As found in my notebook in Indeterminate:
In response to what you said in Chicago, previously, "give us someplace else to escape to."
After a faltering step from me and then one from you — we're caught up again and planning our next trip. Here's a silly idea: Google something almost random and see what comes up. Sometimes lots of fun stuff. Let's start with Pete Townsend, that should open some interesting doors. Here’s one that looks cool — West Coast, Port Townsend, Washington ...overlooks Puget Sound. Let's go....
"Did we really make it the whole way across the country?"
It appears that way, you say dryly, it doesn't look like where we started.
This statement warrants a sneer from my face when you're not looking. I can't believe we made it the whole way. We pull up in front of the Waterstreet Inn, Port Townsend, Washington. We see a placard advertising a whale watching trip.
"I want to do that while we're here," I say. You look at me, annoyed that I want to do something so uber-touristy. (It wasn't that, it was just that, well, you'll see in the near future... "What?" Nothing, let's save it for later.)
"Did you know that for a lot of years I wanted to be a marine biologist?"
No, I didn't. But, I've been wondering why an English major took AP Biology in high school.
"Status." I reply, with a smirk. "I got a 99 on my final lab report. Good writing can fool even the sharpest high school science teachers."
We check in, toss our bags in the room, and then we turn right around and head out the door. The receptionist gives us the insiders' track to the best coffee shop and a cool indie bookstore to check out Perfect—a piece of cake vanilla for me and lemon for you (do you like lemon? I'm just guessing)--and a fabulous cup of coffee (don't worry, I'll let you know if it really is good) for an after lunch snack. You pick up a Jack Kerouac title, and I try to guess how many pages are really in War and Peace.
Then, I decide that my rear end isn't sore enough from a cross-country road trip just yet, so I suggest we wander down by the beach and see what we can get into. The afternoon sun has crested and is starting to consider setting. We pass a bicycle rental shack, and you tilt your head to gauge my interest and communicate yours. I spot a horseback-riding shack up ahead and turn on my heel to look at you.
"I'll flip you for it." I smile with raised eyebrow. (Hey, when'd you learn how to do that. "I'm just borrowing it for this piece, it's back to you when you get the pen back.")
Fifteen minutes later we're atop two chestnut horses, and our guide leads us down the rocky trail onto the beach. We walk first, and then the guide picks up the pace and we're trotting a little. You turn your hat around backwards to keep the wind from blowing it off. The salty hair scrubs my face clean of all the dirt from the car trip, and the sea spray and water kicked up from the horses is making our legs damp. Looking out over the water, the sun looks like a giant yellow ball, dropping quickly now, turning the sky a brilliant menagerie of color and giving the sunsets in Key West a run for it. We start to head back to the shack, and we ride in silence listening only to the snorts and hoof beats of the horses and the water massaging the shoreline.
Off the horses, a carrot and a pat for good measure (you still had [miraculously] two carrots left in your pocket from the snow day), and we're heading back to the hotel. Dinner comes next, and we propose rock-paper-scissors to decide what we get as we walk through the little strip of restaurants and shops. We narrow the choices—Italian (of course) or French bistro. I let you win (Paper. "Ok, then, Rock. You, always with the Paper" Yeah, and you always Rock. "Cute."), because I know you're still thinking about all things French (cap?), so you order everything, and we carry it back to the inn. The receptionist nods and smiles as she sees the name of the restaurant on the bag, Le Petit.
"You guys don't need any help from me. You already know where to go. You have great instincts. But, before you go up, hang on..." her voice drops off as she disappears into the back office behind the desk. She returns a minute later and hands us a bottle of wine.
"On the house—it should suit perfectly." And, of course it does. We sit by candlelight in the twilight on our room's balcony and eat fancy food while sitting in sweatpants and warm socks. The view overlooks the Sound, and we can see a few straggling fishing boats' lights still out on the water.
After dinner we push our chairs together next to each other's and grab an extra blanket to keep our legs warm. There isn't much to say, which is okay, although I can hardly contain my excitement about the next day's whale-watching trip. We sip on after-dinner coffee that I made in the room's tiny coffee pot.
This is good coffee, you say.
"No, it isn't. But thanks for saying so." It keeps us warm on the inside as the damp cool of the progressing evening moves in closer and closer. Once the coffee's gone, we move inside and flip through the channels on the TV to see if we can catch a movie.
"What do you want to watch?" I ask, yawning.
You mumble something I can't understand as you flip through the channels. We stumble upon an old episode of the Muppet Show.
"Awesome." I say, perking up a little.
We catch a little Kermit and Miss Piggy action as well as the two old guys' commentary from the balcony before our eyes grow heavy and we start to slump...
The morning sunlight turns the sky gray, then light blue, and it wakes you before me. You try your luck with the coffee pot, yet alas, you abandon the effort and stealthily sneak out to the bakery on the corner to procure a light breakfast and some good West Coast coffee. A light breakfast is crucial to preventing seasickness. And although I'm the more water-acclimated of the two of us, I am not immune to ill that comes from being on a smaller boat in a bigger body of water. I recall one fishing trip on Lake Michigan when I would have rather been anywhere else.. . that... wasn't... moving.
After fresh breakfast bread with jam we make our way down to the marina. The boat captain greets us with a smile as we climb aboard.
