chelsla
Bits & Pieces
All the pieces that stuck. Just drafts. Nothing’s ever quite finished.
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August, 2022
We’d both become these shells of ourselves, crying silent tears in our adjacent rooms because we’d let different men turn us into versions of ourselves we hated to see.
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For July 20. In progress
When Pitchfork first reviewed ‘Gossamer’ upon its release a decade ago, Ian Cohen called it “an overwhelming album about being overwhelmed… repressed anger, and unchecked anxiety”. I’m an avid Passion Pit fan, so I drove to my local Best Buy on the album release day and picked up a copy— it sits in my car’s center console until this very day. As an 18-year-old, I don’t think I even understood a lot of the elements and themes explored in it. But I’ve kept it there, in my center console, for a decade now, and for some reason, whenever my life gets to a point of desperation, it’s there for me. For ten years I’ve been wailing right along with Michael Angelakos hoping that one day I *will* be alright. For every failed relationship and friendship, Passion Pit has kept me company, willing me to carry on despite every misspoken word or tragic moment. And isn’t that the mark of a truly great album?
I was gifted a vinyl copy of ‘Gossamer’ (an autographed one, at that) nearly two years ago as a Christmas present (from one of those failed relationships I mentioned) and I’ve yet to hear its opening crackle from the record player needle. I’m terrified that if I play it, it’ll somehow lose some of its magic. I listen to the songs on Spotify or on that CD in my car, but I’ve never been able to bring myself to put on that record. I touched Michael Angelakos’s signature and I decided that was close enough for me.
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March, 2020
a picture I’d have sent you.
One day I want us to sit at a park, back to back, and just talk about everything. No judgement, no anger— just words. I want to hear everything and know everything and see the you I loved so much before.
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November, 2018
I woke up three separate times last night, in a panic from some dream about him. I can’t remember what they were even about, but they were too real, as if he’s going to text me in the morning, as if we have plans next week.
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July, 2017
“Don’t you think he’s too thin for you?” My mother, never one for niceties, asks me. “What? I mean, no... I never thought that. I just like him. What?” It never ceases to amaze me how much she can criticize me and not care. “I’m just saying.” She says. “He’s my friend. I like him for him. I didn’t fucking compare myself to him.” She responds something on WhatsApp, but I don’t bother looking. I don’t look, for weeks at a time. Because if that’s what my own mother sees, isn’t that what he sees, even easier?
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February, 2017
“He’s kinda cute.” Jess says beside me, stirring her vodka cranberry.
She didn’t want to sit in traffic just yet and knew I was getting off work, so she’d headed to West Hollywood when her last class was over. Since she was still going to school, I felt like I rarely ever got to spend long amounts of time with her. Whenever she had breaks from school, she’d usually head up to San Francisco to spend the days with her boyfriend. So days like today, where we had time to sit and talk about random, potentially cute boys, were rare.
“Hmm? Who?”
She nods towards behind the bar. “Him.” She’s a girl of few words, Jess.
I look up from my bloody mary, not knowing who’s standing there.
He’s tall, thin, and annoyingly attractive. Not that I had ever said that to anyone. Not that I had even talked to him more than three times in my life. But he was intriguing, for some reason. His eyes were perfectly blue and his hair was perfectly soft-looking and his smile was perfectly bright. “Kinda cute” was an understatement, and Jess knew that I knew that.
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” I’m not a girl of few words, which Jess also knows.
“Do you ever talk to him?”
“I think I asked to take one of his roll-ups once. So, yes.”
“No, but I mean, like, have you ever hung out with him?”
“What? No, I literally don’t know him at all, really.” I chug a little of my drink. “And he probably thinks I’m weird, anyway. I’m here, like once or twice a week, and I order a bloody mary when I’m off, even when it’s nighttime.” The truth is, I don’t hang out with anyone here. It’s a job I’m rarely at, and truthfully, a job I didn’t necessarily even want. I got it by total accident. “His name’s Tony.”
“Well, he’s kinda cute.” She shrugs again.
“Yeah, yeah. I know he is.”
Jess smiles back at me, always knowing what I’m thinking before anyone else does.
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August, 2018
“I feel like you definitely had a Death Cab for Cutie phase.”
“Because I’m tragically sad? Or are you saying that because ‘The Sound of Settling’ just came on?” I’m leaning into my palm at the host stand, always trying to appear cooler than I actually am in front of him.
“Can I say both?” Taylor grins at me, checking his watch before heading over to his section of tables. He’s cute. The guy who would be ideal to me: tall, funny, never too serious, blue eyes.
