Seth Baumgartner's Love Manifesto (5 page)

I head back downstairs, slide my microphone in front of me, and get started on my first podcast.

Intro Music: “It's Not Over” by Daughtry

Hey there. You don't know me, but I'm going to tell you a story.

Once upon a time, there was this guy. Let's call him Steve. Steve knew this girl from school. We'll call her Valerie. Steve and Valerie had known each other for a long time—since first grade, in fact. They were in a lot of the same classes but were never buddy-buddy. Friendly but not friends. Know what I mean?

Anyhow, Steve and Valerie found themselves partners in chemistry class. That meant they had to work together. At first they both hated it, wanted to be with their own friends. But after a while, they grew to tolerate each other. They were in the lab doing experiments before school. In the afternoons they were in the library or at one of their
houses doing homework. Before long, Steve and Valerie started talking on the phone. And conversation shifted from just chemistry to chemistry and a few other things. Friends. Parties. A little gossip. Whatever.

Pretty soon, their conversations were less about schoolwork and more about those other things. Then one afternoon at Steve's house—while they were plotting points to make a graph that showed the temperature of water as it was heated in relation to time—Steve and Valerie kissed.

They kissed and did a pretty good job of wrinkling up their half-done graph. After that, Steve and Valerie were a couple.

I know you've heard stories like this before. Of course, the people probably had different names. Maybe they worked at the grocery store together or met at the mall. But what do all of these stories have in common?

No guesses?

Well, I'll tell you. They all fail. At least, the huge majority of them do. Virtually every high-school relationship fails. Virtually every college relationship fails. Those that succeed to the point where the two actually walk down the aisle and exchange rings…depending on the research you believe, somewhere between forty and sixty percent of those relationships fail. You can do the math, but those odds are pretty crappy.

So why are there so many radio shows that celebrate love when really we should be consoling all the people recovering from failed relationships? That's where the
money is. The money is in the misery.

Why do people put up with it all? Two people could be as happy as two monkeys in a banana tree—better than two monkeys in a banana tree because banana tree monkeys probably fight over the bananas, and that's when the poop-flinging starts.

Two people could be getting along great and then all of a sudden one of them will drop the bomb. Break up. Cheat. Whatever.

That is exactly what happened to me, and I'm here to tell you all about it.

All I can say is that love sucks and I've got some pretty good stories in between songs to prove my point. And if anyone out there can tell me what it means when a girl says she's “too comfortable” with you, I'd appreciate it if you filled me in.

Be sure to leave a comment if you have any questions or ideas or opinions. And remember to tell all your friends about the show. Sure, the audio quality sucks and I haven't quite figured out how to use my soundboard yet, but when you start at the bottom, the only way to go is up, up, up.

So, this is
The Love Manifesto,
where I'll be spinning all the tunes that remind us how much love hurts.

Outro Music: “Love Hurts” by Joan Jett & the Blackhearts

“W
hat do you mean you want to figure out what love is?” Dimitri asks through his fist as he stuffs a handful of French fries into his mouth. “That might be the lamest thing I've ever heard.”

“What's so lame about it? My mom talks about love on her radio program, and she's the number one rated slot in the Capital District.”

“But your mom has a show that caters to love-starved housewives who hang out at craft fairs and garage sales all day. What do you have?”

I boost myself onto the trunk of the Red Scare. The backs of my thighs practically sizzle on the metal, and I hop off the car. “Son of a bitch!”

The guy emptying the garbage cans at Poindexter's
Snack Shack, the greasy burger and ice-cream stand we hang out at, glares at me. “Watch it,” he says. “This is a family establishment.”

“Sorry,” Dimitri says. “My friend here's got Tourette syndrome. He can't control himself. Swears like a freakin' truck driver.”

The Poindexter's guy looks me up and down like he's not sure whether or not to believe Dimitri. “Yeah, well, maybe you two should sit at the picnic table at the end so the kids around here don't hear you.”

“What kids?” Dimitri says. “It's a Thursday afternoon. There's no one here but us. Anyhow, Tourette syndrome is a disability. You wouldn't ask someone in a wheelchair to go to the last table, would you?”

“I'm not saying you
have
to go to the end. I'm just asking if you wouldn't mind. Anyway, if his tics are that bad, he should be on Clonidine.” He pulls the trash bag from the can and replaces it with a new one, tying it tight around the lip of the can. He pushes past Dimitri, bumping his shoulder hard on his way to the Dumpster. “I'm a fourth-year med student, dickwad.”

Dimitri and I head to the picnic table at the end. On the way, I flip open my mother's cell phone as discreetly as I can and hit the button to track my father's car. The phone thinks on it for a few seconds, beeps, and shows that he's still downtown at his office, exactly where he's been all day.

At least, that's where his car is. I jammed the cell phone between the seats. Who knows? Maybe that woman picked
him up. Maybe my father walked somewhere. Maybe she came for a visit to his office for a quickie on his desk. The GPS will only pick up the location of the car. Next time I should hide the cell in his briefcase. No, not there. He wouldn't take his briefcase to lunch. Maybe I could put it in the lining of his sport jacket? My ancient phone is too bulky for that. Between the seats of the Beemer is the best I'm going to get.