"It'll just be us this morning. It's too bad there isn't anyone else coming—the coast guard is tracking a pod about three-quarters-of-a-mile off right now. Should be a good show!" he announces. He's wearing yellow slicker pants (the West Coast version of snow pants, me thinks) and a floppy canvas hat that reads "I Heart Seattle." He scoops up some rope and fidgets with some of the buoys on the side of the boat. You eyeball nervously the nearest life vest to you as he looks us over one last time and says, "Ready?"
Off we go across the Sound, and there's still morning mist lingering in the distance. But, as we move closer to it, it seems to move farther away. A half-hour later the sun has evaporated most of the mist and the narcissistic mountains admire themselves in their own reflections on the smooth surface of the water. The captain cuts the engine and lets the boat drift on its course. He smiles and puts his fingers to his lips to keep us from speaking. He flips a few dials near the steering wheel, and all of a sudden we can hear the whales' trumpeting chatter nearby. Alongside the boat, a few portentious air bubbles break the surface. The captain smiles and silently, but excitedly points downward to tell us the whales are directly beneath the boat. Twenty seconds later a sudden blast turns our heads to the left and we see a dorsal fin rolling through the water on its way back beneath the surface. A moment passes and we hear another blast—then another, and another and soon the whole pod has surfaced.
"I do this every single day and it never gets old," sighs the captain. We watch the whales play about for the better part of an hour, and then they submerge and the chatter becomes more and more distant as they swim toward the open water. The captain starts the engine again and heads back to the marina.
We waste the early afternoon by strolling around the marina shops before we return to the hotel and pack our things up—only one night in Port Townsend for us.
"Where to next?" I ask.
You tap your coat pocket, which contains a map of the western seaboard.
Shall we get a cup of coffee while we decide? you ask.
"Sure." I say and take the arm you proffer. As we start to walk, I look up at you.
"It's sweet that you're making me feel like I can help choose the next place."
Why wouldn't I let you help choose?
"Because I think you already know where we're going."
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Indeterminate
1) A gentle breeze blows in through the curtains,
2) carrying with it the hint of the last
3) evaporated drops of dew from the summer
4) grass. Sunlight sneaks in with the breeze and
5) dances lazy patterns on the floor, accompanied
6) by the rustling of the curtains.
7) You take a slow deep breath in through your
8) nose, hold it for a moment, then let out a long
9) sigh, rolling to your left and stretching your
10) arm out. The pillow and sheets next to you
11) are cool, and you curl back up. Wait. Cool?
12) Why would they be cool? One eye half peeks
13) for a moment – nothing wrong exactly, but
14) that side of the bed seems to have expanded
15) since you last looked. Odd. Extra pillow. You
16) reach out to retrieve it and pull it in to a
17) hug, burying your head in to keep the sun out
18) of your eyes. Mmm, smells like,… You hear a
19) page turn and you roll back toward the
20) window to squint at me, sitting in the bench
21) seat in the bay window.
w) “Hey, Sneaky, whatcha doin’ over there?”
a) Shh, go back to sleep. I’ll wait ‘til later.
i) “Whatcha readin’?”
t) One of yours, now go on and sleep, you could
) use it the way you’ve been going lately.
f) You close your eyes, but with a little sharp
o) sigh and one corner of your mouth frowning.
r) Okay, wait just a second. I get up and come
) over to sit on the floor beside the bed,
i) leaning against it, with my legs stretched out
t) toward the window to get my feet in the sunlight. You scoot closer to the edge to put your hand on my shoulder, squeezing for a moment, curled back up yet again. I lean my head back against your forearm, close my eyes, and listen to you breathe. Your breaths get a little deeper and more regular as you start to nod off again, so I go back to reading. I close my eyes for a moment to imagine and appreciate your story’s scenery…
“Hey, come on Sleepyhead, I made you some good coffee.”
You’re dressed, and opening the curtains. I’m still rumpledy, with award-winning bed head and stubble.
“Here, you want this down there?”
Ahh, that is some good coffee, thanks. Is there anything around for breakfast?
“You’re on your own there – took me long enough to find everything for coffee. Where are we anyway?”
Don’t know, I have a feeling it doesn’t matter for this one – someplace nice, as far as this place goes, though. Where’d you find the shower? The discrepancy here is a little embarrassing.
“Speaking of embarrassment, how long were you sitting watching me sleep?”
Let’s go back and check – looks like about 20 lines or so before you noticed.
“What were you doing before that?”
Well, I woke up when it stated to get light – didn’t want to pester you: you were in the middle of a dream, shifting a little and moving your lips slightly. I thought I recognized what you said, but that might’ve just been me dreaming.
“Was?” (Could we keep it auf Englisch please? “Hey, it just slips out sometimes…”)
Nothing, or Nobody I guess.
“Whatever. Was it a good dream?”
You were smiling. For a moment, I thought you were just pretending to be asleep and looking at me.
“Maybe I was.”
Um, yeah, so at the point I was tempted to reach for your temple and cheek, I was able to restrain myself to merely brushing your hair back.
“No, wait, that I think I do remember.”
Well, then your lips wordlessly said the same thing they had before; which was when I knew I better get up. Found my notebook and figured the window was a safe distance away. Hey! When did you manage to write this piece on the back pages? I only noticed it by accident this morning when the breeze blew it open.