He’d be ideal if, you know, I wasn’t in love with someone else and he didn’t have a girlfriend.
“I’m not sad all the time!” I call after him, and roll my eyes. He’s trying to distract me, trying to get me to focus on the here and now and not whatever complicated relationships lie at home. He’s weird that way; even when I don’t tell him anything, he catches on to my mood.
“You should tell him not to be so rude when he’s busy,” Eduardo suddenly appears beside me at the host stand. “You and him are so close. Like I said, you’re a social slut.” I laugh, remembering Eduardo saying it to me once while we were out, when I was throwing myself into any conversation I could so as not to be bothered by the thoughts in my head.
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September, 2013
I had met Max the year before on the way to Wingstop with Michael. I hadn’t known anyone else was even coming with us until he had climbed into the backseat of the Jetta as Michael opened the front door.
“Thank fuck, I am so hungry.” I hear his seatbelt buckle behind me.
“He’s pledging, too.” Michael shrugs as he sits down in the seat beside me, immediately reaching for my pink iPod. I laugh, not bothered at all by the change of plans.
It isn’t until we get done ordering that Max reaches his hand out for me to shake.
“Orloff,” He says, grinning. “They all call me Sauce, though.”
“Right. I’m Chelsea.” I grab his hand for a second, then walk past him to the soda machine.
“So are you Jewish, too?” He asks, following close behind me.
“No, dude, she’s a journalism major.” Michael must have overheard his question.
“What, my major tells you I’m not Jewish?”
“Dead giveaway.” Max laughs and gestures for me to sit across from him at the table. “So where are you from? How do you know Aske?” Every time anyone says the shortened version of Michael’s nickname, I immediately think of OshKosh B’Gosh in my head.
“Um, my roommate is really good friends with a girl that Michael met in the student union. I don’t know; I don’t really know how we got so close.” Which is true. Along with Jess, Michael and I are inseparable. We’re a trio.
“Yeah, I think I’ve seen you at the house before. How do you like journalism so far?”
It goes on like that for a while; Max asking endless questions and me telling him everything he wants to know. I almost forget Michael is even there as he watches a Seahawks game on the TV.
We’re driving down Campbell after our outing when I turn onto Speedway, nearing Michael’s dorm. We’re all convinced it used to be a Motel 6.
“Your dorm is shit, Aske.” Max says from the back seat.
“It has a pool!” Michael retorts, opening the door as we slow to a stop in front of the building.
“Yeah, but it’s green. Pools aren’t green.” I say, laughing along with Max. Michael shakes his head, but he’s smiling.
“Whatever, I’ll see you both later, yeah?” I smile and nod at him, barely getting a chance to look at him before Max jumps into the front seat. Michael’s already walking away when Max grabs the iPod himself.
“Can I show you a song? Do you have iTunes?”
“Yes, you can show me a song, and of course I have iTunes. But you’re gonna have to use my phone to download anything. My iPod isn’t connected to any WiFi.”
“Oh, duh, yeah. Give me your phone.” I hand over my phone to this stranger, and wait for the song he’s so eager to hear.
It’s ‘Yesterday’ by Atmosphere, quite possibly the last thing I expected him to play. It’s hardly a frat boy’s song of choice.
“Have you heard it before?”
I nod. I think my brother had played it before on one of his many mix CDs we used to make.
We’re all the way back to the Tyndall garage now, my dorm on one side of the street and Max’s on the other.
“Are you going to the party later?” Max asks as he walks beside me down the sidewalk.
“Yeah, I am. We could drive together, if you want.” It sounds like I’m asking him on some weird date, and I regret it as soon as I say it.
“Yeah, totally.” He inexplicably says to me. “Here’s my number. Just text me when you’re ready.” He’s taking my phone out of my hand and I’m just standing there like an idiot.
We’ve been friends ever since.
So it’s no surprise that our sophomore year, I show up to the house on his birthday. I convince Jade to come with me since I haven’t seen Max all semester. After my falling out with Michael the previous semester, followed by Max helping me recover from it, followed by me forgiving Michael and becoming friends with him again— I just figured it was better to walk into this party with a friend. I can’t imagine Max being super happy with my decision to talk to Michael again, and I’ve been avoiding him for a month because of it.
But it’s his birthday, and we’re friends, and I’m showing up.
We walk into the house, and I head upstairs first, saying hi to the brothers I know. Greg high fives me as he’s running down the stairs. Sporn messes up my hair, making me laugh before giving me a hug. Nothing’s changed since I’ve been here. The blue and yellow walls are still obnoxious, the hallways are crowded and sweaty, and the music is different rap or EDM in each room. I do a quick scan of every room, trying to find Max. We don’t have any luck upstairs, so we head down the back staircase to search the basement and the patio. I run into Ben on my way past the table with little paper cups full of grape vodka.
