Sound Bites. Rachel Burke K
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to the album version, only it was softer. An acoustic version, maybe. I couldn’t place it, but whatever it was, there was something brilliant about it.
***
Two nights later, it happened again. I was in the midst of a dream where I was working back at the Pace offices. I had been assigned my first profile story on a local band, but as soon as I finished piecing the article together, my computer crashed and the entire document was lost. I kept restarting the computer, but all I saw was a giant black screen in front of me.
When I awoke, the same familiar sound was seeping through my vents, and I realized that was what woke me. Only this time, it was a version of Buckley’s cover of “Hallelujah.” I listened until the song ended, and then heard the first notes of “Lover You Should’ve Come Over” strike up once again.
Without even thinking, I got up, threw on a pair of shoes, and proceeded up the stairs to find out where it was coming from.
When I reached the top of the stairwell, I heard the music coming from the first door on my right, the apartment directly above me. I paused and gnawed on my lower lip, contemplating how ridiculous I’d be to knock on some stranger’s door and confess that I was eavesdropping on their music collection.
I turned to head back down the stairs, but froze when something on the door caught my eye. The apartment number stared back at me, mocking me, laughing at my expense.
Apartment eighteen.
The image of Dylan’s registration appeared in my head:
Dylan Cavallari
10 Park Place Apt. 18.
Boston, MA 02111
There was no way in hell I was knocking on that asshole’s door.
I lingered in the hallway for a few minutes, imagining what would happen if I did knock. I pictured his trashy, loudmouth girlfriend answering the door in her underwear and demanding to know if I was sleeping with her boyfriend. I pressed my ear to the door and listened, but didn’t hear any voices so I assumed he was alone.
My second fantasy consisted of Dylan answering the door, telling me that I was a huge bitch and to go screw, then slamming the door in my face. That was what I was most afraid of.
My third fantasy consisted of Dylan answering the door and inviting me in. While Jeff Buckley played in the background, he threw me down on his bed and ripped off each article of my clothing one by one, while condescendingly telling me what a bitch I was. I liked that one that most. It was kind of a turn-on.
Screw it, I told myself. It’s now or never.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.
The incredulous look on Dylan’s face when he answered the door was priceless. He stared at me for so long that I burst out laughing.
“California?” he asked. “What the hell are you doing here? Everything okay?”
I nodded. “I know this is really strange, but I have to ask you a question. Am I interrupting anything?”
He shook his head. “No, I’m alone. Come on in.”
I followed Dylan into his living room, which was an absolute pigsty. It had that specific bachelor pad aesthetic to it – piles of books and newspapers strewn everywhere, dirty dishes covering the coffee table, the lingering scent of stale beer and dirty laundry. I could barely tell what color his armchair was because of the massive pile of clothing draped over it. I made a poor attempt to hide the disgusted look on my face, but it must have been pretty obvious because Dylan shot me a judgmental look.
“Listen,” he said. “I know it’s a mess, but I don’t want to hear one complaint out of your mouth or I’m kicking your ass out. Understood?”
I nodded in agreement.
“Good. So what’s up?”
I glanced down, looking for a place to sit, but I didn’t have many options. Realizing this, Dylan picked up the pile of clothes on the chair, threw them onto the floor, and motioned for me to sit down.
“Well,” I began. “I woke up the other night because I heard music coming through my vents and … ”
“Hey,” he interrupted. “If you’re coming here to bitch about the noise, I don’t want to hear it. It’s one of the prerequisites of living in a complex.”
I felt my face harden. I hadn’t even been in the door for two minutes and the guy was already getting under my skin. “Will you let me finish? That’s not why I’m here.”
Dylan threw his hands up, his expression softening. “Sorry. Continue.”
“Okay, so I woke up and heard one of my favorite Jeff Buckley songs, but I…”
My voice trailed off as I noticed a pleased expression slowly cross Dylan’s face, replacing his usual perma-scowl. “Wait a second, you listen to Buckley?”
“Of course. The guy’s amazing.”
Dylan leaned forward in his chair, looking at me with raised eyebrows. The shocking part was, in place of his normal brooding self, he was actually smiling. This was a first.
“Wow,” he said. “California, I may have completely misjudged you. You kind of struck me as some high-maintenance club rat that rocked out to overproduced pop music. But I’ll have you know that I’m a huge Buckley fan myself, which you’ve already probably guessed.”
“That’s what I was getting at. I came here because I’ve never heard that acoustic version of ‘Lover You Should’ve Come Over’ before. I have a few live albums of his but the one you were playing was just…” I searched for the word. “Brilliant.”
Dylan raised his eyebrows. “Well, I’m flattered.”
“Huh?”
“I’m flattered,” he repeated.
“What do you mean you’re flattered?”
Dylan smirked at me like he knew something I didn’t. “It’s Renee, right?”
I nodded.
“Well, Renee, you can search long and hard, but you’re never going to find that version of the song.”
I was getting annoyed with his off-topic insinuations. “Okay. Why not?”
“Because that wasn’t Jeff Buckley’s version. It was mine.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m serious.” He pointed to his acoustic guitar in the corner of the living room. “That’s my favorite song to play.”
No way, I thought to myself. There was no way. Buckley was The Almighty. I had yet to meet someone walking this Earth who could be mistaken for him.
“So, you mean to tell me that you were the one singing that song tonight?” My eyes narrowed.
“That’s what I said.”
“Okay.” I walked over to the other side of the room and handed Dylan his guitar. “Prove it.”
He sat in silence for a minute, his smooth wave of confidence crashing down. He suddenly became very interested in studying the ceiling patterns.
I placed his guitar back on the floor. “I knew you were full of it.”
He finally lowered his head and met my gaze. “I’m not lying, I just… can’t,” he mumbled. “I can’t play in front of people. I’ve never been able to. I hate it because a lot of my friends are in bands