“You’re not the only one capable of surprises – now leave that with me and go do something about yourself – that can’t be the hair you’re going with today.”
I put my hand to the top of my head to try to get an idea of the havoc – eek, that’s got to be some stylish do. Where’s the shower?
“Right through there.”
Back in a jiffy…
When I get back, I’m back to looking like my normal self, though still a little droopy-eyed. You’re sitting on the bench seat now writing, in my notebook. Excuse me?
“How can you write with these medium point pens? It’s just messy.”
Well, that way when my handwriting looks messy I can just blame the pen. Writing anything special?
“How did you put it? ‘wait for it’?”
Funny. Scoot over a bit and let me sit in the window with you.
We sit side-by-side with the sun shining on our backs. I try to play it cool, just being quiet, and letting you write, but I can’t help it: I have to try and peek at what you’re writing, and, of course, I get caught. You pull the notebook to your chest and give me a scolding look and a wag from your finger. I put on my best innocent face and shrug my shoulders, but it’s no use: you’ve shifted to sit against the side of the window with your feet on the bench and notebook on your thighs. There’s just enough room on the bench for me to sit the same way opposite, but only if I put one foot on the floor. I open the windows the rest of the way to let the breeze finish drying my hair and to admire the gardens. Maybe we could take a walk later?
“Hmm?”
I said, I thought maybe we should take a walk in the garden later.
“Maybe, not right now though; I want to finish this and give you your notebook back. I’ve got another surprise for you.”
How can you have another surprise? We don’t even know what’s around.
“I’m very resourceful, and I’ve got a hunch about this place – starting to know what to expect from your stories.”
Too predictable, eh?
"Not too predictable, but there’s always a detail just for me and I’ve anticipated today’s – you’re not the only one who listens.”
Well, that’s got my interest, let me try to hurry up with the writing, and you stop me when I get to where you want to surprise me.
“Okay, I’m done with the notebook – we’ll make mine the next story, okay? You want to take another turn writing in it now? It’s nice here in the window.”
No, I’ll scribble this in later, let’s look around some more.
We stay on the top floor. Everything is sunlit. We pass the central staircase with its skylight and come to the parlor beyond.
(“And in the parlor there is a…”
Oh, yeah, I got you...)
And in the parlor, there is a piano.
“Perfect, ‘cause I’ve got a surprise for you”
You sit at the piano, and I stand beside it where I can see you play but not be in your field of vision. You open it up, place your fingers on the keys, and start to play,… scales.
Scales? That’s the surprise?
“That’s the surprise if you don’t know enough to not pressure me by being in the room.”
I did stand where you can’t see me.
“Since when do I have to see you to be affected by you?”
Okay, how about I take my notebook out on the balcony then? French doors open out onto a balcony where the ironwork framing is thickly covered in climbing roses. I sit in the chair, put my feet up on the small table. Two sensations sneak up on me almost simultaneously. First the scent of the roses, vague at first, then unmistakable. Similarly the first few notes tease the memory and the following notes float on the breeze like cheveux de lin (“Didn’t you say we were going to stay en Anglais?” I know, but it’s important there). I want to call out my appreciation to you, but I am silenced by the beauty and feeling of the playing. And flattered by your selection. The music, and the perfume, and the gesture all dance with my attention in turn and I am transported: from wherever else I might be, to this place now.
When you get to the end, you call out to me, “Not too bad, was it?”
No, that was great. Would you play it again for me sometime?
“I’ll do it right now.”
Can I read your story while you play?
“Of course, why else would I write it?”…
2) carrying with it the hint of the last
3) evaporated drops of dew from the summer
4) grass. Sunlight sneaks in with the breeze and
5) dances lazy patterns on the floor, accompanied
6) by the rustling of the curtains.
7) You take a slow deep breath in through your
8) nose, hold it for a moment, then let out a long
9) sigh, rolling to your left and stretching your
10) arm out. The pillow and sheets next to you
11) are cool, and you curl back up. Wait. Cool?
12) Why would they be cool? One eye half peeks
13) for a moment – nothing wrong exactly, but
14) that side of the bed seems to have expanded
15) since you last looked. Odd. Extra pillow. You
16) reach out to retrieve it and pull it in to a
17) hug, burying your head in to keep the sun out
18) of your eyes. Mmm, smells like,… You hear a
19) page turn and you roll back toward the
20) window to squint at me, sitting in the bench
21) seat in the bay window.
w) “Hey, Sneaky, whatcha doin’ over there?”
a) Shh, go back to sleep. I’ll wait ‘til later.
i) “Whatcha readin’?”
t) One of yours, now go on and sleep, you could
) use it the way you’ve been going lately.
f) You close your eyes, but with a little sharp
o) sigh and one corner of your mouth frowning.
r) Okay, wait just a second. I get up and come
) over to sit on the floor beside the bed,
i) leaning against it, with my legs stretched out
t) toward the window to get my feet in the sunlight. You scoot closer to the edge to put your hand on my shoulder, squeezing for a moment, curled back up yet again. I lean my head back against your forearm, close my eyes, and listen to you breathe. Your breaths get a little deeper and more regular as you start to nod off again, so I go back to reading. I close my eyes for a moment to imagine and appreciate your story’s scenery…
“Hey, come on Sleepyhead, I made you some good coffee.”
