"Stitch" by Aaron Cometbus
It's one more party in in one more unfamiliar town on my cross-country road trip. Her name is Stephanie, but she says to call her Stitch. Stitch in time. Keep you in stitches. Keep you at stitch's, as she likes to say. Stitch rhymes with you know what. She gives me a necklace and I'm already in love with her before she shares her beer.
A week later in a different town, I find her again. She is swinging on a swingset in the park, smiling and shooting me with her fingers. We strip down to our underwear and go swimming in the lake. She wraps herself in seaweed and says she is a mermaid. I pick a dandelion and wish for her to blow off every single bit of fluff. She kisses my hand when it is time to go.
I get sick of traveling and being around so many people, so I move to a new city and I am restless and lonely. I write her letters saying I have a big crush on her, which isn't exactly news. Days and trains pass and I look for her, but no such luck.
Winter comes and I head back home on the Greyhound, hoping to find a letter from her waiting for me. Hoping to find her waiting for me, but a letter will do. On the way I pass through a million miserable small towns and stop in a handful and walk around. One day like every other, I put on my over stuffed backpack that weighs a ton and walk the five mile walk from the bus station to downtown.
I look up and there she is. It is too good to be true. Walking down the sidewalk looking at me and smiling, all sly and sneaky like. We get two bottles of strawberry wine and end up in a dumpster wrestling and biting and screaming and kissing in who knows what kind of stinky trash. When we emerge an hour and a half later, I can barely stand up. She asks if I am drunk. Of course I'm drunk. Isn't she? Nope.
Oh my. I'm a little embarrased. I'm also wrong about her being shy. We walk through the empty late night streets toward her squat. Her squat is a beautiful abandoned theater with two empty bottom floors and her friends still awake on the third. They are huddled around a makeshift table eating dumpstered bagles. We join them and share stories, water, cigarettes, and some leftover beer.
It's wonderful in there. There are murals on the walls and candles are burning everywhere. The bathroom is the roof outside. The living room is the table. The bedrooms are matresses separated by sheets hung from the rafters. Stitch is acting aloof, so I set up camp by the table. She calls me into her room. We feel bad for keeping everyone awake.
In the morning I look like I got the worst of a fight. She still looks beautiful. I am about to miss my bus. I am about to miss her badly. She is heading to the jungles of Mexico. She says she will send me a monkey. She kisses me goodbye.
I get home. It sucks. What's new. I check my mail box for a letter from Stitch. Weeks pass and where my monkey is, I don't know. I lie awake at night, unable to sleep, crawling out of my skin, thinking of her.
Three months later and I'm in another new town. In a laundromat. In between broken hearted country songs on the radio, there is a live call from Sue asking William to marry her. She is tired of waiting for him to ask. Another sad song, then William calls the station and accepts on air. The DJ asks if he can come to the wedding.
It's all very depressing. I'm in a laundromat, listening to country music, with poison covering my body from head to toe. I watch my clothes go round and round in the drier, hoping the heat kills the bugs this time. It's the seventh time I've done this goddamn treatment.
I wish Stitch would send me a letter. She is hard to forget. She gave me something to remember her by. Not a monkey, but some other animal. Scabies. I am scratching and thinking of her. Stitch rhymes with you know what.
It's one more party in in one more unfamiliar town on my cross-country road trip. Her name is Stephanie, but she says to call her Stitch. Stitch in time. Keep you in stitches. Keep you at stitch's, as she likes to say. Stitch rhymes with you know what. She gives me a necklace and I'm already in love with her before she shares her beer.
A week later in a different town, I find her again. She is swinging on a swingset in the park, smiling and shooting me with her fingers. We strip down to our underwear and go swimming in the lake. She wraps herself in seaweed and says she is a mermaid. I pick a dandelion and wish for her to blow off every single bit of fluff. She kisses my hand when it is time to go.
I get sick of traveling and being around so many people, so I move to a new city and I am restless and lonely. I write her letters saying I have a big crush on her, which isn't exactly news. Days and trains pass and I look for her, but no such luck.
Winter comes and I head back home on the Greyhound, hoping to find a letter from her waiting for me. Hoping to find her waiting for me, but a letter will do. On the way I pass through a million miserable small towns and stop in a handful and walk around. One day like every other, I put on my over stuffed backpack that weighs a ton and walk the five mile walk from the bus station to downtown.
I look up and there she is. It is too good to be true. Walking down the sidewalk looking at me and smiling, all sly and sneaky like. We get two bottles of strawberry wine and end up in a dumpster wrestling and biting and screaming and kissing in who knows what kind of stinky trash. When we emerge an hour and a half later, I can barely stand up. She asks if I am drunk. Of course I'm drunk. Isn't she? Nope.
Oh my. I'm a little embarrased. I'm also wrong about her being shy. We walk through the empty late night streets toward her squat. Her squat is a beautiful abandoned theater with two empty bottom floors and her friends still awake on the third. They are huddled around a makeshift table eating dumpstered bagles. We join them and share stories, water, cigarettes, and some leftover beer.
It's wonderful in there. There are murals on the walls and candles are burning everywhere. The bathroom is the roof outside. The living room is the table. The bedrooms are matresses separated by sheets hung from the rafters. Stitch is acting aloof, so I set up camp by the table. She calls me into her room. We feel bad for keeping everyone awake.
In the morning I look like I got the worst of a fight. She still looks beautiful. I am about to miss my bus. I am about to miss her badly. She is heading to the jungles of Mexico. She says she will send me a monkey. She kisses me goodbye.
I get home. It sucks. What's new. I check my mail box for a letter from Stitch. Weeks pass and where my monkey is, I don't know. I lie awake at night, unable to sleep, crawling out of my skin, thinking of her.
Three months later and I'm in another new town. In a laundromat. In between broken hearted country songs on the radio, there is a live call from Sue asking William to marry her. She is tired of waiting for him to ask. Another sad song, then William calls the station and accepts on air. The DJ asks if he can come to the wedding.
It's all very depressing. I'm in a laundromat, listening to country music, with poison covering my body from head to toe. I watch my clothes go round and round in the drier, hoping the heat kills the bugs this time. It's the seventh time I've done this goddamn treatment.
I wish Stitch would send me a letter. She is hard to forget. She gave me something to remember her by. Not a monkey, but some other animal. Scabies. I am scratching and thinking of her. Stitch rhymes with you know what.
menotyou:
Dude. I fucking LOVE that story.