Tacos and Zeppelins

A memoir on college days and Led Zeppelin

We were walking down some street in North Philly when you told me about Robert Plant and the Sensational Space Shifters. I said something like, “Whoa, cool!” while I was probably thinking of his glory years, belting out an angelic screech in Kashmir or the chugging verses of Dazed and Confused. There was also the taco joint we settled into somewhere on Temple’s campus. I had a Dr. Pepper instead of my favorite, Sprite. The true thing that mattered, was to not try to impress you with the verbosity of some lower-level English theory course. Just you and me, with some tasty tacos. You talked about our final project for creative writing, which was a play. It was funny because, in the workshop, everyone thought your play was written by me and vice versa. We were students of the written word, and to err is to learn. Even the crew of Led Zeppelin were students once. Unfathomable, I know.

You talked in songs as you offered me a headphone. I was transported into your Spotify playlist, the cords crisscrossing our delectable plates. And I was blown away. You stared at me with a smile as we were transported to some neo-hippie paradise of synthesizers, xylophones, and the legend himself, Robert Plant. The mixing was much more refined to today’s standards. I said something affirming and continued with wanting to see Get the Led Out the next time they came to town—which I did later that year. How they encapsulated the 70’s sound with modern gusto. You giggled and started eating your tacos because they were getting cold. I would not blame you; mine we really good, too.

Afterward, we walked off Broad Street toward your apartment. I said something about that large building, The Edge, saying something like, “Oh, I always wanted to live on a college campus, even if it was for only one semester.” How ironic, because I had a friend that was subletting somewhere, and I did not take up the offer. I imagined all the study parties that were made up of approximately thirty minutes of studying and hours of Sailor Jerry shots and shot-gunning Natural Light. I was a budding craft beer snob, so I really would not drink any of that. I teased about getting a discount—because I worked at a beer distributor on weekends—but you did not take up the offer. “Better prices than in Philly,” I said. I imagined courting you around in my Oldsmobile with the subwoofers. They were only a bonus because I bought them that way. We would feel the true impact of Led Zeppelin through my iPod. Sharp, dagger treble, and bulky, sledgehammer bass. How all would be revealed in the cockpit of our gasoline spaceship. It would literally be a blast from the past, in which I hoped to win you over. Not as good as tacos, yet better than a creative writing course. That was me, the middle-grounder. Like thoughts inside a dream.

When we got to your door, you said. “Ok, see you in class. Make sure to read your character!” The story was quite clear. The path that led me to that place was not meant to lead to anything more. It was getting darker, and the skyscrapers pulled the sun from my eyes. The streetlights flicked on prematurely for a December afternoon. And I just walked around, block after block. Still imagining I had that one, shared earbud. Listening to all the psychedelic places we would only bypass, but never embark to.