You’re dressed, and opening the curtains. I’m still rumpledy, with award-winning bed head and stubble.
“Here, you want this down there?”
Ahh, that is some good coffee, thanks. Is there anything around for breakfast?
“You’re on your own there – took me long enough to find everything for coffee. Where are we anyway?”
Don’t know, I have a feeling it doesn’t matter for this one – someplace nice, as far as this place goes, though. Where’d you find the shower? The discrepancy here is a little embarrassing.
“Speaking of embarrassment, how long were you sitting watching me sleep?”
Let’s go back and check – looks like about 20 lines or so before you noticed.
“What were you doing before that?”
Well, I woke up when it stated to get light – didn’t want to pester you: you were in the middle of a dream, shifting a little and moving your lips slightly. I thought I recognized what you said, but that might’ve just been me dreaming.
“Was?” (Could we keep it auf Englisch please? “Hey, it just slips out sometimes…”)
Nothing, or Nobody I guess.
“Whatever. Was it a good dream?”
You were smiling. For a moment, I thought you were just pretending to be asleep and looking at me.
“Maybe I was.”
Um, yeah, so at the point I was tempted to reach for your temple and cheek, I was able to restrain myself to merely brushing your hair back.
“No, wait, that I think I do remember.”
Well, then your lips wordlessly said the same thing they had before; which was when I knew I better get up. Found my notebook and figured the window was a safe distance away. Hey! When did you manage to write this piece on the back pages? I only noticed it by accident this morning when the breeze blew it open.
“You’re not the only one capable of surprises – now leave that with me and go do something about yourself – that can’t be the hair you’re going with today.”
I put my hand to the top of my head to try to get an idea of the havoc – eek, that’s got to be some stylish do. Where’s the shower?
“Right through there.”
Back in a jiffy…
When I get back, I’m back to looking like my normal self, though still a little droopy-eyed. You’re sitting on the bench seat now writing, in my notebook. Excuse me?
“How can you write with these medium point pens? It’s just messy.”
Well, that way when my handwriting looks messy I can just blame the pen. Writing anything special?
“How did you put it? ‘wait for it’?”
Funny. Scoot over a bit and let me sit in the window with you.
We sit side-by-side with the sun shining on our backs. I try to play it cool, just being quiet, and letting you write, but I can’t help it: I have to try and peek at what you’re writing, and, of course, I get caught. You pull the notebook to your chest and give me a scolding look and a wag from your finger. I put on my best innocent face and shrug my shoulders, but it’s no use: you’ve shifted to sit against the side of the window with your feet on the bench and notebook on your thighs. There’s just enough room on the bench for me to sit the same way opposite, but only if I put one foot on the floor. I open the windows the rest of the way to let the breeze finish drying my hair and to admire the gardens. Maybe we could take a walk later?
“Hmm?”
I said, I thought maybe we should take a walk in the garden later.
“Maybe, not right now though; I want to finish this and give you your notebook back. I’ve got another surprise for you.”
How can you have another surprise? We don’t even know what’s around.
“I’m very resourceful, and I’ve got a hunch about this place – starting to know what to expect from your stories.”
Too predictable, eh?
"Not too predictable, but there’s always a detail just for me and I’ve anticipated today’s – you’re not the only one who listens.”
Well, that’s got my interest, let me try to hurry up with the writing, and you stop me when I get to where you want to surprise me.
“Okay, I’m done with the notebook – we’ll make mine the next story, okay? You want to take another turn writing in it now? It’s nice here in the window.”
No, I’ll scribble this in later, let’s look around some more.
We stay on the top floor. Everything is sunlit. We pass the central staircase with its skylight and come to the parlor beyond.
(“And in the parlor there is a…”
Oh, yeah, I got you...)
And in the parlor, there is a piano.
“Perfect, ‘cause I’ve got a surprise for you”
You sit at the piano, and I stand beside it where I can see you play but not be in your field of vision. You open it up, place your fingers on the keys, and start to play,… scales.
Scales? That’s the surprise?
“That’s the surprise if you don’t know enough to not pressure me by being in the room.”
I did stand where you can’t see me.
“Since when do I have to see you to be affected by you?”
Okay, how about I take my notebook out on the balcony then? French doors open out onto a balcony where the ironwork framing is thickly covered in climbing roses. I sit in the chair, put my feet up on the small table. Two sensations sneak up on me almost simultaneously. First the scent of the roses, vague at first, then unmistakable. Similarly the first few notes tease the memory and the following notes float on the breeze like cheveux de lin (“Didn’t you say we were going to stay en Anglais?” I know, but it’s important there). I want to call out my appreciation to you, but I am silenced by the beauty and feeling of the playing. And flattered by your selection. The music, and the perfume, and the gesture all dance with my attention in turn and I am transported: from wherever else I might be, to this place now.
When you get to the end, you call out to me, “Not too bad, was it?”
No, that was great. Would you play it again for me sometime?
“I’ll do it right now.”
Can I read your story while you play?
“Of course, why else would I write it?”…
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Chicago, previously
Hitchcock’s is full tonight – there’s always the neighborhood regulars, and on a weekend night like tonight plenty of DePaul students, and not really a place for the band, but they slid some tables aside and backed us up against the front window. We’re stretching out the ending of “Fourth of July” (X) ‘cause Damian and Marti have slipped into a groove with it. Ramone has given up trying to keep up, and he’s off to the side taking a swig from his drink. I never was that good at filling in those spaces with extra lyrics, so I’m doing what I usually do to keep from just standing there waiting, which is leaning on/dancing with whichever of them is leading and bouncing back and forth between them as they switch off.
