Chapter 10 - Rose
My cell phone rang as I walked up the stairs to my apartment, and I grumbled as I juggled my purse, my mail, and my laptop bag, trying to answer it before the call went to voicemail. After a particularly mind-numbing day at work, the last thing I felt like being was social, but I reluctantly answered when I saw the name on the caller ID.
“Hello, Miss Elvis,” I said in greeting.
“Hey, Rose. How are you?”
“Oh, just peachy-fucking-keen. What’s up?” I unlocked my front door and pushed it open, almost dropping my laptop to the floor in the process.
“Are you home yet?” she asked.
“Just got here, why?”
“I’m going to come pick you up. We’re going shopping.”
I sighed as I dropped my purse onto the small chair inside the door. “Elvis, I’m beat and really not in a great mood. I had the worst day.”
“That’s why we need to go shopping.”
“How do you figure?” I groaned.
“We’re going out tonight. I want you to go see Rod’s band with me and I don’t want us to be taken for lesbians again, so we’re going to buy you some new clothes.”
I laughed in spite of my mood as I remembered the last time we’d gone to see the band. “Yeah, Truman mentioned they were playing tonight. Down in Sunset Beach, right?”
“Yes. We don’t have to leave until nine, so we have ample time to buy you some decent clothes.”
“‘Decent’ is really subjective, Elvis.” I sat on the sofa, grateful to be able to kick off my shoes. I couldn’t wait to get out of my bra.
“Don’t give me your crap, Rose. Why do you go out of your way to be unattractive?”
I sighed and shook my head. It wasn’t like I tried to be unattractive. I just really didn’t think much about my appearance. At all.
It didn’t even occur to me to be insulted by what she’d said.
“Fine.” I relented. “What time?”
“I’ll be there in half an hour.” I heard a distinct giggle as she disconnected our call.
She arrived at my place in twenty minutes. I had just wolfed down a sandwich when she knocked on my door. She dropped an overnight bag on the floor and hung a clothing bag on the edge of the closet door, announcing that we were to get ready at my place after our shopping trip.
The small Belmont Shore neighborhood of Long Beach was only a few blocks long, but was perhaps my favorite place to hang out. The area was peppered with cute stores, restaurants and bars and it was a very gay-friendly neighborhood, which meant I rarely had to worry about the unwanted advances of men, but the eye-candy that regularly played volleyball on the beach was quite nice indeed.
While it was true I wasn’t exactly in a shopping mood, I had to admit that I needed new clothes. When I moved, I gave most of my stuff away and while I had plenty of jeans and casual clothes, I was tired of cycling through the same five outfits for work, week after week. Plus, my body had changed with the rapid weight loss, then gain, and all the hiking I’d been doing had given me muscle tone in places I wasn’t used to having it. I wasn’t even sure what size I wore anymore.
We went to several shops, and I’d picked out a number of outfits that seemed appropriate for work before Elvis finally put her foot down.
“Okay, these are all great, but we need to get you something to go out in.” I looked at her, vacantly, and she grinned. “Out, out. Like . . . maneater clothes.”
“I am not now, nor have I ever been a maneater, Elvis.” I shook my head and resumed browsing through the tops on the rack in front of me.
“You don’t have to be one, but it wouldn’t kill you to dress like one on occasion.”
Elvis pulled out several items she wanted me to try on, most of which I vetoed immediately. Considering many of her choices, she seemed to think I’d turned into Britney Spears sometime in the last six months; possibly Cher, circa 1972.
I held a few of her more reasonable selections in my hands, intending to take them into a fitting room, as we moved over to some dresses. While I held a plaid skirt in front of me to check the length, Elvis pulled out a short, ivory-colored, off-the-shoulder dress made of some shimmery fabric.
“Rose, you have to try this on. It would look so great on you!”
“Actually, I think it would look better on you,” I said. Her shapely legs would have looked about ten feet long in that thing.
“We’re not here for me.” Elvis shook her head. “Believe me when I say that Rodney is going to have a coronary when he sees my outfit tonight, so I’m all set. Please try this.”
I shrugged. It was a pretty dress. I figured there was no harm in trying it on.
