Chapter 12 - Rose
Doug came back in, having been outside on the phone with his wife during the band’s break. When he approached our table, he grinned and winked at Elvis. As she returned his smile, I wondered what they had going on. I looked at Truman with my eyebrows raised, but he merely shrugged.
Doug looked at Truman, as well. “Are we ready?”
He rose from his seat, smiling at me, and the two of them made their way to the stage. I noticed that Rodney was waiting for a drink at the bar while Doug and Truman put their heads together for a discussion on stage.
“What’s up with you and Doug?” I leaned over the table to ask Elvis. She had a secretive smile on her face as she sipped at her Diet Coke.
“What do you mean?”
“You two have had your heads together a few times tonight. Are you sharing some big secret?”
Rodney bounded up on stage then, and Elvis glared at the back of his head. “You’ll see,” was all she said.
God, I hated it when people kept secrets from me. It seemed the only people acting normal were me and Truman. Of all people, you’d think we would be the ones being weird. Instead, we were having a relaxed, good time.
Even though Elvis was fuming as the band started their second set, the emotion didn’t last long. During their second song (a rockin’ number I happened to adore called “Anybody’s Sweetheart”) a guy approached her. She stood and gave him a hug.
He was cute. He wore glasses, but rather than making him look like a dork, they gave him a sexy, Clark Kent aura. He had the Clark Kent dark hair, too, and a fit, medium build. He was tall — probably about as tall as Truman — and though he was dressed in jeans, he paired them with an expensive-looking, dark, button-down shirt.
He would have been exactly Elvis’ type, before she decided to take a walk on the wild side with the rock and roll drummer. He was clean-cut and attractive; he knew how to dress, and he looked successful.
Clark pulled up a chair at Elvis’ invitation. When the song ended and after I finished showing my boisterous appreciation, I was introduced to him. His real name was Travis.
“He’s a friend of Laura’s, but don’t tell Rodney that.” Elvis grinned at me and then I understood. I shook my head as I chuckled.
The show was about to get even better.
As it turned out, our Travis was also gay—but that was another thing we weren’t going to share with Rodney. He lived in Long Beach and worked with Laura before she quit her job to become a full-time mommy. Apparently, Travis had called Laura that night, and asked her to hang out with him. Though she couldn’t find a babysitter, when Doug told Laura what was going on at the Irish Mist, she called Travis and asked if he’d like to hang out with us, instead. Though he’d only met Elvis once, Laura filled him in on Rodney’s shenanigans and he was more than willing to play along in the “Let’s Give Rodney a Taste of His Own Medicine” game.
I had never seen Elvis dance so much in my life, and I’d seen her dance a lot. Among Travis’ attributes was the fact that he was a great dancer. A seriously great dancer. He swung and twirled Elvis around the floor and they laughed and had a great time. I danced with them about half the time and as the night wore on, I started to really hope he would hang out with us again, after the smoke from the Rodney fire had inevitably blown over. He was fun and kept us laughing with his sarcastic humor. The fact that he was also delicious eye-candy was just the cherry on top. Plus, we could use him to keep guys away.
By the time the band neared the end of its second and final set, I was exhausted and unable to feel two of the toes on my left foot. I settled into my seat and had one last Guinness while I waited for whatever drama Elvis had planned to play out before me.
She did not disappoint.
As the band thanked the crowd, Elvis settled herself onto Travis’ lap. When I caught her eye, I raised my eyebrows at her, but she just shrugged and sipped her soda while Travis smiled up at her, then whispered in her ear something that was apparently quite amusing, judging by her reaction. I was torn. Rodney deserved everything coming to him, but I couldn’t help but feel a little bad for him, too.
Within minutes, Rodney’s biceps bulged as he placed his fists on the table in front of Elvis, and leaned against them.
“What the fuck are you playing at, Elvis?” he asked her.
She held her soda in her hand and peered at him over the glass, sipping through the straw.
“What are you talking about, Rodney?”