Marti’s out front now, but when I start that way she nods over my shoulder and steps back, but Damian doesn’t step in, so I start towards Marti again – and now that’s gonna leave an elbow-sized bruise in my ribs. She flashes me a “Paging Mr. Idiot” look – and now Damian’s pushing my calf with his foot. What the hell! I turn to see what his deal is, and then I see you over Damian’s shoulder, which he’s so actively trying to throw his head over, raising his eyebrows with a big grin on his face (people are going to think he’s having some kind of an episode). You’re getting your I.D. back from the guy at the door (“Wow, what is that outfit I’m wearing? I haven’t worn anything like that since…, well, not for a while.” Yeah, well we’d have to expect that the whens would sometimes be as flexible as the wheres in these things.), while those two have unceremoniously brought the music to an end – at least their parts: J.D. ends up with an unexpected drum solo that he just pulls up with a cymbal crash. Oh yeah, we’re real smooth live. Not.
Quick, huddle up – um, could you guys quit looking at me like that?
“If we shut it down now, you two could get to the bar at the same time.” Ramone says.
Marti corrects him, “Honey, you are so dim sometimes—that’s not how it goes. He’s got to sing to her.”
“Sing Her song dude!” J.P. offers from the back. Thanks, real subtle.
Yeah, that’s a great idea, let’s play a song that we hardly know, and never rehearse, so I can screw it all up and,… hey!... shit, come on now…
They’ve already started playing that new Farmers’ song before I could argue about how it’s not your song, and how singing off-key is a deal breaker, and how it’s kind of a sappy message,… but most of the music people here recognize the beginning and are cheering for it. Damian’s got a good bass line made up for it (The Farmers didn’t have a bass player), and when they circle around to the first chords again it’s become clear that it’s not going to die, and I can’t leave it as an instrumental, so I (literally) step up to the mike.
You’ve made it to the bar, and though it’s a bit rude to everyone else, it doesn’t seem possible to sing your name (“That’s not my name.” I know, you’ve mentioned that since, but you were the first one to mention how close it sounded.) without looking just at you. I make sure to point at the culprits so you know whose idea it was, and roll my eyes and grin at you laughing at me caught in the high-wire act that is playing without a set list. The first time we get to it, you make sure I can lip-read your “Hey, boy, everything’s alright” and from there through to the end of the song it’s like I’m seeing you in the spotlight, and everything’s cool, and we’re completely in the moment.
I give the band my “no foolin’” look so it’s clear that I’m back in charge of picking the songs: “Another Girl, Another Planet” (The Only Ones). Everyone in the place is into it now, and the floor is starting to bounce slightly. I make sure I meet your eyes for, “you always get under my skin, I don’t find it irritating” and you scream right along with “I don’t need rehabilitating!” (Was it really all that bad? “No, but I know you’re sensitive about it, and that anxious face you make is kinda cute.”).
The band and the crowd are taking a quick sip of their drink (my beer bottle got tipped, but there’s just one toss left), and I’m thanking everyone for coming, and Hitchcock’s for having us, reminding everyone to drink responsibly (I know, but you have to try to tell them anyway), and they’re starting up like they always do, somebody out in the audience calling me by my initial (clearly unaware of how I hate it when people who don’t know me do that), and asking for that break-up song. I ignore that, ‘cause at this moment there’s no part of me that feels that one. I remind everyone who’s got $5 left that we’ll have tapes available afterwards, and “We’ll close out tonight with a slow dance, lady’s choice,” and call for “Safe in the Light” (Tommy Keene). It hits just right, and everybody mellows and sways – including you, keeping time with me. You pick up two bottles of L-kugel Red off the bar to show and signal me, as if you needed to bribe me – where else did you think I was going to go?
The set is over. Hey, would you guys mind if I…
“You left? Without packing up?”
“Just who do you think we are, your friends?!”
“Get going right now you stupid man – you can pack up next time.”
“Good luck trying to explain how you made us play her song.” Hoots and high fives all around with those four, celebrating making me blush, but I can’t be bothered to scowl ‘cause I’m already going. I have to guide the first few people out of my way, trying to be careful not to push so much that I get spilled on. After the first few rows I start to build momentum, everyone else has seen me coming and gets out of the way. There’s not another stool free at the bar, so I squeeze in next to yours. Have to lean in close anyway to be able to hear. You hand me my beer and we clink the necks together, and I’m quite sure I keep eye contact this time.
“You guys have another set tonight?”
Nope, I’m all yours for the rest of the evening.
“So what happens next? Try to get in to play some darts?”
Absolutely not – I only used to play darts before because you never showed up before.
“Then, what?”
Let’s finish these and settle up and get away from the crowd. I try to get Steph’s attention behind the bar. When I do, she waves us off, “Arthur picked it up.”
I can’t believe I didn’t see him down there.
“Nice set!” Arthur yells.
Thanks; I give him a thumbs up, then mime holding a steering wheel, then praying hands, then steering wheel again.
