevitably in San Francisco, Portland, New York City, and I resent them. I resent that they can afford to live the life I'm barely managing to imitate in Moscow. I stare hopelessly at the list of 90 to 98 percent matches feeling the chasm between where I am and where I want to be widen by the second. I have a few hundred in savings and thousands in credit card debt from two albums and an ill-fated national tour, not to mention student loans. Those cities might as well be on another planet. The dive bars, coffee shops, and empty rooms I've been playing for five years have left me with stories to tell and songs to write, but little in the way of money or recognition. Pointless, I think. Just as I'm about to switch tabs, a notification pops up on the screen.
The message is from an 89% match. I've been messaging back and forth with her for a bit. Her profile says she's in an open relationship and her pictures are cropped, showing only from the neck down. But what I can see is intriguing - a figure in a simple dress with a pleated skirt, cinched at the waist emphasizing her hips. The grammatical errors in her messages had given me pause. But she's the highest match in my area, and her fashion sense can't help but spark my curiosity.
I open the message. "Drinks at Rico's tonight?"
I hesitate, weighing the pros and cons. Then I shrug to myself. What's the worst that could happen? If I get catfished, I'll just leave. No big deal. And if it turns out to be real, well, that could be interesting.
"Sure," I type back. "8:00 p.m.?"
I leave for the bar in Pullman at about 7:45. As I reach for the handle of Rico's outer door I look up and almost run directly into a woman in a red sundress with straight, platinum blonde hair cut to just below the chin. We both hesitate, then I smile and pull the door open.
"After you," I say, gesturing her inside.
She nods with a shy smile and steps into the narrow vestibule. As I follow her in, she turns and reaches for the second door, holding it open for me. I smile and awkwardly squeeze past her, nearly knocking a payphone off the wall.
"Thanks," I say, my head down as I exit the vestibule. As I step back slightly, my eyes travel upward, taking in her full appearance. Her dress is a simple A-line cut, the fabric a vibrant cherry red that glows against her pale white skin. The pleated skirt falls just above her knees. The dress hugs her waist high above the hips, emphasizing an hourglass figure that could've been lifted straight from a 1950s pinup.
As my gaze returns to her face, I notice her looking at me with a hint of recognition in her expression. Her body seems familiar now - the curves hinted at in her profile pictures coming into focus. A thought strikes me, and I feel a mix of excitement and embarrassment.
"Are you... the person I'm supposed to meet?" I ask, then immediately laugh at myself. "Sorry, I'm River. River Simon. I'm supposed to be meeting someone here."
Her shy smile widens into a grin. "Yes, I'm Katya," she confirms, her accent subtle but noticeable. "It's nice to meet you, River."
We stand there for a moment, and I motion to a booth by the window. "Shall we have a seat?"
I find myself noticing little details - the way her blonde hair catches the light, the glint of her triangular red earrings. Then I see her nails - each one painted diagonally, half red and half black.
"Interesting nail design," I comment. "Is there a story behind it?"
Katya's eyes light up. "It's for May Day - International Workers' Day. Do you know about it?"
"I've heard of it," I admit, "but I don't know much about it. Is it a big deal where you're from?"
"I'm from Ukraine," she replies. "May Day is having complicated history there, but very important. It about workers' rights and solidarity. In many countries, it is major holiday with protests and celebrations."
As we settle into a booth, I find myself genuinely interested. "That's fascinating. I had no idea it was such a big deal internationally."
Our conversation flows easily from there, touching on everything from punk rock to politics. I'm pleasantly surprised and frankly, even out of my depth.
"Speaking of activism," I say, "what do you think about Pussy Riot? I've been following their story."
Katya's expression turns serious. "Pussy Riot is incredibly brave. In Russia, is very dangerous to speak out like that. They're using art to challenge oppression, which I deeply respect."
As we talk, I find myself more and more intrigued by Katya's perspectives.
Glancing at my watch, I remember another event happening that night. "Hey, have you heard of Scott Pemberton? He's playing at John's Alley tonight. It's a bit of a dive, but they always have great shows."
Katya's eyes light up. "I don't know him, but I love live music. Especially in places with character. Should we go?"
I grin, already standing. "Definitely. It's over in Moscow. Is that okay?"
As we leave Rico's, I feel a mild excitement building. Katya is becoming more intriguing than I'd anticipated.
We step out into the early spring evening. The sun hangs low, casting everything in a golden light. I lead her towards my car. As we approach, I feel a sudden wave of embarrassment. The plastic bag taped over the rear driver's side window seems to scream "broke musician" louder than ever.
"So, uh, funny story," I say, trying to sound casual. "Someone decided they really wanted my backpack yesterday. But hey, at least we get some... unique ventilation for the drive?"
Katya looks at the makeshift window repair, then back at me, a mix of sympathy and amusement in her eyes. "Is okay," she says, patting my arm. "Makes car more... punk rock, yes?"
I can't help but laugh, relief washing over me. "Absolutely. It's a feature, not a bug. Now let me reach across the passenger seat and open your door from the inside.”
We make our way inside the Alley, the heat and noise enveloping us once again. As we squeeze through the crowd, Katya's hand finds mine, her fingers intertwining with my own. We end up near the back of the bar, the press of bodies around us creating a strange sense of intimacy. Katya turns to face me with a mischeivous look in her eyes. “Hell with it,” I tell myself, and I lean in and kiss her.
The next morning, I pull up to Katya's apartment complex. The drive has been mostly quiet, punctuated only by her occasional directions. As I put the car in park, I turn to look at her.
She's smiling, a slight flush on her cheeks. Her hair is mussed from sleep, and without the dim bar lighting, I can see the smudges of last night's makeup around her eyes.
"Thank you for ride," Katya says, her accent more pronounced in her drowsiness. "Was good night, yes?"
I nod, still too tired to speak coherently. A tangle of emotions knots in my chest - excitement, uncertainty, and a strange sense of loss.
As she gets out of the car, I watch her smooth down her red sundress. She turns back to wave, red and black nails catching the sunlight. I wave back, forcing a smile that I hope looks more genuine than it feels. Katya turns to walk towards her building, and the reality of what has just happened slowly settles over me.
As I put the car in drive, I feel the war waging in my heart and my mind. We're both adults, I remind myself. This is what people do. It's fine.