I watched Rodney’s arm bulge as his fist tightened and I thought his head might explode. Before it could do so, Elvis jumped off Travis’ lap. Rodney straightened his stance, reflexively giving her room as she turned toward her new friend and took his hand in hers.
“Walk me to my car?” she asked him, a flirtatious lilt to her voice. Travis rose from his seat, and they moved past Rodney, who stood gaping as he towered over them. They ignored him and walked out. I felt Truman walk up to stand beside me as Rodney looked from us to Elvis’ retreating form and back again. His mouth hung wide open.
“Tell me that did not just happen,” he said finally, after several moments.
I couldn’t help it. I laughed. Rodney turned the full force of his incredulity on me then, which only made me laugh harder. Truman started chuckling next to me and I could feel the quakes of his body as he tried to hold his laughter in.
“What are you laughing at?” Rodney yelled at me. “This is funny to you?”
I rolled my eyes as my laughs abruptly dried up. “Well, what did you expect, Rodney?”
I shrugged past him, shaking my head, and felt his eyes on me as I walked toward the door. As I knew they would, Rodney and Truman fell in step behind me only moments later. I could barely hear that they were having a mumbled conversation, but could not make out what they were saying.
Elvis and Travis were laughing as we walked toward them, and stood by a black BMW I assumed must belong to Travis. Elvis’ smile quickly faded as she watched us approach.
“Are we ready to go?” I asked her, smiling as I glanced at Travis.
“We’re ready when you are,” she replied. She looked, though, directly at Rodney.
“So that’s it?” he asked her, completely ignoring me, Travis and everyone else apart from Elvis. At some point during the walk out of the bar, he had put a shirt on, though it remained unbuttoned and had fallen open. “You’re gonna take off with this guy and just forget about me? About us?”
Elvis took a step toward him, a smile on her lips, but not in her eyes. “From what I saw tonight, I doubt you’ll be lonely.”
“Oh, fuck that, Elvis! You know that wasn’t anything.” His face contorted with emotion, and I wasn’t the least bit amused anymore. I felt sorry for him; for both of them. He lowered his voice, and his head, as he spoke. “I thought we . . . I thought we had something, here.”
She crossed her arms in front of her and looked at the ground before looking back up to his face. “So did I, Rodney. Until tonight.”
Rodney’s jaw tensed as he clenched his teeth together and glowered down at her. “Fine! You want to go home with this geek, go right ahead. You’re right. I won’t be lonely.” He looked Travis up and down, a snarl on his lips. “Just don’t expect to get laid, bud. She’s a fucking cock-tease.”
I gasped and Elvis’ eyes flew wide as they scanned the faces of those around her, a blush appearing on her cheeks.
“Okay, Rod, that’s enough.” Truman grabbed his arm and pulled on it a bit as Rodney stepped back and allowed himself to be pulled away. I could already see grief and regret painted across the features of his face.
Travis had instinctively moved in between Rodney and Elvis. I moved closer to her as well and wrapped my arm around her shoulders. Truman pulled Rodney back several paces, toward Rodney’s truck, parked next to the stage door. I pointed Elvis toward her car.
“Come on, Elvis. Let’s just go home.”
Her shoulders were stiff as we walked across the parking lot. She muttered under her breath, more to herself than anyone, and occasionally let her voice become loud with anger. She turned to look at me.
“I can’t believe that–Who does he–? Of all the–” And finally, as we neared her Mustang, she put a hand on my forearm, and slowed my trajectory as she pulled me close. “I don’t understand why he would be so cruel, Rose.”
Of course, I had no answer for her and could only put an arm around her shoulders again and whisper in her ear. “I have no idea, Elvis.”
Only then did I notice that Travis had been walking behind us the whole time. Elvis flipped her hair over her shoulder, and turned her attention to him.
“I’m so sorry about all this,” she said. “You must think I’m totally crazy.”
“Well,” he said. “Not totally.”
They laughed, softly, and Elvis shook her head in embarrassment. “I hope this won’t keep you from hanging out with us again. I swear, I don’t usually attract this much drama.”