I had the dress on for all of five-seconds, and I knew I wanted it. The color complimented my slightly sun-darkened skin and I had to admit that my neckline and collarbone looked almost sexy in the dress’s off-the-shoulder cut. There was a small, teardrop shaped cutout between my breasts, which revealed just a tiny bit of cleavage. The hem fell to mid-thigh, which was long enough not to be embarrassing, but short enough to show a little leg.
“That dress looks awesome!” Elvis exclaimed. “You’re gonna knock ‘em dead tonight.”
“Who, exactly, will be dying?” I asked as I fingered the soft fabric at my shoulder and twirled in front of the mirror. I liked the way the skirt flounced around my thighs.
Elvis never answered and I was happy about that. She had a one-track mind when it came to whom she wanted me to knock dead.
When I’d made my purchase, we went to the shoe store across the street, giggling like teenagers. It was fun to just let loose with Elvis and be a girl, for once. It had been a long time since I’d allowed myself that.
The bad mood I’d been in earlier had dissipated and, to my pleasant surprise, I was starting to look forward to going out. I had to admit to myself, though, that while I was having fun with Elvis, my good mood was due in no small part to a desire to see Truman. This made me nervous.
I hadn’t seen, nor spoken to Truman all week. Not since I fell asleep on his lap, and he slipped out from under my head and snuck out sometime during the night without a word (after considerately covering me with a blanket I knew he’d had to look in my closet to find). Not that the lack of communication was odd. We usually only talked on Saturdays, with an occasional call or text from him on Friday evenings to confirm hiking plans. But it seemed weird to have slept with my mouth so close to the man’s crotch and not have received at least a telephone call from him to acknowledge that it happened.
Or to acknowledge what we’d said that night. To perhaps discuss what we meant and explore our feelings further. But no, that would have been the grown up, mature thing to do. Truman was instead opting for avoidance.
I could not have been happier about that, even if I did know it was odd.
I didn’t really want to discuss our cannabis-induced admissions. I figured the conversation was inevitable, but I’d just as soon have pretended the whole evening never happened. I knew Truman probably appreciated being able to hang out with a woman who didn’t throw herself at him, and I didn’t want to lose my friend. He’d been so lovely and so much fun to spend time with. Of course I loved Elvis, but it was almost freeing to be with someone who didn’t know Jack and had no expectations of who I was or who I used to be; who I was supposed to be. His friendship had become almost a safe haven for me. And since he hadn’t made any effort to set up a Saturday morning hiking trip, I was afraid I might already have damaged our relationship.
Considering what he’d whispered that night, he was obviously confused about what I wanted from him, and I was more than a little mystified myself. Lately, perhaps out of loneliness, my feelings had become a little hazy. When I saw him without his shirt in his backyard the night he made me dinner, I’d even had a few moments of actual lustful thoughts.
That night wasn’t even the first time I’d felt myself pulled closer to him than was advisable. The week before, he’d surprised me with a gift after my guitar lesson. My reaction was . . . discomfiting.
“Hey, I have something for you.” He pulled that something from his pocket before he reached across the space between us and handed me an old, white iPod. I had not seen an iPod in. . . what? Six or seven years, at least.
“I was going through some old stuff and found this. It still works. I thought you might like to use it when you go for walks or whatever.”
I was shocked by his generosity and more than a little choked up. “Truman, how can you–? I mean, I can’t take something like this. It’s too much.”
“What’s too much? It’s old. It’s not like I’m gonna use it. If I don’t give it to you, it’ll go in the trash.”
The man made sense, but I still felt a little weird taking such a gift from him. I felt weird, just in general. My head started to pound as I was assaulted by memories. My hands were shaking.
“I left some cool songs on it I thought you might like. You know, just to get you started. Including some by a little band called The Previous Fall.” He emitted a small laugh, and I looked down at the iPod in my lap, not daring to meet his eyes as he continued. “I did get you new ear buds, though. You don’t need my ear wax co-mingling with yours.”
I looked up and he winked at me before he noticed the tears in my eyes and his smile vanished.
“Rose?”
“I used to have an iPod. Once.” My voice was barely above a whisper.
“Yeah? I mean, I guess most people did.”
