Watch Hill
July 31, 2020
I’m living in my mom’s attic in Rhode Island. For the summer, for the pandemic. I’m thirty-six but a lot of my friends are living with parents these days.
I can glimpse the ocean; if I turn my music off I can hear the waves.
It’s almost midnight. My window’s open, but there’s no breeze. I’m only wearing a sarong.
I want to be alone; I want to be seen.
Across the street, an iconic seaside resort. Since childhood it’s filled my window, Victorian roof and yellow walls. Since June I’ve been … flabbergasted, dismayed, apoplectic … watching weddings on their croquet lawn every Saturday afternoon, from my attic. Jealous? The tourists have not stopped themselves from having a summer.
I’m listening to You’re So Vain, for maybe the millionth time. How have I just noticed Mick Jagger on vocals tonight? At midnight, it will be August.
Biden hasn’t announced a running mate. I’m researching prominent Black women—Karen Bass, Keisha Lance Bottoms, Letitia James—as if my diligence, my preference could influence his pick.
Our mailman told me the virus will disappear the day after the election.
Our cleaning lady told me the vaccine is the government’s excuse to kill us.
Why can’t we clean our own house?
My mother told me the cleaning lady needs us, all her other summer clients canceled. My mother is sixty-five, has had respiratory issues her whole life. Our cleaning lady drives a Mercedes, parks between my mom’s pickup and my Prius with the Hillary sticker still on it.
I open the Wikipedia entry for You’re So Vain to confirm it’s Jagger, thought it clearly is. In 1983, the year before I was born, Carly Simon said the song was not about him.
My mother still goes to church. They keep the windows open, wear masks, aren’t supposed to sing. We don’t know if schools will open in the fall. We don’t know if the virus will swell or fade.
I still want to know who I will become.
I was in kindergarten when Taylor Swift was born; she’s five years and ten months younger than me. Forbes ranked her the highest-paid musician—highest-paid celebrity—the year she turned twenty-seven, and again last year, when she turned thirty. She dropped a surprise album last week, with a song about her summer house, right down the street.
The song tells of the marvelous woman who lived there when my mother was a girl.
I also write songs and stories about overlooked historic women, which is: most historic women.
I can make out Taylor’s chimney and roofline in the moonlight. Is there a chance Taylor Swift has seen me naked?
Wikipedia says Carly Simon has given clues about who is so vain.
She told Taylor Swift, whispered it in her ear.