Travis pulled her in for a hug. “Are you kidding? This is the most excitement I’ve had in months.”
They laughed some more and started making plans to get together again. I smiled at her, admiring her stoicism in the face of what I knew was a painful evening.
As Elvis leaned against the car and made plans with Travis, I glanced across the parking lot. Truman had coaxed Rodney into the passenger side of his truck and stood beside the vehicle, looking over at me while he put drums into the truck’s bed. He turned my way when he saw me looking, and balanced the heel of one foot on the toe of the other, watching me. He seemed to be waiting for some action on my part.
I held up a hand before I decided that I wanted to say a better goodnight than that. I walked quickly toward him, almost breaking into a jog in my sandals. He walked toward me, as well, and we met somewhere in the middle, beneath a streetlight in the near-empty parking lot. I felt like we were the starring characters in a song by Journey and giggled.
“What’s so funny?” he asked, a smile on his face.
I waved a hand in front of my face. “Sorry, nothing.”
“Okay . . .” His hands played with a set of keys as he peered at me.
“So this has been one to mention in the ol’ diary, eh?” I grinned at him, and he twirled the keys around his forefinger.
“Indeed.” He shook his head and looked down at his feet. “It was a lot of fun, but also so . . . weird.” He laughed, shaking his head again.
I echoed his laughter, lightly. “You can say that again.”
He looked at me as his chuckle faded. His smile remained, bright and dear. “Well,” he said finally. He shrugged his shoulder toward the truck behind him. “I still have to pack up a bit. And I should get Rodney home.”
“Yeah.” I made no move toward Elvis’ car. It was as if my feet were glued to the ground beneath me.
“Hey,” I said as I put out a hand to stop him. “She’s not going home with Travis, you know.” I nodded my head vaguely in the direction of where Travis still stood with Elvis. “With that guy.”
“Okay . . .?” Truman raised his eyebrow at me curiously.
“I just thought you might want to let Rodney know. There’s nothing happening there.” I smiled at him and shrugged. “He’s just for show.”
“I see.” Truman chuckled and nodded, knowingly. “I’ll tell him.”
I smiled, but felt awkward. My hands gripped each other behind my back.
“So I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” He asked, finally. He shuffled backward, slowly.
I smiled and finally started back toward Elvis’ car. “See you tomorrow,” I said over my shoulder.
“Hey, thanks Rose.”
I turned to see him still walking backward.
“Thanks?”
“For coming out tonight,” he said. He glanced at the truck, now at his side. “Thanks for coming tonight,” he repeated.
“My pleasure.”
I vaguely heard Rodney’s voice as I made my way back to Elvis, though I couldn’t hear what he said. Travis waited until I reached them so we could say goodnight, and I turned to Elvis as he walked away.
“You want me to drive?” I asked.
Her polite attempt to hide her glare wasn’t exactly successful. “I think a driver under the influence of anger is still preferable to a driver under the influence of alcohol.”
I shrugged and opened the passenger-side door. “Hey, I was just being polite.”
We were quiet for much of the ride home. I was endlessly curious about what was going on and I wanted to ask her a whole litany of questions, but I knew they were all ones she wouldn’t feel comfortable answering. Rather than attack her with the third degree, I thought it would be best to simply make myself available in the event she decided she wanted to talk about her relationship with Rodney. If she did want to talk, I wouldn’t pry too deeply. I’d let her set the boundaries.
“So what’s the deal, Elvis? You and Rodney aren’t having sex?”
So much for boundaries.
Her mouth fell open and her knuckles whitened as she gripped the steering wheel.
“I’m-” Her face contorted with the effort of her words and she sighed. She sat back in her seat, almost in defeat. “No. We haven’t had sex.”
“Okay.” I raised my eyebrows a bit. “Wow.”
I was a little surprised, considering how long they’d been dating, but only a little. Elvis had always been selective about who she shared herself with. It generally took a long time and a lot of hard work to get into her pants. Most of the guys she dated never made it that far. I only knew for sure about two.
