"Last stop for a resolution
end of the line, into confusion"
Elliott Smith

The story of Tracy Cat is a story of love and death.  It is a drama laced with poison, a harrowing tale of addiction and desire.  I wrote the outline in the "Good Morning Hollywood" story, from doing TV audience work for drug money to copping dope from a drunken, underage Mexican Mafia kid on Thanksgiving, to wrestling a kitchen knife out of her hand and sitting across the room high on love and homicidal malice.  I'm lucky I didn't turn out like Elliott Smith, who was so smitten he "committed suicide" by stabbing himself twice in the chest.  Because he was a junkie, his girlfriend was never charged with his murder.  Here's me crouching in front of his makeshift memorial, a wall where he took one of his album cover pics.  Tracy's inscription is to my left.

It was a wild, bloody season.  "Soap Dick/I'm A Rat" from the Stumblefish album captures the vibe fairly well, as does the song "Over The 5 And Far Away" from the No Destination EP.  It's dark, infernal stuff.

It also happens to be true.  Or, at least,

It was.

I think of Tracy Cat from time to time, and wonder how she is.  Sadly, it is safe to assume the worst.  But looking through my discography today for the purpose of finding something to make into an AI movie, "I'll Never Love You" jumped out at me like a junky chick with a kitchen knife.  The song lunged at me with drug lust, a crumpled pack of smokes, and bloodthirsty desire.  I wrestled the weapon out of the song's hand, and we stared at each other across the room as I finished the video.  "Why are you revisiting me?" it asked.  "Can't you see I am a monster?  Nobody loves me, and nobody should.  I am a heresy in verse, a photograph of hell, a cane of candied blood.  Can't you see that I glorify drugs, and should therefore be ignored?"

"Not at all," I replied.  "Quite the opposite.  In fact, you are a love song.  I'm not sure I'd feel justified in spending the time on making a video of you if you weren't.  I passed over several of your siblings, bereft of the breath of life and hope as they were.  But you contain the oxygen required to breathe at depths that rival that of outer space.  You kept me from falling off the top of the world's tallest ocean; you kept me alive in the pits of hell itself."

"But look at my title," said the song.  "It plainly states that no matter what I do, you will never love me."  The song had dropped the knife, and was staring at the floor with disconsolate sorrow.  Its shoulders heaved as it began to sob.  I walked over to it and gave it a hug.

"Nonsense," I said.  The sobs became heavy and deep, but the song seemed to relax in my embrace.  "The title doesn't have anything to do with it.  It perfectly expresses the paradoxical heights one can experience at the bottom of the ocean, if they have love in their heart.  The way I remember it, your message is clear that love is the only reason anyone survives anything.  Including death."  The song looked at me with sad, desperate eyes.  It had obviously been alone for a very long time.

"Do you really think so," it asked, with a voice like a broken clarinet.  Suddenly, I realized I had neglected it.  The song saw the guilt flash across my face, and saw, perhaps for the first time in its life, that in fact it truly was loved.  It smiled.  "It's alright.," it said.  "I understand.  I'm not the kind of song that works well in bars.  If you have neglected me, it was out of circumstantial necessity.  Even though I was born in a flophouse in Hollywood, and my low pedigree causes me to be shunned by polite, self-righteous society, you haven't abandoned me.  You could have, but you didn't."  The song let go of me, and took a step back.  "However, in spite of all that," said the song, "I will never love you."

I laughed.  The broken clarinet turned into a low brass section, and trombones and tubas laughed like tired workmen all around us.  It was a symphony of friendship and relief.  I looked at the song.  It was happy.

"I gotta go," I said.  "It was great to see you again.  'Til next time."  The song looked at me, its face scarred by decades of life on the street, but beaming with a newfound inner peace.

"See you then," it said.

We gestured at each other in solidarity and approval, and went our separate ways.

I'll Never Love You

Baby,
I always loved you
even when you were putting me on

Baby,
I still love you
even though I'm long gone

Wake up
in a pile of garbage
you were my darling,
but not for real
you healed my broken chains
I was in love with you
I was insane

Even in the worst times
we were more or less free
but it was the good times
that made it hard for me to see
that you were only playing
only playing games
you were good at pointing fingers
I was good at naming names

If I could do it all over,
well you know that I wouldn't
I never understood it
but maybe I was never meant to

Show me your knife
hold the phone for ransom
you said I was handsome
for a chauvinist pig

Baby
won't you tell me what happened?
I don't care what happened
I only hope that you're okay
at least for today
you never needed me
anyway

Maybe you got clean
maybe you went straight
back to hell where you came from
maybe it's too late
but in case you're still kickin'
or even want to make amends
go on ahead and apologize
to one-a your temporary
friends

I don't care what they say,
I thought you were beautiful
you were beautiful
you were beautiful to me

Did it make you tough?
Did it make you strong?
Always pointing out
where everybody's wrong?
Isolating yourself
in some backwards effort
to belong?

I was a fool
and everybody knew it
if you can find something to do
you can find a reason to do it
there's a million ways to dig a hole,
but there's only one way out
of one thing I have no doubt:

No matter how much you hate me
I'll never love you
turn out the lights
and let the telephone ring

I don't owe you nothin'
and you don't owe me
whatever you're doing
wherever you're staying,
just stay
away from me
stay away from me
away from me
stay away from me

©2002 Nathan Payne