For No One

Revolver first asked for a Walkman five months before the Christmas of 1981. He spotted Gus, his teenage neighbor sitting in his yard, grinning like a proud sinner and drumming his kneecaps. The cassette deck was clamped to his belt and his excellent long hair hid the earphones.

“What is that thing?” he asked Gus.

“I can’t hear you, Rev. What? It’s Foreigner! You like Foreigner? Check it out! It’s called a Walkman.”

Gus handed him the orange-eared headphones. Revolver leaned in to meet the tethered distance of the cord and was immediately transformed into a juke...box...hero. With stars in his eyes.

After soaking it in for a few seconds, and not wanting to overstay his welcome, Rev gave them back.

“That kicks butt,” he muttered, failing to sound cool, older or longhaired.

“No,” Gus said, “it kicks ASS, man. Their best album yet, and it sounds so much better on cassette than on vinyl. Hey, and don’t tell your Dad I said ass, right?”

“Oh I won’t. Man. That thing kicks some...damn ass.” His eyes dropped to his shoes and he blinked hard.

Gus winked at him and red-faced Revolver sulked back into his house to brush up on his cursing and to memorize the Encyclopedia entry on speeding up the growth of one’s hair.

By Thanksgiving, he’d made his case abundantly clear, taping pictures from magazine ads for the Walkman all over his bedroom and the fridge. His favorite one featured a pair of doublemint-twin blondes roller skating in a park and wearing astoundingly short shorts. And while Revolver’s Dad certainly seemed amiable to his quest, his Dad’s new girlfriend was not.

“I don’t know, Tom. Seems like anytime I see a Walkman I see a cigarette or a beer can, too. Isn’t that a little too hippie and grown up for a ten year old?”

Dad would hug Rita and lift her off the floor, trying to change the subject or make her laugh, which, while serving a purpose, also made Revolver sick to his stomach. His real mother (who would have already bought him a Walkman by now) had only been dead for two years. She loved music and would sprawl out on the living room shag playing records, singing loudly almost every night. She named her only son after her favorite album for crying out loud, so Revolver was repulsed by this replacement woman’s lack of taste and (possibly) a human soul. Her opinion meant nothing to him, so he ignored it and stayed on the mission.

Two weeks before Christmas-- the back of his hair now past his shirt collar--Revolver found a Radio Shack bag on the top coat closet shelf. Inside was a Walkman. A clean yellow deck with black foam earphones; vacuum sealed in clamshell plastic. A piece of folded green construction paper was taped over the price tag.

For: Rev

Love: Dad

Exploding in a blend of happiness and guilt, he quickly wrapped it shut and went to replace it when another bag caught his eye. He reached into see if it was the new Foreigner cassette and pulled out a small felt-covered box.

Inside a diamond ring sat nested in silk.

For: Rita~ Will you?

His eyes welled and spilled. In his mind spun the vision of his mother singing her favorite McCartney lyric:

“And in her eyes you see nothing

No sign of love behind the tears

Cried for no one

A love that should have lasted years.”

Revolver shoved the ring into his pocket and went outside to dig a really deep hole.