I almost admired her ability to hold out so long and that she was so choosy. Sometimes I wondered if I would be able to be as selective in the future, when I was ready to start dating again. To her, sex was always a special experience, shared with only those who truly meant something to her. She had no regrets; no “What was I thinking and how much did I have to drink?” one-night stands in her past. There was a part of me that knew that was what sex was meant to be and I admired her moral strength.
“That’s weird, huh?” Elvis glanced at me as she drove.
“What? No. What’s weird, Elvis? It’s not weird.”
We were quiet for a few moments, and I watched the lights of the buildings whiz by. We were stopped at a light when Elvis put a hand on my arm.
“Do you think I . . .” Elvis’ eyes squeezed shut with the emotion I knew she was uncomfortable showing. “Do you think I’ve waited too long? That I’m a–” She swallowed as she opened her eyes to look at me, dropping her hand to her lap. “That I’m a ‘cock-tease’?”
As much as I wanted to laugh at hearing Elvis utter that phrase, I put my hand on her shoulder and said, in all sincerity: “That’s really not a nice thing to say about someone, Elvis. He shouldn’t have said that.”
She ignored my words and swallowed again. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Do you think I should have had sex with him by now?”
I shook my head again. “I can’t answer that for you, Elvis. If you don’t feel it’s time yet, then it’s not time.” My eyes wandered to the dashboard as she started driving again. She pulled onto my street. “But . . .”
“But what?” She glanced at me.
“Well, it’s just . . . I mean, he knows you’re not ready, right? You guys talk about this? Because, you know . . . He needs to understand where you’re coming from, so he knows what to expect. Then he can decide if that’s right for him, instead of playing stupid games with your feelings.”
She looked earnestly into my eyes, and it became apparent that she had not yet had this conversation with him.
“Because otherwise, Elvis, he’s a guy and he’s pretty much assuming with every date that this is going to be the date, you know? He’s probably wondering if he’s doing something wrong or if you have some medical problem.” Her eyes widened in panic, and I chuckled, rubbing her thigh lightly. “Look, he’s obviously still interested or he wouldn’t have hung in there for this long. Just talk to the man about it, Elvis. You owe him at least that. Besides, that’s what grown-ups do.”
“I know.” She sighed as she parked on the street in front of my apartment and looked out the windshield. “You’re right, of course. If he’ll ever even speak to me again, after tonight.”
I chuckled and grabbed my purse from the back seat. “Something tells me you’ll hear from him.”
“You think?” Elvis wore a sad smile as I reached for the door handle.
“He was in the wrong, Elvis. I don’t care how horny he is, there is no excuse for being such a dick. But none of this would have happened tonight if he wasn’t still very much in to you. He wanted to make you jealous; to get a reaction from you. You’ll hear from him. And you’d better make him work to get your forgiveness, missy.” I pointed a finger in her face, and she smiled softly. “But then, after he’s paid his dues, talk to him about this sex stuff. See if you two can’t work it out and avoid the kind of shit that happened tonight.”
“Wow,” she said, looking down into her hands. “You’re smart about relationships when they’re not yours.”
I sat back in my seat for a moment and took a deep breath. “You know, because you’re in a sad place right now, I am going to ignore the insult inherent in that statement and say goodnight. Hang in there. Get some rest and we’ll see how this looks tomorrow.”
~*~
For some ungodly reason, I was awake at 6:30am. I sent Elvis a text message.
Well, I stink and my feet hurt. I must have had fun last night.
She actually replied and only a couple of minutes later.
Why r u up so early?
I could ask you the same ?
My phone woke me up. Some jerk texted me at 6:30.
I laughed. What kind of asshole would do such a thing?
It was a few minutes before she replied. I started to think she had gone back to sleep. When I finally received a message, it was not what I expected.
I am sad. About Rodney. =(
I sighed to myself. I had mixed feelings about the whole thing. There were things about him that irked me, but in general, I liked Rodney. He made me laugh and he was charming, and I thought his lightheartedness could be good for Elvis. Plus, now that I knew he hadn’t been having sex the whole time he’d been dating her, I had to applaud his fortitude. But his recent behavior had been fairly deplorable. My main concern was that Elvis end up happy.
