What’s an Mp3 Again?
We had finished lunch at Arby’s.
Then took me to his place, which was his parents’.
A lovely home decorated in northeastern Americana
heavy on the light houses.
His bedroom looked like the bedroom of a twenty-year-old
who lived with his parents
and attended a university a fifteen-minute drive away.
Ten minutes longer than his commute to high school.
“Have you heard this song?”
He took me to the computer/sewing room next to his.
He opened up a music player on the screen.
And then it goes black. And then “What’s My Age Again?” began.
And colorful bars danced to life in time.
I ask him, “Is this a new CD?”
“It’s an Mp3.”
“A what?”
I had never heard the song.
I had never heard an MP3.
Chris, I was learning, was a computer guy.
Casually into the latest tech
and pop-punk grooves.
I like Chris. We could be friends,
maybe enough to be roommates.
I am on the hunt, and a twenty-year-old
living at home is the perfect prey.
And he has good taste in music
and a good sense of humor
and an appetite for screwy things
and interesting people.
Maybe that’s why he likes me.
Maybe that’s why this might work out.
And maybe I’ll actually join a fucking fraternity.
But first, before any of that
I need to excuse myself.
The Arby’s has started a war with my insides
and my insides are ready to push everything out.
We’re just getting to know each other.
Shitting myself in his parents’ computer/sewing room
Would be totally uncool
And not the kind of funny I want to impress on this guy.
I need a new roommate.
One with Mp3s.
But I’m never eating Arby’s with this guy again.