Arthur reaches into his pocket and gives Steph his keys and points down to me. She gives them to me with my jacket from behind the bar.
Stay close, and let’s go. You hang on to the shoulders of my shirt as I “encourage” people to let us out.
“Wait, I wanted to get a tape”
I’ll make sure you get one, don’t worry.
Outside, it’s much cooler than it was inside. It’s overcast, and the pavement is damp in spots like it’s been sprinkling.
(“Wait, you’re not going to have it rain again are you? I didn’t bring a jacket.”
You can always have mine when you need it – here. Besides, Arthur’s apartment is just around the corner so his car’s got to be close. Look for a light blue Civic.)
“Well, with the jacket it’s a bit better, but the rain still seems a bit repetit… Hey! Why do you have matches in your jacket pocket?”
I’ve done that for a long time, and didn’t know why until I found out you’re still an occasional smoker.
“Yeah? Then how come you don’t have any cigarettes?”
Offering you a light is romantic, offering you a cigarette is encouraging a health risk. You don’t have any on you?
“I’m still anxious about you judging me for it.”
That’s really sweet, in its own way.
“Is that the car?”
Yep, let me get your door…
“Um, are you going to drive, Mr. ‘drink responsibly’?”
You could drive, but do you have any idea where we are, or where we’re going?
“Nope, neither, on multiple levels.”
Uh, yeah, well I guarantee I’m sober enough to drive on paper (besides, this night is long past). Tell you what, I’ll let you pick the music. Now we better get in, ‘cause it’s really starting to come down now.
We really did get to the car just in time, because before we get the three or four blocks down to Fullerton it’s coming down in buckets. Leave the moon roof closed for now. We take Fullerton down to Lake Shore drive where we can go fast enough that we can have it open and trust the slipstream to keep the water out.
It’s a big summer storm coming over the city, and I know just where to watch it from – we take the car down to Promontory Point where we can park and listen to the rain and watch the lightning over the city and across the horizon of the lake like fireworks.
“That’s cool, but what’s the thing with you and rain? Do you think we could share more than two or three of these in a row without some rain?”
{The next flash is blinding to both your eyes and your inner vision, and it doesn’t feel quite like lightning, more like a quickening of ideas, and the memory comes complete to you:
6 or 7 years old, sitting on the kitchen step ladder at the back porch door watching storms. The wind would make the trees and grapevines whip around, and make the swing swing by itself. The raindrops would spatter off the deck and railings of the back porch. Sometimes the wind would pick up the spray and blow it through the louvered screen door into your face and raise goosebumps on your arms. Every flash of lightning would start the count: one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississi – BOOM. Having been told that the closer together the lightning and thunder were, the closer the lightning had struck (Taking a long time before being able to remember the numbers – almost 5 seconds per mile away, 4.73 sec./mile). It was always disappointing when they started getting further away again.
Another flash, and another memory illuminates:
In grade school, putting boots and raincoat on to walk around the neighborhood in the rain. Kicking through the puddles and hike in the gutters, making sure to go to the bottom of the big hills where there were the biggest currents. Just after the rain, taking a stick and poke around in the cracks in the gutters to see what treasures had been washed up. (“In the gutters?” Hey, I didn’t have woods to poke around in.) Coins would be the big score, taking however much that could be found and go up to High’s (it’s the 7-11 now) to see what it could be turned into: atomic fireballs, jawbreakers, tootsie rolls, gum, jolly ranchers..
Another large flash, filled with a rush of images and anxiety:
Twice, delivering papers, with no time between the lightning and thunder. The first time, the drop cloth used to keep the papers dry got away and blew across the street. Running it down and catching up with it around a telephone pole and while picking it up, the junction box on top of the pole gets hit by lightning, showering sparks all around and ringing in both ears. The second time, delivering to the bank, passing under the flagpole the back of the neck hairs stand up as the flag pole gets hit. Panicking to the exclusion of thought, taking off running full speed through the rain with the papers for about three blocks until under the carport down the street.
The flashes coming quicker now, and closer together:
As a teenager, starting to recognize the rain responding to a thought. The rain would stop until the paper route was done or until arriving from a walk to school, then it would start again. If sickness was preventing being able to play in the important game (and they were all important then), it would rain out. The biggest games, both for school and club teams, coming in the rain.
Getting caught by a sudden storm on the way with someone special to their favorite place. Parking as close as possible, but the rain was just pouring down. To cut the disappointment, half-jokingly claiming to be able to take care of it: within a minute, the rain stops altogether – being spooked by that together. Reprising that for Stacy’s and Jill’s weddings: it rained all around Stacy’s wedding, but not on her ceremony. Jill had an outdoor ceremony and reception planned, and the forecast rain never fell. Having assured each of them ahead of time that there would be no rain.
Countless purposeless walks in the rain and storms, partly for the solitude, partly to experience the storms’ power. Sometimes to here, this parking lot at the edge of the lake where the car comes to a stop.}
I’ve just always had good luck with the rain is all.
“Doesn’t seem to be holding tonight, I think we’re stuck here in the car.”
Yeah, you and me on our own with some privacy, and stuck there – damn me and my awful luck.
“You’re bad, you know that?”
Guess we’ll just have to sit here and talk.
“Would you tell me a story?”
I might be able to think of something, maybe give us someplace else to escape to. Go ahead and close your eyes.