Yeah . . . I finally typed. What r u going 2 do?
Don’t know.
Well, he acted like an asshole.
Yes, he did.
So you should be mad, not sad . . . right?
I guess . . . but I have been thinking.
That’s always dangerous. I giggled as I hit Send.
Haha
What about?
I think we should have sex.
You’ll have to at least buy me dinner first.
Haha. You’re gross.
Yes, but I’m hilarious.
Another few minutes went by, and she had not replied. I started to worry.
Elvis?
Another few minutes. Then, finally: Sorry. Phone rang.
What kind of asshole calls you at 6:30am?
6:47 . . . and Rodney.
Oh . . . what the hell is he doing up?
Thinking about me, apparently.
Is that a good thing?
I think so . . .
Then I remembered what she had just texted a minute ago.
So . . . sex?
Not now, Rose. I have a headache.
I laughed out loud. OMG Elvis. You just made a JOKE!
Haha. Yes, I did.
And it was a FUNNY one!
I am meeting Rodney for lunch.
I was still smiling as I typed. Oh . . . and?
He says he wants to apologize.
Well, that’s good, right?
Yes.
And? Do we need to have the safe sex talk, young lady?
God, please no!
I chuckled, though I was serious about what I asked next. I was concerned, after our previous conversation, about where her head was. I didn’t want her to move forward with her relationship based on someone else’s timeline, or idea of what was “normal.”
What r u going to do?
Another few minutes passed before I received her reply.
I don’t know. It’s not like I don’t WANT to have sex w/ him. But now I’d feel like I’m doing it because he is demanding it.
I nodded at the screen, proud of her.
So have lunch. Talk about it. See what he says and go from there. He’s a good guy. You’ll work it out. I hit Send and then thought of something else.
I am constipated. I typed.
Gee & I thought I had problems.
I thought that might make you feel better. It’s all about perspective, you know.
It did. Thank you. =)
Also, I am in dire need of chicken tacos.
OK, I’m going back to bed now.
Let me know what happens @ lunch.
Of course. Luv u.
Luv u 2 . . . and also I luv REM.
She didn’t even bother replying to that lame joke.
I waited until it was 7:02 to send my next text message. I figured 7:00 was a much more reasonable hour to be texting someone. Granted, it took some convincing, but somehow, I rationalized it.
Well, I stink and my feet hurt. I must have had fun last night. I hesitated before I hit Send. I had never sent Truman a text message before. I’d never even called him, except at the store, to make arrangements for my guitar lessons. It was okay for friends to send text messages, though, and we were friends, right?
I wasn’t sure what we were anymore, but I hit Send anyway.
I received an almost immediate reply, and it made me smile.
The hell? Why are you up so early?
That’s your question? You completely gloss over the fact that I just told you I stink?
I’m sorry your feet hurt.
I chuckled. Thanks. I couldn’t sleep. And why r u up?
Work in a bit.
Ah, yes. And I hear you’re giving guitar lessons to a rather lovely & extremely talented young woman later.
Have you been reading my diary?
Hey, it’s not my fault. You just left it lying around, wide open. It has a lock for a reason, you know.
Notice that I still haven’t mentioned the fact that you stink?
I grinned. Always a gentleman.
I won’t mention it later, either.
Ha ha. I will shower before my lesson. It’s Saturday, after all. Saturday = shower day.
He didn’t reply, but I thought it was time to try to get some more sleep, anyway. As I lay back down on the sofa bed, though, my cell phone rang. I smiled as I answered.
“Good morning,” was my greeting.
“I figured I might as well call you. My fingers were starting to cramp.”
“Can’t have that. How will you teach my lesson later?”
“So . . . What’s new?”
I chuckled. “You mean in the five hours, since I last saw you?”
I heard his chuckle, too. “Um . . . yeah.”
“Not much, really. I had a pretty cool dream about zombies.”
“Really?”
