The Wikiness

I met you, Brenda, in the spring of 1978 in Family Life class, where by the luck of sitting next to each other, we were joined in academic matrimony.

The course, a graduation requirement, paired students boy-girl at the beginning of the course to collaborate on semester-long projects, like budgets, applying for loans, paying taxes, and vacation planning.  The projects were designed to mirror what real-life married couples faced. When we were “divorced” at the end of the course, you, not it, had taught me a most important lesson. 

You were not the obvious prettiest girl in the classroom–the boldly beautiful type. Her loud self-confidence would have muted me.  

Thankfully. the Universe sat me next to you, a nonetheless attractive blonde.  I didn’t know you, but your smile and quiet demeanor invited me to get closer, even dare to partner with you as your ersatz husband. 

It was the first day of the semester. I had to propose to someone.  “Um. Would you like to be my partner?”

You said “yes,” we smiled, and it sealed the deal. We worked well. I admired your strong math skills, and we earned an A in the class.  

My buddies at the time–a toxic male lot of football players and hangers-on, all braggadociously boasted that they would not be seventeen and a virgin. That semester, I had it in my mind that somehow, I would have sex before my May birthday. And then I met you.

It so happened that you were not only quiet, pretty, and good at math. When school was out, you also liked to rock. In mom’s Dodge Duster, we drove to illicit basements you knew in central Oak Park, rooms where stereos were turned up and beer flowed, eliciting powerful cascades of brain chemicals that lowered our critical thinking while increasing our pleasure centers. We sat on rec room couches arm in arm with our Old Styles, facing the speakers and soaking in the booming bass, drums, and electric guitar: Ted Nugent, Led Zeppelin, Aerosmith, Rush. 

These gatherings were mostly wordless. What conversation there was between songs was jock-ular jocular. “Hey, did you hear about… [some loser].” I did not join in. I was a lover, not a fighter. And yet here were you, Brenda, your lovely head and shoulders in my arms, finding me nonetheless desirable. How pleasant and righteous I felt!

You were more experienced than I, though we didn’t speak of it. Perhaps you knew of Erica Jong’s “frictionless fuck,” which I’d read about in the copy of Fear of Flying lying about the house. You knew I was eager to get “experienced,” and one night when there was no one aware at my south Oak Park house, we snuck up to my bedroom and–after I secured the condom I’d carried in my wallet for about a year–you let me release my semen into its proper place (but for the interceding latex of the condom).

Because you had done it before, you knew that the mere act of coitus wasn’t that big a deal–the authority figures had lied about it as they had other things. You knew that once virginity was lost, attention could be put on more important things. “Hey,” you seemed to say, “sex is not so greatl. This other stuff , the life around it–the lovely noise, the dissonant harmonies, the wild personalities, the glamour. Aren’t they more interesting?”

Thank you, Brenda. You were the best instructor I could have had, though I don’t think I appreciated the full implications of your lesson until recently. 

Now that I think back, Brenda, you taught me about sex, yes, but also drugs and rock and roll. It was you who invited me to go see Genesis at the Chicago Stadium on April 6. With no prohibition on smoking during shows, a large percentage of the audience seemed to be smoking marijuana as soon as the house lights went down. The fumes found their way to our upper balcony seats and probably affected me before I partook of my first-ever joint, passed down the row to me by a stranger who, because he was in this audience with me, grooving to this same extraordinary music, was no stranger. It felt like holy communion.

I noticed under cannabis’ influence that I noticed more. The music was richly complex and compelling. The visuals Genesis brought with them–they had this new device called a “laser light show”– were spectacular. The drug seemed to heighten my awareness, as if the aperture of my senses had been opened wide to the environment. It was thrilling, and I quite enjoyed it.

Adding to its allure, the next day, I felt fine and could recall everything in great detail, which wasn’t the case when I drank beer.

We respected and understood each other well enough not to continue our relationship beyond the class. You seemed to know I was on a trajectory far from Oak Park and your more local interests. The last I heard you were a pre-med student at UIC.

Then came the front page headline on last Sunday’s SunTimes announcing your death, and a full page giving your Chicago life its due. In your passing from complications of multiple sclerosis, an important part of Chicago culture–an alternative lifestyle, rock-n-roll element– was lost. 

I’m glad you had a good life. I smiled when I learned from the article how your Halsted Street store sold “vintage sharkskin suits, chainmail bikinis, Doc Martens boots, motorcycle boots, body-piercing jewelry, stiletto pumps, corsets, Jughead hats, latex dresses and other fetish wear.” You stayed true to the rock and roll ethos of those basement nights and made it pay. Jimmy Page, Dennis Rodman, Slash, and other luminaries from the demi-monde made a path to your doors. 

I also learned that you met your life partner at a Cheap Trick concert in 1979, the same year I was on the other side of the planet having my mind blown.

According to your husband, you were the same beautifully-accepting woman who at 16 had welcomed me into her embrace. He called you “softspoken, very empathetic” and said “there wasn’t a creature she wouldn’t take in and take care of…she was not judgmental…just very gracious and very humble.”

Way to lead with love, Brenda!

Today I worked out at the YMCA in your honor. I know your last days would have made moving freely something you could no longer do. While I was there, the Cheap Trick song “Surrender” came blasting out of the loud speakers, and I smiled again. Did you put that on the radio? Those lyrics described the way you lived your life–with bold individuality and compassion–revolutionary subversion alongside radical acceptance.

“Mommy’s alright./ Daddy’s alright./They just seem a little weird./Surrender. Surrender/But don’t give yourself away.”

Thank you for never giving yourself away, Brenda, not, at least, in any way that mattered.