“Ben! Hey!”
“Chee Girl! We haven’t seen you all semester,” I laugh at the stupid nickname as he hugs me and looks me up and down. “Where have you been?”
“Oh, you know, around.” I shrug, and spy Michael walking towards us.
“Knew you’d show up,” He says and waves hi to Jade beside me.
“It’s Max’s birthday. I wouldn’t miss it. Where is he, anyway?” Ben shrugs and catches the eye of someone else. He hugs me once more and takes off to the other side of the basement.
“I think he’s outside by the beer tank.” Michael points to the patio. I stand on my tip toes, not wanting to be in a massive crowd yet again. The basement doubles as the dance floor, and it’s the biggest open space in the whole building.
“I think I see him,” Jade says, “I think he’s wearing that stupid bucket hat.”
“Ugh, probably.” We head outside, Jade grabbing my hand to pull me where she thinks she saw him. The crowd parts a little as we walk to the edge of the patio. I see Max, gesturing wildly around him while everyone around him laughs. Drunk Max telling stories is my favorite.
Somehow, he sees me, momentarily distracted from his story. His face doesn’t light up in the way I’m expecting. In fact, his eyes seem to narrow at the sight of me. A familiar song starts playing around us, and I can’t quite place it. I don’t even know why I notice it when Max is looking at me like that.
“Are you fucking serious, Chels?” Well, shit. At the very least he didn’t call me ‘Chelsea’.
I put my hand down, a feeble wave out of the question. “Um. I just came to say happy birthday?” His friends — our friends — stare at us. Could one of them not have warned me about this?
“Yeah, well, you could have just texted me.” He turns around then, going back to whatever he was saying before I evidently ruined his night. Never one to just let something go, I walk closer to him and spin him back around to face me.
“Sorry, did I fucking do something to you?” I don’t think I’ve ever publicly fought with him before, and truthfully I didn’t really want to, but fuck it, right?
He stands even closer to me, making himself look taller, making me feel smaller than I am. “Why don’t you just go hang out with Michael, Chelsea.”
It’s not a question. He turns back around again.
I realize it’s Max’s favorite Alesso song playing in the background, the bass of it making me even more unsteady. It was ‘Years’, a song I’d shown him the semester before. I remember driving along the bumpy Tucson roads with him, Schmii, and Jack. I remember him asking if I had any other songs that sounded that smooth.
The memory seems so, so far away.
It’s Jade that eventually pulls me away from Max, from the crowd, and out of the house entirely.
The song I had played next in that memory, I realize, was David Guetta’s ‘Every Chance We Get We Run’. It seems fitting that that’s what I’m doing now, stumbling back to my car with Jade, not from being drunk but from feeling like I’d had the wind knocked out of me. Nothing smooth about it.
I don’t talk to him again until December.
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August, 2018
Lately, I’ve been thinking about how great it would be to dive into a pool, and just swim.
Swim
and swim
and swim
until there was nothing left.
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July, 2016
I’d only ever met Deutsch virtually, over FaceTime and the occasional funny text Miles would show me. I really had no business meeting up with him in Paris, I thought, but I was already on the metro to the stop nearest the restaurant.
I hadn’t liked Paris the summer before, and assumed it was because I’d spent five days there with my mother and her friend, as opposed to with my own friends. But tonight, as I was trying to buy a ticket from Gare du Nord to the stop to meet Deutsch, I was followed throughout the station. The man kept asking if I knew how to buy a ticket, and I kept ignoring him, hoping someone would notice how uncomfortable I was. They didn’t. I was nearly to the doors of the metro when the lights started flashing that the doors would be closing soon. Not wanting to stand alone with some strange man who was following me on an underground platform, I bolted through the doors and slammed into another passenger.
“Shit!” I say, and try to gain my footing as the metro takes off. The doors closed a lot faster than the ones in Barcelona, and the people don’t seem nearly as friendly. Paris hasn’t won me over yet.
****
I see Deutsch standing in front of the restaurant at the end of the dimly lit alley. It dawns on me that I shouldn’t be galavanting around Paris in dim lighting alone.
“Hey!” I give him a hug, despite never having met him, and look at the restaurant beside us. “Oh I’ve been here!” It’s weird, seeing the familiar wall of Pain. Vin. Fromages. and actually recognizing it. It’s the same restaurant I came to with my mom, the day after my birthday.