My mouth went a little dry and I turned my face away, ashamed at how emotional I had gotten. I reached up to wipe a tear from my cheek.
“Okay,” he said. “So . . .?”
He deserved to be told the truth about why I was so upset. Or maybe I wanted him to know there was a legitimate reason and I wasn’t just some crazy person who cried when given gifts.
“Jack broke it.” It came out without my thinking; like my mouth was intent on saying the words before my mind could interfere with the process.
“Huh?” His eyes widened slightly.
“I used to have an iPod. Jack broke it just a few weeks after I’d gotten it.” I was unable to sit still and so I stood, leaving my new, used iPod on the bench. I looked at the grey carpet beneath my feet and I saw that I was wringing my hands in front of me. I dropped them to my sides, but two fingers on my right hand snuck into the back pocket of my jeans. “I’d spent weeks loading it up with all the songs I wanted. I’d only been using it for like a month—let me tell you, it came in handy at work. The lady in the cube outside my office is a Celine Dion fanatic.” I looked at him and rolled my eyes. His returning smile made me relax momentarily. Until I remembered.
“He got really mad at me about something. I honestly don’t even remember what, isn’t that weird? Guy throws my iPod against the wall, you’d think it would be a momentous enough occasion, I’d remember why he did it.” The voice I heard echoing in the space between us sounded like mine. I knew my mouth was moving, my lips forming words. I even felt an embarrassed, defensive smile fall across my features. But this was not me who spoke. I wasn’t even in the room.
“Rose . . .” My eyes dropped to his hand at my wrist when I felt its heat there. He had risen from his seat at some point during my verbal diarrhea. I watched as the tear I didn’t feel dripped from my cheek and onto his thumb.
“He just picked it up off the bedside table, walked to the hall and threw it down to the other end. And . . . well. It busted. Obviously.”
When I looked into them, his eyes reflected the ache I felt at the memory. I felt bad for having made him feel it.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know why I decided to tell you that.”
“Don’t apologize, Rose.” He squeezed my hand and the feel of him caressing me in such a comforting way made me feel like breaking down and truly bawling.
“It’s just . . . It’s not a very nice memory you know?” It was a wonder he heard my whisper, but his nod and sympathetic smile indicated that he had. “I don’t really like thinking about the not nice things he did. Not now that he’s–” My voice caught in my throat and the tears I’d been trying in vain to hold back started to spill. Truman’s hand slid up my arm as he pulled me into an embrace. He cradled my face to his chest and pulled me tightly to him.
It’s funny, the things you notice sometimes. I should have been focused on Jack, and my memory and why I was angry with him and maybe even forgiving him now that it was so long ago. Instead, I was lost in a cloud of Truman-smell. My tears fell, my staggered and ragged breaths were certainly audible; I clutched at Truman’s shirt as if for my very life as his fingers drifted through my hair and he whispered words of comfort in my ear. Inside, I thought of nothing but his smell as it surrounded me. He smelled like wood and nuts and something spicy. He smelled like warmth and comfort and sex. He smelled like home.
I allowed myself to pull back only slightly, so that I might wipe my eyes with my hands, and perhaps clear my mind. I took a few staggered breaths and Truman rubbed my back.
“We had a lot of really wonderful times you know? We were together for a long time. We laughed a lot over those years.” The tears started coming harder again, as I tried to speak through them. “And I just feel so guilty because lately it’s like all I can remember is all the shitty things he did.”
“Rose . . .” He pulled me into his chest again, his hand at my neck, holding me to him.
“Left quite a dent in the wall, too.” Though it was a horrible recollection, my light chuckle allowed him to do the same, and that served to break the tension. “The drywall was all fucked up. He swore he’d fix it, but of course . . . I lost my fucking deposit because of him.” I collected myself and Truman left the room to get me a tissue.
I knew I should stay away from him for a while, or limit myself to seeing him only for my guitar lessons until I could move beyond whatever I was feeling. Selfishly though, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’d grown to rely on his friendship, on his ability to make me laugh and the way he made me feel funny and smart. He even, on occasion, made me feel pretty. I’d sort of become addicted to those feelings.