“Really. I actually dream about zombies quite frequently.” I snuggled down into the sheets, my head against a pillow.
“I think that means you eat too much spicy food.”
“I thought it meant I watch too many zombie movies.”
He chuckled again. The sound made me smile. “So . . . did you have fun last night?”
“I already said I did.”
“Actually, the way you put it, it sounded like weren’t sure. You just said you stink and have sore feet, so you assumed you must have had fun.”
“Yes, well, those are the telltale signs.”
“You danced a lot.”
“Yes, I did. I liked the band.” My fingers played in the light falling on the mattress through the small living room window.
“Did you?”
“Yes. They’re really good. And the guitar player is kind of hot.”
He paused and I wondered if he thought I was serious. “Be careful, there,” he finally said. “I hear he’s married.”
I rolled onto my back. “Damn it. The guitar players are always taken! Well, maybe I’ll settle for the bass player. He’s tall. I like tall.”
He paused again and it occurred to me that I shouldn’t be such a flirt. It was just so easy to flirt with Truman.
“I don’t know about that, either. I hear the bass player is kind of a jerk.”
“Well, musicians usually are.” I sighed. “My mother always warned me to stay away from them.”
“I think your mother was right,” he said. He paused and I yawned. “Sorry, should I let you go back to sleep?”
“Nah. I’m good. But if you hear snoring, please don’t take it personally. I do not find you the least bit boring. Really.” He chuckled. “Honest, I don’t.” The smile on my face as he continued to chuckle was insanely large.
“I like watching you dance,” he said, after he took what sounded like a deep breath.
“Um . . . excuse me?” I was glad this was a phone conversation, because my face was on fire. I was taken more than a bit off-guard by his statement.
“You’re a great dancer.”
“I . . . am?”
“Yes, you are.” He laughed, softly, and then we were quiet again for a moment. I hadn’t heard that in a really long time. I wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Well . . . thanks,” was my simple reply, once I got over my shock.
I could tell from the sound of his voice he was still smiling. “You sound surprised.”
“I am, kind of.”
“You shouldn’t be. I’m not the only one who noticed.”
“Um . . . I guess I just never really thought about it.”
He was quiet again. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. “Yes, that’s part of what makes you such a great dancer.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I laughed.
“That’s okay. Most people don’t.”
I felt an uneasiness creeping in as silence overtook us again, and I was about to say I would let him go, but he spoke up. “Hey, so is Elvis okay?”
I didn’t know what to say. It’s not like I could, or should, tell him what was going on with my best friend. But I also kind of wanted to tell him his friend was an asshole. So I did.
“Well, apart from being hurt that Rodney acted like a huge dick, she’s fine.”
He sighed into the phone. “He did act like a dick. I’m sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I dunno. He’s my friend. I feel responsible, I guess.”
I pulled the phone away from my face and looked into it, aghast, before returning it to my ear. “Well, you’re not, so don’t apologize, you dork.”
“Oh. Okay.” He laughed.
“Anyway, her feelings were hurt, but she’ll get over it.”
“Well, if it makes her feel better, he felt like a righteous turd when we left.”
“Good.” I nodded. “He should have. And I’m sure that will make her feel better. Actually, they’re having lunch today. He already called her this morning and said he wants to apologize.”
“Good. I knew he would . . . So you’ve talked to Elvis already this morning?”
“Yeah. Sorry, you weren’t my first text of the day.”
“That hurts. I thought you woke up with Truman on the brain.”
I almost said something off-color, but thankfully I held my tongue for one of the few times in my life. He seemed to understand my sense of humor, but I didn’t know how far I could push it.
“Well,” he said with that this-is-going-to-be-the-end-of-our-call tone in his voice. “I should get going, I guess. I need to jump in the shower. You’re not the only one who stinks this morning.”
“Yes, and I read somewhere that you’re giving guitar lessons this afternoon to a rather lovely and extremely talented young woman. You wouldn’t want to offend her olfactory senses.”
“No, indeed I wouldn’t.” He chuckled. “Hey Rose, before I hang up I want to tell you . . .”
