Track 14

I had had a successful day that day. I went to all

my classes (an accomplishment for me), and I was wearing

sweatpants even though it had gotten surprisingly hot by

the afternoon, and the inner layer of cotton had become

warm in an unpleasant way.

Track 14 was played. I had an aux cord in my car,

and it worked, but the speakers were quiet and kind of

grainy, making it a much less enjoyable experience than

blasting music from the CDs I had collected from years and

years before. This was a CD day. My car, a 2012 Subaru

Outback in a bright, overly recognizable green color, was a

relic of deterioration. The rattling it made when the key entered

the ignition was enough to give passengers the urge to

escape, and the hectic loudness of the drive was even worse.

I loved that car.

Track 14 was playing. I skipped school three years

ago, my senior year of high school, to watch the music

video for it, a thirteen minute long short film that won some

awards a couple of months later. Track 14 was one that

made me think of the boyfriends I never had and how cruel

they had treated me. How men often do acts of the utmost

barbarism, like kisses to the forehead and pulling you back

in adoration when you try to leave in the morning, and then

tell you it was casual. I had never experienced this. This

is good. I never related to the song though. Track 14 was

always something common, something that I could belt to

but never really cry to.

Before I got to my car on that autumnal day, with

the leaves turning such vibrant shades of red and orange

and yellow, with some wonderful shades of brown intersecting

each and every one, I gave out a joyful “Hello ______!”

I said his nickname afterward, the name I had called him so

many months ago, the name I hadn’t spoken aloud in that

many months. I received something devastating in return.

“Hello Kendall.”

Everyone calls me Kenny. My friends call me Kenny.

My distant acquaintances call me Kenny. My bosses call

me Kenny.

Professors call me Kendall. The pharmacy calls me

Kendall. My emails call me Kendall.

Track 14 pierced my heart more than it ever had.

“Hello Kendall,” rang through my ear as I remembered all

of it. I remembered the late nights, the early mornings, the

trips to the grocery store in the early afternoons. I remembered

his face, dried from salty tears, the day everything

ended and I remember the way we always remained just

friends and nothing more, despite what the people said

and despite what the universe wanted. I remembered the

way we did nothing together and it was the time of my life,

and the way he’d be stupid and the way he’d do anything

I asked, no matter how reluctant it seemed. Track 14 and

its lyrics of horror cursed me, reminding me that your

mom told me about you on the tee-ball team and that you

charmed my dad (who is quite hard to charm) with

self-effacing jokes.

I would give anything for a “Hi Kenny, how are

you?”.