No, No, No
Continuing The Catch and I save a spider from my toilet
I’m on page 94 of Yrsa Daley-Ward’s The Catch: A Novel. One of the two main characters, Clara, traumatized twin sister and up-and-coming writer, goes to a party with another manic young woman who may or may not be her long-lost mother, possibly time traveled from another dimension. They do lines of “yellow-tinged coke” together.
I feel the warmth taking over, a bright armour of indestructiblity. We move away from Jesus and into the middle of the party, where everyone is dancing to “You Don’t Love Me (No, No, No)” by Dawn Penn. My mother takes my sweaty hands in hers, spins me around.
I’ve heard Ms. Penn’s “No, No, No” in many films and TV shows. This is the first time I’ve seen the track referenced in a novel. The author doesn’t specify if it’s the original 1967 Studio One release, or the 1994 Dawn Penn rerecording, meant to capitalize on that decade’s hipster discovery and, shall we say, reappraisal, of the tune. To my knowledge, I’ve never heard, nor do I want to hear, the updated version. The original is one of the greatest rocksteady songs ever put to wax.
I found a possible bootleg 7” of K.C. White’s 1973 even superior, still rocksteady, slower, messier, more soulful and bumping interpretation on a 90s revival pressing, in 1999, at 16 Tons, a still-extant record store in Zurich. We had to leave for the next town early in the morning. The staff opened their doors for especially for us.
Putting the two next to each other, one can hear the ever-possible gamut of romantic love. “I’ll do anything you say, boy,” says Dawn. “I’ll do anything you say, girl,” says K.C. “If you ask me, I’ll get on my knees and pray, boy,” says Dawn. “If you ask me, I’ll get on my knees and pray, girl,” says K.C. “You don’t love me and I know, now,” they say to each other. One might ascertain the wound stems from misunderstanding, and would hope they’d be able to patch things up with a therapist, or marriage counselor. But often there’s nothing one can do. That’s how love goes. Much like the emotions The Catch’s main characters are trying to quantify with this mysterious mother emblem, or time-travel ghost? I’m looking forward to finding out more.
A few mornings ago I woke up, went into the bathroom, and found a thin spider floating in my toilet. I took off my glasses and poked my head in the bowl to get a closer look. The arachnid wasn’t moving. I quickly tore away a piece of toilet paper and lifted him out. He started moving his legs.
I placed him and the now-mushy lump of TP in the amateur garden in front of our house. The place where I put all errant spindly creatures I find indoors. He regained his bearings, and within 30 seconds took off into the exciting morass of wood chips, weeds, falsely advertised flowers, and beyond, roughly pruned bushes and sun-baked roses.
Later that afternoon, as we were leaving the house, my son’s friend noticed a spider sitting on the doorbell button. “Ewww,” said she. I took off my glasses to get a closer look. It was he. He was waving at me. “That’s Frank,” I replied to them, “The spider I saved from the toilet.” I call every spider “Frank”. I love spiders. They are kind. They try to stay out of the way. Their webs attract dust, but also help keep the house free of flying bugs. When they’re in trouble, I carefully trap them in a cup and deposit them outside, where they can live a normal spider life full of joy. Solid, Jackson.
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"Falsely advertised flowers"! Wow. Beutiful piece, featuring a smashing soundtrack. I like to save spiders with a help of a cup and escort them into the outer world, too.