“Yes?”
“I know I already told you this, but—you really looked beautiful last night.”
That really made me smile. So much so that I couldn’t even think of some stupid or funny comeback, so I just said, “Thanks.”
~*~
“Um . . . so what have you been up to?” I asked him, a small grin on my face. I set my guitar case down on the floor and looked across the room at his disheveled state.
“Nothing,” Truman said. “You know, just work stuff.” He seemed to catch the amused expression on my face and looked back at me, puzzled.
I openly smirked at him. “Really? Because you totally have sex hair.” I tried to keep myself from laughing, but he looked so flummoxed, I couldn’t help but be amused. I think he even started to blush before he ran a hand through his hair, clearly embarrassed by my assessment of his appearance.
“Sex . . .what?” I watched his Adam’s apple bob from a large swallow. He lowered his hand to his side and looked me in the eye. “What, exactly, do you mean?”
“Seriously?” I asked. It’s not like the man had never had sex before — with plenty of women, I felt somewhat certain — and with that thick and seemingly unmanageable mop on his head, I felt similarly sure he’d had his fair share of sex hair.
“What?” He looked clueless.
“‘Sex hair’ is what one gets after having really great sex. The kind where you grab each other’s hair and it gets all messed up and you end up in a tangled, sweaty mess on the floor because you both fell off the bed.” I laughed. “Or, you know, something like that.”
I watched him swallow again. What was this? Was I right? Did I really just catch him after . . . something? I hadn’t seen any girls leaving as I arrived, but maybe I had just missed them. Moreover, why did that notion bother me all of a sudden? I was only joking when I teased him about it. He ran his own hands though his hair on a regular basis and, subsequently, the guy pretty much walked around with sex hair every day. But now that I thought it might be true sex hair, I felt a gnawing ache in my stomach.
Stupid, Rose. The man is allowed to have sex . . . even if it was in the middle of the day, at his place of business. It was really none of my concern.
Then he looked me dead in the eyes, his own green ones suddenly dark with . . . damn, what was that? Whatever it was, my mind screamed, “Danger, Will Robinson!” so loud I thought he must hear it, also.
Was he always this great-looking? Has he always just . . . smoldered like that? Why the hell hadn’t I noticed this? And what the hell was he thinking, looking at me like that? Like I was an appetizer or something . . .
Jesus Christ. Now who’s flummoxed?
“I’m sorry.” I tried to get the words out, but my mouth seemed suddenly quite dry, and I had to clear my throat. “I was just teasing.” I looked at the floor. I looked anywhere, just so I could pull my eyes away from his intense, green stare. I felt the heat of a blush rising up my cheeks.
I sat on the bench and reached to open my guitar case. I didn’t know exactly what had passed between us, but I needed a distraction from it.
Truman assisted me in that arena.
“So, I believe you made me a promise, young lady.” He finally dropped his eyes and sat down across from me, guitar in his lap.
I groaned and grimaced, and he did nothing but chuckle at my discomfort.
“I was sort of hoping you’d forget about that,” I said.
He shook his head. “No way.”
I hadn’t forgotten, either, in spite of the many subjects that had taken up residence in my brain that week. During the night we’d spent at my apartment, he reminded me at some point that we never did get around to writing songs and admitted that, if nothing else, he’d looked forward to hearing me sing. I was obviously high, since my reaction was to smile over at him from my corner of the love seat and tell him I would sing for him during our next guitar lesson.
“Is that a promise?” he asked.
“Hand to God.” I smiled and held up my right hand. “Promise.”
And now, I was beholding not just to Truman, but to God.
“Okay, well . . . you know I can’t really do the picking.” I had my guitar in my lap and noticed my hands were shaking a little. “I’m just gonna play the chords.”
Truman smiled. “Let me have it.”
“Well, but I’m not very good yet.”
Truman sighed, but still kept his grin. “Rose, I’m your teacher. I know how good you are–”
“Or are not,” I interrupted.
“Whatever. Just play it already.”