“Okay – wait! – could I make a request?”
Anything, they’re your stories.
“Not too much rain this time? If you have any control over it.”
I promise…
Marti’s out front now, but when I start that way she nods over my shoulder and steps back, but Damian doesn’t step in, so I start towards Marti again – and now that’s gonna leave an elbow-sized bruise in my ribs. She flashes me a “Paging Mr. Idiot” look – and now Damian’s pushing my calf with his foot. What the hell! I turn to see what his deal is, and then I see you over Damian’s shoulder, which he’s so actively trying to throw his head over, raising his eyebrows with a big grin on his face (people are going to think he’s having some kind of an episode). You’re getting your I.D. back from the guy at the door (“Wow, what is that outfit I’m wearing? I haven’t worn anything like that since…, well, not for a while.” Yeah, well we’d have to expect that the whens would sometimes be as flexible as the wheres in these things.), while those two have unceremoniously brought the music to an end – at least their parts: J.D. ends up with an unexpected drum solo that he just pulls up with a cymbal crash. Oh yeah, we’re real smooth live. Not.
Quick, huddle up – um, could you guys quit looking at me like that?
“If we shut it down now, you two could get to the bar at the same time.” Ramone says.
Marti corrects him, “Honey, you are so dim sometimes—that’s not how it goes. He’s got to sing to her.”
“Sing Her song dude!” J.P. offers from the back. Thanks, real subtle.
Yeah, that’s a great idea, let’s play a song that we hardly know, and never rehearse, so I can screw it all up and,… hey!... shit, come on now…
They’ve already started playing that new Farmers’ song before I could argue about how it’s not your song, and how singing off-key is a deal breaker, and how it’s kind of a sappy message,… but most of the music people here recognize the beginning and are cheering for it. Damian’s got a good bass line made up for it (The Farmers didn’t have a bass player), and when they circle around to the first chords again it’s become clear that it’s not going to die, and I can’t leave it as an instrumental, so I (literally) step up to the mike.
You’ve made it to the bar, and though it’s a bit rude to everyone else, it doesn’t seem possible to sing your name (“That’s not my name.” I know, you’ve mentioned that since, but you were the first one to mention how close it sounded.) without looking just at you. I make sure to point at the culprits so you know whose idea it was, and roll my eyes and grin at you laughing at me caught in the high-wire act that is playing without a set list. The first time we get to it, you make sure I can lip-read your “Hey, boy, everything’s alright” and from there through to the end of the song it’s like I’m seeing you in the spotlight, and everything’s cool, and we’re completely in the moment.
I give the band my “no foolin’” look so it’s clear that I’m back in charge of picking the songs: “Another Girl, Another Planet” (The Only Ones). Everyone in the place is into it now, and the floor is starting to bounce slightly. I make sure I meet your eyes for, “you always get under my skin, I don’t find it irritating” and you scream right along with “I don’t need rehabilitating!” (Was it really all that bad? “No, but I know you’re sensitive about it, and that anxious face you make is kinda cute.”).
The band and the crowd are taking a quick sip of their drink (my beer bottle got tipped, but there’s just one toss left), and I’m thanking everyone for coming, and Hitchcock’s for having us, reminding everyone to drink responsibly (I know, but you have to try to tell them anyway), and they’re starting up like they always do, somebody out in the audience calling me by my initial (clearly unaware of how I hate it when people who don’t know me do that), and asking for that break-up song. I ignore that, ‘cause at this moment there’s no part of me that feels that one. I remind everyone who’s got $5 left that we’ll have tapes available afterwards, and “We’ll close out tonight with a slow dance, lady’s choice,” and call for “Safe in the Light” (Tommy Keene). It hits just right, and everybody mellows and sways – including you, keeping time with me. You pick up two bottles of L-kugel Red off the bar to show and signal me, as if you needed to bribe me – where else did you think I was going to go?
The set is over. Hey, would you guys mind if I…
“You left? Without packing up?”
“Just who do you think we are, your friends?!”
“Get going right now you stupid man – you can pack up next time.”
“Good luck trying to explain how you made us play her song.” Hoots and high fives all around with those four, celebrating making me blush, but I can’t be bothered to scowl ‘cause I’m already going. I have to guide the first few people out of my way, trying to be careful not to push so much that I get spilled on. After the first few rows I start to build momentum, everyone else has seen me coming and gets out of the way. There’s not another stool free at the bar, so I squeeze in next to yours. Have to lean in close anyway to be able to hear. You hand me my beer and we clink the necks together, and I’m quite sure I keep eye contact this time.
“You guys have another set tonight?”
Nope, I’m all yours for the rest of the evening.
“So what happens next? Try to get in to play some darts?”
Absolutely not – I only used to play darts before because you never showed up before.
“Then, what?”
Let’s finish these and settle up and get away from the crowd. I try to get Steph’s attention behind the bar. When I do, she waves us off, “Arthur picked it up.”
I can’t believe I didn’t see him down there.
“Nice set!” Arthur yells.
Thanks; I give him a thumbs up, then mime holding a steering wheel, then praying hands, then steering wheel again.
Arthur reaches into his pocket and gives Steph his keys and points down to me. She gives them to me with my jacket from behind the bar.
Stay close, and let’s go. You hang on to the shoulders of my shirt as I “encourage” people to let us out.
