The Killers “When You Were Young” The Abbey Road Sessions
Originally published on February 21, 2004
The first time I met Emmett, I told him I didn’t like his band. It’s not the best way to start a friendship, but I was naïve and arrogant back then. (It was an era where honesty was never tacky and tact was reserved for liars, natch.) He respected my opinion because it was constructive, but perhaps more surprisingly, he didn’t take it personally. On one hand, that drove me crazy, because as ever-willing as I was to share my opinion about things, I can hardly handle any criticism myself. But the other hand drew me to his detachment. I thought I could learn something from him.
A few weeks later, my phone rang at 5:20 A.M. Some people can sleep through a ringing phone, but after my best friend Chris died — in the middle of the night — I always fear the worst. Good news can wait until a decent hour, so this call, I assumed, must be bad.
“Hey,” he said. “I didn’t catch you sleeping, did I?”
“The sun isn’t actually up yet.”
Emmett laughed. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk and this was the only time I could do it.”
I actually didn’t mind. I was young and I had friends all over the world. I found it difficult to stay in touch with all of them myself, so if it had to be 5 A.M., then that’s what it had to be. And so it was: Every couple of weeks, my phone would ring before sunrise, and it would be him — on the other side of the country, in the middle of his night. In a lot of ways, I looked forward to it. My body was not nearly as thrilled.
¶
We were drinking coffee at Michael & Zöe’s — on Second Avenue, in the East Village. Emmett had come to New York on holiday, and it was the first time we’d ever really spent time together outside of the music scene. Nothing fell out of place as we navigated the winter streets. Everything felt natural. This is what we talked about when we talked about love.
“What are you looking for?” He sipped his drink inconspicuously.
“I’m not sure I am looking for anything right now,” I mumbled, making a reasonable case for my perpetually single status. “Besides, I’m pretty sure that whoever I wind up falling in love with will be nothing like the person I thought he’d be. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to work?”
He nodded in agreement. “Honestly? I think the only two people in the world that I’d want to be with would be my girlfriend and you.”
My eyes turned glassy. I must have stared a hole right through him, because he became visibly agitated and began to apologize. I immediately cut him off and made an assurance that he didn’t make me uncomfortable — even though he most certainly did.
There were things I didn’t say: For one, I never really looked at him that way, most likely because I knew he had a girlfriend. But perhaps more troubling, I was disappointed that these were the only opportunities that ever seemed to present themselves. All I wanted was to hear someone say they wanted to be with me — and only me — but perhaps this was too much to ask of a 22-year-old. I told him that I wasn’t looking for anyone at that moment, and I wasn’t. But I never bothered to share the notion that I hoped someone might be out there looking for me. Allow me to spare you the wasted time, lest anyone actually believes this method yields results: I was a miserable young thing.
Several years ago, long after the phone calls stopped, I ran into Emmett at a nightclub. He looked so much older, equal parts rugged and ragged. He made it a point to tell me that he no longer considered himself bisexual, that he dated women exclusively. I just giggled and changed the subject, as if his revelation were entirely irrelevant. My finger traced the mosaic tiles on the table where we sat, forgetting what it was that we had in common.
