Musician Robots

written by Claire Furjanic | February 2024

My father’s father was a musician of sorts. He wrote songs on the porch of his modular home in Sanibel Island. As the sun burned the metal armrests of his foldable chair, he strummed a guitar and hummed lyrics until he was ready to record himself. In Sharpie, he scribbled dates and titles on the surface of each CD: “Isle of Sanibel” or “I Just Don’t Look Good Naked Anymore” or “Her Name’s Dianne, Best Friend I Ever Knew”. He never sold them or played for crowds larger than his friends and family at happy hour, but I couldn’t get enough. 

At night, after the sun had set and all of his friends walked home with chairs tucked beneath their arms, I’d beg him to play a song. He’d shake the whiskey and ice in his glass and smile. I could see the decision bouncing around in his head before he’d finally set down his drink and pull out his guitar. 

I’ve only ever dated musicians. In the summer after my freshman year of college, a drummer invited me to one of his gigs. It was an outdoor country concert, and early July in Nebraska was the hottest time of the year. I was in the middle of moving from a three-story lake house to a two-bedroom apartment in downtown Omaha. My clothes were all packed and suitcases lined the floor of my childhood bedroom. I spent two hours pulling tank tops, mini skirts, and oversized graphic tees from the neatly packed boxes to find an outfit for that 90-degree evening. I had never said a word to the drummer before in my life, but we had mutual friends and I liked his sister and I was tired of working forty hours a week at the same hectic coffee shop that employed me in the middle of COVID only to come home to summer nights spent on the couch next to my sister and parents, eating from the same popcorn bowl. 

As the house I grew up in began to empty, it felt less like home. Until one day it wasn’t home anymore– a hollow skeleton of memories. We moved downtown the day before I went on my first date with the drummer. He took me to get ice cream and as he talked about another girl he used to like, the summer heat melted his chocolate ice cream until it fell from the edges of the cup and onto his shorts. My scoop of dairy-free vanilla remained untouched. After we walked the bridge that takes you from Nebraska to Iowa, he dropped me back at my apartment. I didn’t have a fob to get into the building so my sister met us at the door. The drummer held his hands behind his back and rocked on the heels of his Vans as we exchanged an awkward goodbye.

So? How was it? My mom questioned as I curled my knees up to my chest on the sofa beside her.

I don’t know, I said as we clawed our hands into a mountain of fresh popcorn. 

I don’t know is also what I said to my best friend a few nights after I met the singer-songwriter from Minneapolis. It was my final year of college and my roommate had invited coworkers from her hometown to come stay with us in our apartment the weekend before Halloween. Our group went out as characters from Friends. As we were heading out the door, a notification popped up on our screens that Matthew Perry had just died. The singer-songwriter peeled the Chandler name tag off his sweater vest and took a shot of tequila. By the end of the night, I had seen enough sticky frat basements and empty shot glasses that I clutched his arm for stability on the walk home. He drank almost twice as much as me but didn’t stumble once. 

As the years drifted by, so did my grandmother’s memory. My grandfather sold his modular home in Sanibel and said goodbye to his friends. They moved back to their house in Michigan full time. The one with the birds and the fireplace and the stray cats he named. My grandmother began to misplace everything: the couch cushions, toilet paper, store-bought blueberry muffins, my grandfather’s prescription medicine, the names of her three children. She wore the same flannel shirt and green joggers for over a year, refusing to bathe.

Out by the firepit, I asked my grandfather to sing the song he wrote for my grandmother. Reluctantly, he set down his drink and began to sing. 

Six o’clock, the coffee’s on / Still an hour before the dawn / Been forty plus since we both said I do / Years have gone, I don’t know where / But she’s my love, she’s always there / Her name’s Dianne, best friend I ever – 

He began to choke on his own cries, his voice trembling through the lyrics. My grandmother came over and kissed him on the cheek.

“It’s okay,” she said. 

“It’s not something I’m proud of,” the drummer fiddled with his thumbs, “I’ve talked with Pastor Eli about it and I’m going to get better, whether I’m in a relationship or not. I just wanted to be honest and let you know.”  