“Wait, I wanted to get a tape”
I’ll make sure you get one, don’t worry.
Outside, it’s much cooler than it was inside. It’s overcast, and the pavement is damp in spots like it’s been sprinkling.
(“Wait, you’re not going to have it rain again are you? I didn’t bring a jacket.”
You can always have mine when you need it – here. Besides, Arthur’s apartment is just around the corner so his car’s got to be close. Look for a light blue Civic.)
“Well, with the jacket it’s a bit better, but the rain still seems a bit repetit… Hey! Why do you have matches in your jacket pocket?”
I’ve done that for a long time, and didn’t know why until I found out you’re still an occasional smoker.
“Yeah? Then how come you don’t have any cigarettes?”
Offering you a light is romantic, offering you a cigarette is encouraging a health risk. You don’t have any on you?
“I’m still anxious about you judging me for it.”
That’s really sweet, in its own way.
“Is that the car?”
Yep, let me get your door…
“Um, are you going to drive, Mr. ‘drink responsibly’?”
You could drive, but do you have any idea where we are, or where we’re going?
“Nope, neither, on multiple levels.”
Uh, yeah, well I guarantee I’m sober enough to drive on paper (besides, this night is long past). Tell you what, I’ll let you pick the music. Now we better get in, ‘cause it’s really starting to come down now.
We really did get to the car just in time, because before we get the three or four blocks down to Fullerton it’s coming down in buckets. Leave the moon roof closed for now. We take Fullerton down to Lake Shore drive where we can go fast enough that we can have it open and trust the slipstream to keep the water out.
It’s a big summer storm coming over the city, and I know just where to watch it from – we take the car down to Promontory Point where we can park and listen to the rain and watch the lightning over the city and across the horizon of the lake like fireworks.
“That’s cool, but what’s the thing with you and rain? Do you think we could share more than two or three of these in a row without some rain?”
{The next flash is blinding to both your eyes and your inner vision, and it doesn’t feel quite like lightning, more like a quickening of ideas, and the memory comes complete to you:
6 or 7 years old, sitting on the kitchen step ladder at the back porch door watching storms. The wind would make the trees and grapevines whip around, and make the swing swing by itself. The raindrops would spatter off the deck and railings of the back porch. Sometimes the wind would pick up the spray and blow it through the louvered screen door into your face and raise goosebumps on your arms. Every flash of lightning would start the count: one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississi – BOOM. Having been told that the closer together the lightning and thunder were, the closer the lightning had struck (Taking a long time before being able to remember the numbers – almost 5 seconds per mile away, 4.73 sec./mile). It was always disappointing when they started getting further away again.
Another flash, and another memory illuminates:
In grade school, putting boots and raincoat on to walk around the neighborhood in the rain. Kicking through the puddles and hike in the gutters, making sure to go to the bottom of the big hills where there were the biggest currents. Just after the rain, taking a stick and poke around in the cracks in the gutters to see what treasures had been washed up. (“In the gutters?” Hey, I didn’t have woods to poke around in.) Coins would be the big score, taking however much that could be found and go up to High’s (it’s the 7-11 now) to see what it could be turned into: atomic fireballs, jawbreakers, tootsie rolls, gum, jolly ranchers..
Another large flash, filled with a rush of images and anxiety:
Twice, delivering papers, with no time between the lightning and thunder. The first time, the drop cloth used to keep the papers dry got away and blew across the street. Running it down and catching up with it around a telephone pole and while picking it up, the junction box on top of the pole gets hit by lightning, showering sparks all around and ringing in both ears. The second time, delivering to the bank, passing under the flagpole the back of the neck hairs stand up as the flag pole gets hit. Panicking to the exclusion of thought, taking off running full speed through the rain with the papers for about three blocks until under the carport down the street.
The flashes coming quicker now, and closer together:
As a teenager, starting to recognize the rain responding to a thought. The rain would stop until the paper route was done or until arriving from a walk to school, then it would start again. If sickness was preventing being able to play in the important game (and they were all important then), it would rain out. The biggest games, both for school and club teams, coming in the rain.
Getting caught by a sudden storm on the way with someone special to their favorite place. Parking as close as possible, but the rain was just pouring down. To cut the disappointment, half-jokingly claiming to be able to take care of it: within a minute, the rain stops altogether – being spooked by that together. Reprising that for Stacy’s and Jill’s weddings: it rained all around Stacy’s wedding, but not on her ceremony. Jill had an outdoor ceremony and reception planned, and the forecast rain never fell. Having assured each of them ahead of time that there would be no rain.
Countless purposeless walks in the rain and storms, partly for the solitude, partly to experience the storms’ power. Sometimes to here, this parking lot at the edge of the lake where the car comes to a stop.}
I’ve just always had good luck with the rain is all.
“Doesn’t seem to be holding tonight, I think we’re stuck here in the car.”
Yeah, you and me on our own with some privacy, and stuck there – damn me and my awful luck.
“You’re bad, you know that?”
Guess we’ll just have to sit here and talk.
“Would you tell me a story?”
I might be able to think of something, maybe give us someplace else to escape to. Go ahead and close your eyes.
“Okay – wait! – could I make a request?”
Anything, they’re your stories.
“Not too much rain this time? If you have any control over it.”
I promise…
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