anywhereisbetter

In January, you leave your whole life 2500 miles behind in search of something better. You step out of a taxi and into a new world. The next day, as you’re engulfed in a strange daze of hope and loneliness, it snows on your way to the subway, and the buildings down Third Avenue evaporate into a speckled field of white. Elvis Costello plays melodiously, calmly through your headphones, and your lungs fill with cold air that feels more like satisfaction.

You’ve decided to spend a weekend in April back home. The girl you love acts distant. Then suddenly, it’s over. You spend an extra week in town, unable to pick yourself up off the floor. The only thing that gives you the will to stand up straight is anger. Rocket from the Crypt makes you angry, and you leave this life behind for good.

By October, things are different. The noxious cloud of a wounded city is blowing away, but you’re moving to Brooklyn. You and your friends pass the time by forgetting the past and not worrying about the future. Video games and movies play constantly on the television, and Vic Ruggiero echoes through the house.

Months later, you’ve met her again‚ a new girl. It’s only been a few weeks, but something feels right. She takes you to her apartment; you sit on the edge of her bed while she plays a CD on her broken little boombox. From this moment on, she’s what hearing Ted Leo means to you.

It’s a new year. Months go by; you’re in love again. You spend the spring walking the streets of Carroll Gardens and sipping iced mochas. Instead of work, she takes you to Coney Island. At home, while the two of you lay in bed basking in the cool breeze of a dusty window, The Impressions go round and round on the turntable. She makes fun of you for always playing “make-out music.” She’s probably right.

Warm spring days turn into hot summer months. She leaves for work early; you spend the day waiting for your night shift. The sun burns brightly into her new apartment, and everything seems perfect. You’re practically living together, and in a few months you’ll make it official. The air conditioner drowns out the sounds of the street below, and Brenton Wood reminds you of her when she’s away.

The winter is more difficult. Money’s tight- you’re back in school and hardly working, and she’s still a barista at a failing Brooklyn eatery. Your birthday is coming up. You want to skip it this year. Otis Redding feels your pain and keeps you company.

By January, things are looking better. You’re poor, you’re sick, it’s freezing outside, and you’re stuck in a 250 square foot studio, but you’re unbearably happy together. On the morning of her birthday, you jump out of bed and play a Stevie Wonder record. You sing to her. Isn’t she lovely? She is, and the two of you sway back and forth, dancing in your underwear. She’s so happy she starts to cry. You do too. That’s never happened to you before. It hasn’t happened since.

The year progresses. It starts out well enough‚ you go to Paris together, then London. That summer, things change. You don’t know exactly how, they just do. They keep changing, but you both hold on. Supergrass keeps you from worrying too much.

Another year, and more problems. You can’t ignore it anymore. You fight awful fights with vicious words and slamming doors. You’re afraid to leave, and you decide you want to make it work. It’s not going to. Standing in the kitchen, your head pressed against the wall, you try in vain to hold back tears while a Jim Ruiz song engraves the moment into your memory.

By March, you’re out of the apartment and living on a couch. You tell yourself it’s for the best, but it’s hard to believe that. At night, you sit in silence, lying on your back in someone else’s living room, watching shards of blue light pour onto the ceiling through narrow windows facing a cemetery. There’s no music to describe the way you feel.

A couple of months pass; it’s warm again. You make it through school, get a new apartment, and move the last of your things out of hers. You start another new life. The Odd Numbers help you forget the old one until you’re ready to remember. Every day, the sun rises a little earlier, sets a bit later, and seems to shine a little brighter.

Summer passes, and fall sets in with a gust of brown leaves down a tree-lined street in Brooklyn. On a Saturday night in October, thirty people cram into a private room and sing songs together, and for the first time in three years, you really enjoy your birthday. In the morning, a Hall and Oates song still rings through your aching head.

Winter. You take a trip to France. It’s the most amazing experience of your life. As you drive through the Alps on winding roads hanging off rocky cliffs, the radio plays Dire Straights for the third time of the trip. Someone plugs in an iPod, and you listen to the Arcade Fire one more time.

You come back from France drained and unprepared to return to the rut that is your life. You exchange music with a girl in England, who sends you a Razorlight album. You can’t stop listening to it. You can’t stop thinking about the future, either. You’re nervous, but somehow, you’re confident that things will come together. They usually do.