No. 259 – Bring Me to Life

Performer: Evanescence

Songwriters: Amy Lee, Ben Moody, David Hodges

Original Release: Fallen

Year: 2003

Definitive Version: None.

On one of my return jaunts to The Thurman in 2004—it might have been the outing I recalled way back at good ol’ No. 399—this song came on the jukebox. I know, because I played it. And Shannon, in the midst of getting her drunk on, announced that this song was “so 2003.”

With that in mind, I thought I’d recount a few snippets from that infamous year a decade ago. These short controlled bursts are as much a part of my Cleveland experience as being at the library all day.

* I talked about my health club in Westlake. Occasionally, afterward, I’d drive the short distance down to North Olmsted and the retail megaplex dominated by the Great Northern Shopping Center. In May 2003 when I eagerly turned on the radio in my car in hopes of hearing that bombastic metal song with the chick singer (that’d be this one), I drove down to see The Matrix Reloaded.

I was a huge fan of The Matrix, and going to the highly anticipated sequel was an acceptable use of my limited funds. Besides, I didn’t have to worry about skipping work to go early before the inevitable crowds. I went to the first showing the first day (minus midnight showings, of course). I was expecting a long line when I arrived an hour before the show started, but in fact I was first.

I stood outside the box office for about 20 minutes before the next people showed up. They were Matrix fanboies, and they dressed as though they were in the movie—dark sunglasses, clothes and trench coats. I suppose a more skittish person might have been unnerved, but they were just kids out having some fun. It didn’t bother me at all.

I recall that the theater was fairly empty, but I didn’t really care. I cared more that the movie was a disappointment—not only because it was incomplete. I didn’t think The Matrix NEEDED a sequel, but I was curious to see what more the Wachowskis had to say and show us about the world that they created. If I may don my Roger Ebert cap, it turned out they didn’t.

* If you’re a people-watcher, as I am when I have nothing better to do, one of the pleasures of public transportation is the opportunity it provides to feed such a hobby. Sometime in the summer, I had a particularly memorable viewing.

I was taking the Rapid from downtown to my stop at Triskett in Lakewood, when one of the most spectacular women I’ve ever seen rode in the same car. She was medium height, slim and very feminine. Her face was made up nicely but not garishly. She wore tight white pants and a bright, multicolored floral shirt that hugged her curves and gave anyone who cared to look a nice view whenever she bent forward. Her hair hung down her back in rivulets almost to her waist.

She looked like a Nubian princess, like the one Eddie Murphy makes bark like a dog in Coming to America. Yes, she was African, and her dark-chocolate complexion was the thing that made her stand out, because most of the people who went as far on the line as I did were white or maybe Hispanic.

I immediately conjured her story: A woman that fine looking, that made up and that well-dressed was coming out to this neck of the woods with a purpose—one of sin and commerce. That’s a terrible thing to think about a person, although I didn’t think any less of her.

She got off at the Triskett station, as I did. I followed her down the stairs, and then a funny thing happened. Typically a Lakewood cop car sat outside the station for no reason that I was able to discern. On this day, when the woman walked outside, possibly to catch the bus to her final destination, she took one look at the cop car and went back inside as though she didn’t want to be seen by its occupant. She sat on the bench, presumably to wait for the bus to come.

I wondered how close to the truth my story was. I also wondered whether she would accept a generous offer to drive her to her destination and perhaps make an appointment of my own. Except, I didn’t drive that day. Instead, I just headed out into the sunlight and walked home alone.

* Later that summer, I had a minor panic attack when I went to run an errand and my car didn’t start. I certainly didn’t have the money to cover a major car repair.

This was the second time in two days this happened. The first time was at the gym. I went inside and called AAA, but at some point during the hourlong wait that I otherwise would have had for a jump, I found another member who took care of the problem. I drove around for about a half-hour to juice up my battery.

Well, the next day, when I went to drive to the Rapid or the store—I can’t remember which—my Honda was deader than a doornail. OK, so this was a real problem. At least I was home, so I didn’t just have to stand around waiting for AAA to show up and tow me to the nearest Honda dealer, which was near Great Northern in North Olmsted.

What you should know is that I lived next door to a repair shop. In fact, my landlord ran that shop. When he learned of this incident, he said I should have brought my car to him.

By this time, I’d been exposed to his operation long enough to know that I didn’t want to have anything more to do with him than was absolutely necessary. He treated his workers like garbage, and it seemed he kept cars on his lot forever. I didn’t want my car to be out of commission for two weeks while he jacked me around on the bill.

So I went to Honda. The dealership in North Olmstead gave me a fair shake, just like the ones in Columbus and Grand Blanc had before that. It was late in the day when my car arrived, so they kept it overnight. I took the bus home, playing video poker on my cellphone (the only time I got a royal flush). They called the next morning. All I needed was a new battery. One hour later and $81.25 lighter—$80 for the battery, $1.25 for the bus—I drove home.

My car had been brought back to life, just as I had after that year in Cleveland.