“Really?” Deutsch (his first name is Brian, but I’ve never called him that since Miles always used his last name) raises his eyebrows at me.
“Yeah! Remember, I spent last summer in Europe?” I smile, taking a step towards the door.
“Oh, right. Anyway, let’s get to the cheese.”
Deutsch and I are cheese connoisseurs, we’ve realized, and both insisted on starting our Paris trip off with raclette. It was strange for two people meeting for the first time, but something about him felt familiar. It was easy to sit here in this beautiful restaurant and feel like I’d known him for years.
It was when we were taking our first sips of wine that Deutsch set his glass down and looked at me seriously, not smiling for the first time that night.
“What?” I ask, sitting my glass down, too.
“He’s not my best friend. I don’t know why he told you that,” I know he’s talking about Miles, but I don’t really know what to say, so he continues. “I really don’t talk to him often. It’s just, like, when people ask me who my best friend is, Miles is one of the last people I’d name. I don’t know how he doesn’t get that.”
I’d always thought their friendship was strange. Deutsch just didn’t seem like someone Miles would be close to, and that was a feeling garnered purely from our virtual meetings. He seemed too cool, too distant, and much smarter than Miles would ever be. And I’d always thought Miles would exaggerate things; not quite lie, but spin the truth too far into something that it never quite was.
“I always knew something was off there.” I say, and for the first time, I wonder what else Miles could have said that was untrue. It was the first time I felt like our whole relationship was not what I thought it was. Pieces of it were falling apart. I was starting to see how the break up was something much better than I’d originally thought.
It’s the only reason I love Paris for.
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June, 2016
Barcelona was hot, muggy, the exact reason I had hated living in Texas but the reason I loved living in Spain. My apartment was cooled only by open windows and a rattling fan that stood at the foot of my bed. “Stuffy” was an understatement, but I was loving the tiny hallways and secret patio just off the kitchen and my window that overlooked onto a too-loud intersection of El Poble Sec.
I squeezed the Build-a-Bear Miles had given me before I left Arizona just a week prior. “Hey Chels, I love you!” His voice came through the bear and I smiled, ready to face the day. Normally, I’d hate this amount of sappiness, but for some reason, our relationship felt like one that was found only in cheesy romcoms and Lifetime movies. I sat the bear back down on my bed, and walked into the cramped hallway, closing my room door behind me. My roommate is standing in the kitchen, looking through one of the cabinets above the stove. She waves at me and smiles as I walk by. I’m awful with Spanish, so our conversations have been brief, although it’s almost inspiring how much we each have been trying to communicate with each other in our native languages.
Once outside the apartment and on the curb of Carrer de Ricart, I search through my backpack to find my sunglasses. It’s beautiful and sunny, just like any other day in Barcelona. Though I’ve only been here for three days, it feels friendly and welcoming, unlike my hometown. A scooter passes me on the street as I find my way to the metro. It baffles me that I haven’t even missed my car at all. Usually, I would find peace in the daily drive to school, listening to music as loud as I could stand and shifting gears through traffic, never minding even when everything was at a standstill. But the metros of Barcelona provided me with a different kind of peace; I still got to listen to my music, albeit through headphones instead of a sound system, and I felt a strange sense of camaraderie with the other commuters around me.
I took L3, the green line, all the way from the Poble Sec station a block from my apartment to the Diagonal station, in one of the busiest areas of Barcelona. One particular exit would put me on the correct side of the street so I wouldn’t have to cross any busy intersections. Of course, I picked the wrong one and wound up in the middle of Passeig de Gracia: Miles’ favorite street in all of Barcelona. To me, it seemed a little too touristy, filled with countless retail stores and people milling around. It didn’t seem like a traditional Spanish street (not that I had necessarily found one), but like any large city’s main street. I would have to tell him about it later.
Miles had lived in Barcelona the summer before, studying abroad. It had been because I had visited him while on a Europe trip with my mother that I had even applied to teach English in Spain at all. I fell in love with the city, and then him, just mere months later. He hadn’t been thrilled when I told him I was moving here, though. Although in his defense, I hadn’t ever said I was applying to teach English and move out of the country, either. I hadn’t wanted to jinx anything by saying something too early, but now it almost seemed cruel that I had left him out of the loop. But we had plans to move to the same city together once I was back in the States. Miami, maybe? Miles was applying for sports jobs; I wanted to work in music and would be fine working at any of the nightlife venues there. We just had to make it through my Barcelona stint first.