Dimitri and I sit on the last picnic table and face Delaware Avenue. Across the road and beyond a fence, the ground drops away to a deep forested gorge.

I take a bite of my cheeseburger and gesture toward Poindexter's. “You remember when this place almost slid into the river a few years back?”

Dimitri shakes his head.

“There were all kinds of mud slides over there.” I point to the river winding quietly behind brown thickets and clumps of trees. At one spot far below us, a retaining wall rises from the banks. “We were, like, six. I remember being afraid that Albany wouldn't have any soft-serve ice cream anymore. I was big into chocolate-vanilla twist back then. The Army Corps of Engineers came and fixed everything.”

“Thanks for the history lesson,” Dimitri says. “Who're you, Lord freakin' Acton?”

“Who?”

“Lord John Emerich Edward Dalberg-Acton. He was a historian—the guy who said, ‘Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.'”

“How stupid of me,” I say.

“Seriously, Seth.” Dimitri takes a huge bite of his hot dog. A glob of ketchup drips down his shirt. “Son of a bitch!” he says through his mouthful. He grabs a napkin from my stack. “My mom's gonna freak.”

“I'm sure you'll survive,” I say. “Your mom is used to your slobbish ways.”

“Yeah, but she's still going to freak. Moms are programmed like that.”

“Didn't Van Gogh cut off his ear for love?” I say. “What drives a guy to do something like that?”

“He was a lunatic. It had nothing to do with love and everything to do with dementia. Psychosis. The guy probably needed Klonopin or Klondike bar or whatever that guy called it.” Dimitri dabs at his Izod with the napkin but only manages to spread the ketchup around. “This is a brand-new shirt. My mom's going to have my head.”

I take a sip of my water. “I started a podcast about it, you know.”

“You started a podcast about my shirt?”

“No, you pinhead. I started a podcast about love. Really, it's sort of antilove. I stayed up last night to do it. It's mostly music, sort of like my mom's show, but I'll talk between the songs, answer listener questions, all that. I'm going to do it all summer.”

“This is going to be classic,” Dimitri says. “You whining all summer about how your love life sucks. What's the show called?”

“No way am I telling you. It'll just screw me up. I'll start
filtering what I say because I'll know you're listening.”

“Come on, Seth. I'll find it anyway.”

“No you won't. I'm using a pseudonym.”

“I'll just Google ‘love' and ‘podcast.' I'll find it.”

“You'll find porn and that's as far as you'll get.”

“Only until my hand gets tired,” Dimitri says.

I cringe. “Remind me never to touch your mouse.”

“There's never cross contact,” he says. “I'm ambidextrous. Right hand for the mouse; left hand for—”

“No details necessary.”

A dark blue Scion pulls into the parking lot, and a bunch of girls pile out. Looks like a good chunk of the volleyball team. One of them is Audrey. This time, her baseball hat and oversized sunglasses don't fool me. The girls head toward the window of Poindexter's.

“Hang out here a second.” Dimitri walks over and starts talking to them. He gestures to me, and the girls look over. I lift a hand and wave. A few of them wave back. One of the girls shakes her head and says something to Dimitri. Dimitri starts talking some more. Audrey looks at me and waves.

My mom's cell phone buzzes. It's Veronica.

Does she want to apologize? Does she want me back? Does she want to pledge her eternal love?

I suck in a breath and let it out slowly, hoping to chase away the legion of butterflies Riverdancing in my gut. I flip open my phone. “Hey,” I say.

“Hey,” she says. Then she's the one who takes the deep breath and lets it out slowly. “We sort of got off track when
we were talking yesterday. I know you probably don't want to hear from me, but I forgot something.”

To secure the lid of my coffin with three-inch decking screws?
almost comes out of my mouth, but I hold it back.

“What'd you forget?” I say.

“I followed that woman out to the parking lot when she left Applebee's.”

“You what?” I heard her perfectly well, but the words come anyway.

“Don't worry,” Veronica says. “I hung back until your dad got into his car. The two of them, your dad and that woman, they gave each other a long hug, a kiss, the whole bit.”

A week ago I would have run to Veronica for advice and support, but now I hate that she knows about this. I hate that she feels as though she's part of everything.

“Is there a point to your call, or are you just trying to make me feel worse than before?”

“No, there's a point,” she says. “After your dad took off, I followed the woman to her car. How do women walk in heels that high, anyway?”

I assume she's not waiting for a response from me. How would I know? I let the silence grow between us as I watch Dimitri chat it up with the girls. Now he's gesturing to the stain on his shirt. One of the girls points to it and says something. Audrey adds something, probably about how their mom is going to go nuclear.

“The lady drives an old Acura Integra,” Veronica
says. “It's a two thousand one. Moon roof, leather seats, the whole bit. It's dark green with that wing thingy on the back. What're those things called?”

