Exactly the Way it Does

Our high school talent show was in two weeks—we couldn’t agree.

Brian, our bassist, said, “Let’s cover Primus,” then started slapping and popping—pretending to be Les Claypool.

It sounded terrible. I plugged my ears with my fingers while Joel, our drummer, leaned into his mic.

“No way, dude—you suck!” he said. “And not like Primus sucks.”

Everyone laughed except Brian. He turned up his amp and kept playing.

Of course Eddie on keys wanted to do Teenage Wasteland—anything by The Who. Then my little sister Sue, our unofficial groupie, said, “Why don’t you write an original?”

We all agreed, and started coming up with chord progressions.

I strummed, “la la la la, dee, la la la, dee la.”

I told them I would write some lyrics. And that’s how I became a songwriter.

I sat on my bed that night playing the chords—laptop on my right.

I had a knack for it.

The words came easy.

Line by line I clicked away on the keyboard.

A couple hours later, I had written a song about my crush.

We got together the following day and played our new song.

I sang the first verse—everyone liked it.

We worked out a bridge, and came up with the chorus.

We practiced that song every day after school, for the next two weeks.

After I played it solo for my parents, Sue told me she loved it.

She said, “You are so gonna get some.”

I turned bright red and told her to shut up.

I hoped she was right.

We didn’t win the talent show, but Joel called me the next day and invited me to a party.

He said, “You should come—Sarah will be there.” And, “I’ll pick you up at 8:00.”

I was super excited to see her.

When he honked his horn, I forgot my guitar and ran out to his car.

Later at the party, I saw Brian and my crush making out.

I left—heartbroken—and walked home alone. Brian called me the next day.

He wanted to thank me. “You’ll never believe this dude. Sarah and I hooked up last night,” he said. “Thank you. It happened exactly the way it does in your song.”

I got chills.

Then he called me, “The next Elvis Presley.”

I hung up the phone and cried.

That night, I couldn’t fall asleep. How did this happen?

It was something about the way he said, “Exactly the way it does in your song.”

I kept turning it over and over in my head.

I imagined them locking eyes the moment I sang, “It was love at first sight, the kind you can’t fight, like a shot from a gun, their hearts beat as one.”

I decided it was just a coincidence and eventually fell asleep.

A year later, the band broke up after graduation.

We all went our separate ways.

I got into UCLA and forgot about Sarah. I still played guitar, but I didn’t take it seriously. Mostly I would play covers.

Every once in a while I’d play my original.

My mind would immediately flash back to them making out at the party.

I started to think about the chain of events more clinically.

I wrote it—it happened.

Brian’s voice: “Exactly the way it does in your song.”

It made me sick.

It was what I wanted.

He stole it from me.

It made me mad.

“Exactly the way it does in your song.”

I wrote it—it happens.

Exactly the way it does in my song.

I write it—it happens.

Exactly the way it does in my song.

I got butterflies.

I took out my laptop and set it on the bed next to me.

It’s my turn.

It’s what I want.

Exactly the way it does in my song.

I started strumming some random chords.

It sounded catchy.

The words came out of nowhere.

An hour later, I had written a song.

It was about making it big—no matter what it takes.

The next semester, on Fridays, I started going to the quad to play by myself.

Sometimes a small crowd would gather around.

“Play some Dylan,” someone would say. “Like a Rolling Stone.”

Or more often, “Free Bird.”

I’d usually oblige.

I was in my own little world. I had just finished playing one of my favorites, Wish You Were Here, by Pink Floyd.

Someone called out, “Play an original.”

I sat there holding my guitar—thinking about that chain of events.

I shoved the thought down—it quieted.

I started to play that random catchy tune.

Without thinking, I sang the song I had written.

It occurred to me—it was starting to happen.

I glanced up from the guitar—the crowd had grown—huge.

My heart skipped a beat—adrenaline was pumping through my veins as I sang.

Brian suddenly appeared in the back of my mind.

“You’re the next Elvis Presley.”

I was rocking—everyone clapped to the beat, not even knowing the song.

There’s only one—he wears a stolen crown,

Forever lost—he’s never found,

He’s been compared—with a king,

Fame isn’t shared—it’s cold—it stings.

I stopped short—muting the strings with my palm.

I felt something shift—everything went sideways.

The crowd didn’t stop cheering.

“One more!” I heard through the noise.

“Play us another,” as I turned my back—still clutching the neck of my guitar.

“Encore, encore!”

Time seemed to stop.

I considered walking away.

Weighing the consequences—I turned around and smiled—the cheering subsided into a few gentle applause.

I started playing.

A few days later Sue called me.

She was sobbing.

“J-J-Jake.”

I could hardly understand her.

“Jakey.” She said, “He he he’s—g-g-gone, J-Jakey. He’s gone.”

“Gone… Gone how?” I asked.

She went on to tell me how her dog had just been hit by a car.

My heart stopped.

I couldn’t believe it.

I said “No way,” three or four times.

I kept telling her how sorry I was.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry.”

Even after she told me that it wasn’t my fault—I said it again and ended the call.

I was obsessed.

I couldn’t eat or sleep.

I tossed and turned all night.

One minute trying to convince myself I was nuts—the next that I should burn my guitar.

I hadn’t sung anything about a dog dying, or even about a dog or a cat for that matter. I sang my new poem—I thought—shaking my head.

I jumped out of bed and paced the room.

I opened my laptop.

There it was.

My new poem.

The one I’d written days before.

It looked harmless.

About true love.

I hesitated.

Then I read it.

I read it again. Out loud.

My love is so true I can’t tell a lie,

Without my love surely I’ll die,

Like fire my love burns all doubt into ash,

My true love hit hard like a car crash.

I stopped reading.

I couldn’t breathe.