My stomach turned. I had just eaten a dry salad at a sandwich shop near one of his gigs because I wasn’t allowed into the bar at only nineteen years old. I didn’t know whether to be worried or relieved that he was sharing this with me. I had never spoken about pornography with anyone before. Honesty, my mentor told me a couple days later, is better than perfection. We sat on the cemented outdoor stage that he would play at in a few months. In a few months, when we would be dating and I would be driving to his gigs every weekend.

I put my head on his shoulder and whispered that it would be okay. 

A year and a half later, the singer-songwriter drove ten hours to visit me for a weekend in December. After a tense hug, he told me that he was never touching alcohol again. 

“I can’t even imagine what it’s like to drink in moderation,” he sprawled out across my bed as I wrote a paper for class. 

I hummed softly in response and ceased typing on my computer. 

“I’m broken, Claire. I’m a broken man.” 

“I don’t see you that way.” 

“You don’t?”

“No.”

I crawled onto the bed beside him and put my head on his chest. The next night, he asked me if he could have a Guinness. 

“It’s just one. It’s not going to hurt me.” 

You deserve better is the one statement that they both never contradicted. It was their own safety net of truth; they were giving me an out that they knew I would never take.

A couple months after I broke up with the drummer, I boarded a flight to Dublin. I was more than excited to study literature and writing in the largest city of Ireland. A few weeks in, the Irish professor that was teaching my short story course assumed I was a musician because of the way I wrote about music. When I told him that no, I am not a musician, he shook his head ever so slightly. “Well, there’s music in you, Claire.” 

In between the James Joyce readings and the Northern Irish Troubles discussions, I contemplated the numerous texts and letters sent to me by the drummer. He requested that he plead his case to me when I returned to the States. I complied.

We met at a coffee shop in downtown Omaha, where he sat across from me in his neon yellow dirt-stained t-shirt. “I’ve realized I don’t want to just be a musician robot,” he said, “I want to get married one day. Have a family.” 

I took a deep breath, waiting for the I want you back speech. 

“But like I’ve said before, I’m going to Nashville and I don’t think I can prioritize a relationship alongside music.” I watched the sweat from my iced coffee drip and form a puddle on the cafe table.

A few weeks ago, my hairdresser asked if I played an instrument. I said no, and bit the inside of my mouth as he explained that music would be a great avenue for me to explore in writing. “Songwriting,” he said, “is something you should look into.”

The first time the singer-songwriter asked me to write a song with him, I was nervous. He told me that legally, he would have to put my name on the record as a co-writer. The current lyrics of the song he was working on were sent to my phone. “It’s the second verse,” he said, “it’s just not working. Help me, Claire.” 

I read and reread the chorus he had already written:

This feels like falling in love / I’ve been too afraid to try it / But the thought of you makes me excited / It’s okay

I have only talked about boys with my father a few times. When I was getting ready to head back to college after the summer of following the drummer to his concerts, my father asked me, “Are you sure about this guy? You know, there’s a lot of fish in the sea.” I was upset; yes, I was sure. Nevermind that he never called, never visited, never asked about my life. The second time was shortly after a breakup with the singer-songwriter who always called, always visited, always asked about my life. I sat beside my father on the beach over Christmas break, attempting to read Crime and Punishment, pulling my feet up each time the foamy white waves came close to my chair. I admitted to him what I couldn’t say to the others. 

“I think he just needs time to get sober,” I said, “Then we can reevaluate. I’m willing to wait for him to get better.” 

My father shook his head slowly, “I don’t like that, honey.” I turned my head away from him and watched the shells break beneath the sandaled feet of every passerby.

A few months before my grandfather finally agreed to move my grandmother into a memory care facility, he got drunk on the couch listening to Peter Paul and Mary on his record player. His face grew red as he cried, “I would rather die than live a life apart from her.”

When I met with the singer-songwriter two months after the breakup and listened to him talk about his new album and the first gig he had scheduled, I said, I’m so happy for you but don't forget that there are other important things in life too. 

He nodded, “There are equally important things, yes.” 

Eventually, my grandfather sold that house in Michigan too. He bought a new home, one six houses down from the memory care facility. He tried to get rid of everything, including his record collection. I convinced him not to. Dust settled on his guitar.