Without his encouragement, I would never have gotten out of my house for all those hikes, and they renewed something in me I hadn’t realized had been dormant for years. Not just a love and admiration for the beauty that can be found outdoors, but a desire to push myself physically and the sense of accomplishment I felt when I’d done so. At a time when I felt so emotionally weak, it was empowering to feel strong, at least in that way.
Our friendship was solid, to be sure, but I also had to admit that there were times, when alone in my apartment with entirely too much time to think, that I wondered, what if?
What if I had met him years ago, before I met Jack? Would things have been different? I was barely the same person I was back then. Would we even have liked each other then? Might we have been . . . more than friends?
It was hard to even ask myself that question, but I almost laughed when I fully considered the notion. I knew who I was in my twenties and that girl wouldn’t have been friends with a hot guy like Truman. I would have fucked him for a couple months and then figured out a reason to move on. More accurately, I probably wouldn’t have let him close to me at all. He was too good to get close to; too good to allow in.
What if we’d met while Jack was alive? Would we have had the opportunity to become friends at all? Would I have taken guitar lessons from him? I sincerely doubted it, on both counts. Jack was a jealous man. He wouldn’t have forbidden me to hang out with Truman, not precisely. He just would have made my life a living hell until I decided myself it wasn’t worth the hassle.
In spite of everything that had plagued my thoughts that week, however, I looked forward to seeing him at the gig. Maybe we’d just let the whole crazy thing pass as if we’d never said those few words and I’d never drooled on his shorts. A girl could hope, anyway. But even if we did the grown-up thing and actually discussed what we’d copped to, I wanted it over and done with. I wanted to move on and get back to normal. Whatever the fuck that meant.
~*~
“What the hell, Elvis?” I screeched as she parked in front of my apartment. I had gone through the numerous receipts I’d amassed over our ninety-minute shopping excursion and was shocked. “I just spent six hundred and fifty-six dollars in less than two hours!”
“It’s a good investment, trust me.” Elvis beamed.
I sighed. I knew I needed new clothes, but Christ. This would put me off buying a new guitar for at least two months.
I was only ten minutes later than I should have been, which I considered a minor miracle considering I straightened my hair, which took almost an hour. I had a hard time believing I had spent so much time on my appearance, but the look on Elvis’ face when I walked out of the bathroom was priceless. She actually clapped. She was so excited she didn’t even give me grief about being late.
“Oh my god, Rose! You look gorgeous!”
“Really?” I smiled and looked down at my dress. I wanted her reassurance, but I did think I looked good. I had to admit to myself how much better that made me feel, about everything. I would never say as much to Elvis, though. She’d never let me forget it and would pester me to dress up all the time.
“I love your hair.” She came closer and touched it. “And I knew that dress would be perfect!”
I finally snapped out of my self-involvement long enough to get a good look at her. I whistled. “Jeez, Elvis. You weren’t kidding about the heart-attack thing.”
She wore a sleeveless, red minidress that looked like something Edie Sedgwich would have worn. On her feet were a pair of high, tight boots with a four-inch platform heel. Her beautiful olive skin glowed. A thin, gold bracelet wrapped tightly around her right bicep.
“Rodney told me last week that he has a fantasy involving the Rat Pack. I thought I’d play along.” She grinned.
“Well, he may not survive the evening. I hope that’s part of your plan.”
“Plus, he gave me this bracelet. Isn’t it lovely?” She turned her arm toward me, modeling it.
Upon closer examination, I saw that the thin gold was a snake, wrapped around her arm. Its eyes were tiny green stones.
“That’s very pretty, Elvis.”
I was impressed and wondered if Rodney had somebody help him buy such a gift or if he really was that thoughtful. Elvis had a thing for snakes and owned two of them. Big ones. She seemed to get a strange kick out of watching them eat. It was almost disturbing. I often joked with her that what she really loved was not the snakes themselves, but feeding them poor, defenseless mice twice a week.
One day she grinned at me, after dropping two such mice into the huge aquarium in which she kept Mutt and Jeff. As I grimaced and watched the big, yellow snake — Mutt — make a meal out of a small, furry creature, she explained that the feeding wasn’t her favorite part of being a pet-owner. It was just “a bonus.”