“A spoiler?”

“Yeah, a spoiler.”

I don't see how this could be important. “Who cares what she drives?” I say. “Who cares that her car has a spoiler?”

“That's not all. She had a F
OR
S
ALE
sign in the window. How'd you think I knew it was a 2001 Acura? I can't tell the difference between a Cadillac and a Corvette.”

“And…?”

“And the F
OR
S
ALE
sign had a phone number written on it.”

“You're kidding.”

“No, right there in the window. A phone number. It's got to be hers.” Veronica gives me the number. I key the digits into my mom's cell phone and save it. “I know you're probably still really pissed at me, so I'll hang up now,” she says.

“Hey, Vee, maybe we could…you know—”

“No, Seth. It's not a good idea. I called to give you that phone number. That's all. I need some time apart.”

Time apart?
Time apart?
What does she mean by that? Would she consider getting back together down the road? That maybe we could hang out sometime? That maybe we have a chance? How much time is “time apart”?

“Hellooooo?” Veronica says. “Anyone there?”

“I'm here.”

“I've got to get going,” she says. “My mom is taking me dress-shopping. I just thought you'd want that number.”

I don't want to say thanks, but I do and hit the End key. Dimitri is still busy talking to the girls, so I check to make sure my father's car is still in the firm's parking lot. After the phone thinks and beeps, I discover the little red dot is on the move. The Beemer is on Washington Avenue, almost as far as Lake Street. Could he be headed back to the mall? If he were, he'd have probably hopped right on the highway. It's the quickest way to get there from downtown. I shield the screen and squint against the sun so that I can see the map a little better. He turns left on South Lake.

Dimitri heads toward me. “One of the girls over there told me club soda would help get the ketchup out,” he says. “I hope Sprite works the same.”

I snap the phone shut and stuff it in my pocket.

Dimitri boosts himself onto the edge of the picnic table, pours some of his soda on a napkin, and starts dabbing at his shirt. “God, Audrey is such a pain. She totally ran interference on me chatting up Rebecca Malley.”

“Who's Rebecca Malley?”

“Some girl on the volleyball team with her.” Dimitri motions to the girls. “She's the one with the cutoff tee and the ponytail. The tall one.” He points to my phone. “Hey, who was that?”

“Just jerking around with my ringtones.”

“Bullshit. You were just talking with someone. I saw you.”

Crap.

“Oh, that?” I say. “That was Oprah. She wants to do a show on me. I told her to have her people call my people.”

“You don't belong on
Oprah
,” Dimitri says. “You belong on
Jerry
freakin'
Springer
.”

Dimitri has no idea how right he really is. I want to whip open my phone to see where my father is headed. I want to see every turn, to see what lights he gets hung up at, what back roads he winds through. And of course where he ends up. But I'm stuck. There's no way I can ditch Dimitri at Poindexter's Snack Shack. And if I bring him, I'll have to tell him everything.

“What was that all about?” I say, pointing to the girls who by now are sitting several tables away eating ice cream. “I mean, aside from getting stain-removal tips, trying to talk to Rebecca Malley, and getting annoyed by your sister?”

“Grade-A hotties, huh? You can have the brunette, Seth. I know you're a sucker for a miniskirt.”

“How shallow do you think I am? What were you guys talking about?”

“I told them about your podcast.”

“You didn't….”

“I did. I asked them if they'd listen to something like that. You know, to get a sad-sack guy's perspective on love.”

I don't want to ask, but of course I have to. “What'd they say?”

Dimitri tucks the rest of his hot dog neatly into his mouth. He picks up his soda and takes a sip. “I'd tell you, but I'm too good a friend.”

“No, really. What'd they think?”

“They thought it was pathetic, like a baby crying for its mommy….” Dimitri makes a pouty face and gurgles and whines a few times. The girls look over. I shrug with one of those everything-is-okay-over-here expressions on my face.

“You know,” I say, “that hot dog you're eating probably has pig uterus in it or something.”

“If eating pig uterus is wrong”—Dimitri swallows the last chunk of his hot dog—“I don't want to be right.”

“So, how did you do that?” I ask him.

“How did I do what?”

I jerk my chin at the girls. “How did you just go up and talk to those girls? You act like it's nothing.”

“You act like it's
something
,” he says. “It's just my sister and her geeky volleyball friends.”

I pick at a splinter on the edge of the table. Someone carved two sets of initials, E. W. and A. K., into the surface of the wood with the word
4EVR
just beneath it. I wonder how long that's been there. The table looks about a hundred years old. I wonder if E. W. and A. K. are still together. Somehow I doubt it.

Dimitri crumples up his plate and napkin and tosses the paper over his head like he's doing some kind of Harlem Globetrotters hook shot. The wadded-up trash bounces off the edge of the garbage can and lands on the pavement. He trudges over, picks up his litter, and slam-dunks it into the can. “Look, I eavesdrop on Audrey's phone calls all the time. Girls are just as nervous about talking to guys as
we are talking to them.”