I was walking along Carrer de Valencia now, just two blocks away from the school I taught at. I had successfully ignored the cafe on the corner with the perfectly warm chocolate croissants. I couldn’t ignore, however, the bright yellow poster hanging on one of the light posts ahead of me. I couldn’t read Spanish very well, but I could read ‘DIPLO’, my favorite DJ’s name. I half jogged up to the poster. No way, I thought. Tomorrow, apparently, there was a show at a club, Razzmatazz. What were the chances that my favorite DJ would be playing in Barcelona on my fourth day in the city?! It was as if the whole city was welcoming me. I had to go.
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June, 2017
“Social justice issue! Shot.” Tony starts pouring two shots of the cheap Luxe vodka into our solo cups, eyeing how much it is before passing one to me. He was a bartender, and I trusted him way more than I trusted myself when it came to any hard liquor. We were still almost done with the bottle, thanks to Riverdale and our drinking game of “take a shot every time a relevant social justice issue is brought up”.
“We still have to make it out, you know,” I say, trying to hide my gagging due to the smell of the vodka from him, “I’m not missing Diplo. We already didn’t make it to see Dillon Francis.” Although the reason we had missed the show last night wasn’t due to any drinking mishaps, just Tony being sick.
“I’m sorry!” He says, sounding exasperated. I laugh and shake my head, to let him know I’m only kidding. Diplo is more important to see anyway.
“Okay, let’s do this.” I climb onto the bed, standing on top of the comforter and raising my cup toward the ceiling.
“Why are you standing up there?”
“I like being tall.” He laughs at me, all six feet of him not having the issue of being short. We both close our eyes and take our shots,
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June, 2018
“God, fuck, he really signed off with ‘best’?” Sam arches her eyebrows as she looks down at me staring at my phone on the couch.
“‘Best’. I’m gonna have to reply and sign off with ‘warmest regards’.” I start typing, not knowing exactly what to say to him for the first time in my life.
“I can’t believe you’re communicating with him via email at all.” I couldn’t either. It took everything in me to not start crying - again - and type my response.
Everything had gotten so awful so quickly. It was one of those moments when I wondered if it had even really happened; every time I thought about us, it seemed like I was just watching it happen as if it were a movie.
***
“Don’t be too nice to me; I’ll cry.” I say as Taylor pulls me in for a hug. I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes. I’m sick of crying, and I’m sick of being not able to eat. Who knew an emotional problem could trigger such an awful physical response? I hadn’t been able to eat a normal meal in nearly two weeks and just one day before, I had burst into tears while clearing a table at work after a certain song came on.
“You’re too dope to have to deal with this.” He says, and releases me back to my spot at the host stand. Everyone at work knew about us, and slowly the news of our abrupt ending was being spread through the servers. Even my manager, normally aloof about our lives outside of work, had checked on me daily. It was like everyone knew that a piece of me was missing. At least they didn’t have to feel it, though.
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May, 2004
“Just lean your head back when the plane takes off.” My mom double checks her seatbelt and pulls out the magazine that used to sit on the bathroom counter at home.
“This is my first time flying!” I say, excited for some reason about the tiny space and the compressed air.
“You flew when you were a baby.” My mom flips a page.
“I don’t remember it.” I shrug, and stare out the window as the plane starts to move forward.
I wish this were a vacation. I wish our trip to Missouri was one that we had time to drive for, through the small towns along the highway in Oklahoma and the tolls roads through Joplin. I wish we had stops for McDonald’s and the fudge shop and the buffalo jerky stand. I wish I was tuning the radio every twenty minutes to find a station that didn’t turn to static as soon as a song I knew came on.
My dad had bought us plane tickets the day before. They were grossly expensive, but he had done it anyway. It was just me, my mom, and my brother; my dad would watch the dog at home and stay out of my mom’s family business. Just as she had stayed out of his.
I had come home the day before from school, blissfully ignorant about anything that was to follow. I did my homework, mindlessly read chapters from my latest Scholastic book, ran around outside with our mutt. And then I came inside to hear my mom talking loudly on the phone. Too loudly. Loud enough that I knew something was wrong.
I tiptoed past the laundry nook, just beside the bathroom door. She was yelling into the phone wondering how much longer, saying she couldn’t get there. I walked into the bathroom, having to know.
“Mama?” She was leaned against the counter, head in her hands. The weakest I’ve ever seen her look. She looks up at me, and I think she wants to tell me to leave, but she doesn’t quite have it in her.
“My dad.” She says, and I know it’s all I’m going to get. I walk soundlessly to her and lean against the sink, too. She’s sitting on the ground while I stand there when my dad finds us.
He books the flights mere minutes later.
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