“OK but before I do, can I just tell you something?” Truman rolled his eyes, but I continued anyway. “Jay Farrar didn’t write this song.”
“Wait, what?”
“Nope.” I was more than half hoping my little diversionary conversation would make him forget about me singing. “It was written by Ron Wood.”
“The Rolling Stones’ Ron Wood?”
“Yep. It’s on one of his solo albums from the early-‘70s.”
“Wow. I had no idea. I’ll have to look it up.” He winked at me. “Now get to it young lady.”
I took a deep breath and started to strum the familiar chords. Once I’d finished the opening bars, I began to sing the song he’d performed the night we met: Son Volt’s version of “Mystifies Me.” I started out a little shaky. It had been a long time since I’d sung in front of anyone, and Truman wasn’t just anyone. After a couple lines, though, I—well, I wouldn’t exactly say I found my confidence, but I slipped comfortably into the rhythm of the song.
You look so fine, true.
At the first mention of the word “true”, I looked up and grinned at Truman and the double-meaning the line had now adopted.
You look so fine, true.
And I would not lie to you.
Let me see you, let me know your dreams,
Won't you please give out a sign.
Truman started to play along, and his fingers slid expertly along the neck of his guitar. His playing sounded remarkably like the slide on Son Volt’s version, except he had his own unique style. I smiled and my heart started to beat a little faster.
Things you say, you make me look through you,
No one mystifies me like you do...
You look so fine, true.
No one mystifies me like you do.*
As we played out the few remaining chords, my hands started to shake again; so much so that I flubbed the last couple of chords and abruptly stopped playing.
I couldn’t look at him, so I looked at the floor. I wasn’t quite sure why, but I was uncomfortable, and I felt a blush on my cheeks. He was right—it’s not like he hadn’t listened to me play guitar for at least an hour every week for the past few months. Singing in front of people never bothered me. It was one of the few things I knew I could do well. So why was I so . . . whatever the hell I was at that moment?
“Rose.” I heard him say my name, softly, but I still couldn’t look at him. I felt exposed in some way I was not accustomed to and did not at all expect.
“Sinead Rose McGovern.” His use of my full name made me look up to meet his eyes, in spite of myself. They were bright and his smile was soft and beautiful and made me blush again. He didn’t say anything, at first. We just looked at each other and my heart began to race. My mouth went dry. Finally, he shook his head, slightly.
“Well, I can never sing that song again,” he said. I was puzzled and my face must have conveyed that, as he said: “I’d be embarrassed after—that. That was just . . . beautiful.”
I smiled wider and I knew I was still blushing. Jesus, what am I, fifteen? I stammered as I tried to respond. “Well . . . I mean . . . I guess . . .”
I exhaled in a huff, impatient with myself. “Thank you.”
We were quiet for a few minutes, at least. I couldn’t think of anything to say, which I didn’t understand, and which annoyed me. You could say a lot of things about me, but it was rare that I was at a loss for words. I just could not get my mind around what I felt in that moment. I wanted to bolt out the door.
Truman finally saved the day. “Rose . . .” He hesitated, until I looked at him. I had a hard time looking him in the eye, though. “I have to ask you–” He looked a bit sheepish himself and I was thankful I was apparently not the only one in the room who was uncomfortable.
“Ask me what?”
“How come . . . I mean—why aren’t you recording or in a band or singing professionally on television or something?”
I almost laughed at the notion of being on television, but I couldn’t help but smile and blush again in response to what he’d said.
“Seriously,” he continued. “With that voice, you should be raking in the dough.”
“Really? You think I’m a good singer?”
I wasn’t just fishing for compliments. I knew Truman and I knew he was a great musician with even better taste in music. If he really thought I was a good singer—well, that was pretty much the best compliment I could think of.
“Rose, I think . . .” He peered at me with an earnest look in his eyes. “With your voice, I think it’s pretty much a sin not to use it.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Of course, I still had no idea what to say. I felt as if I sat there naked in front of him.
“Rose?”
I shrugged and squirmed a little in my seat. It’s not like I’d never thought about it. I’d enjoyed being in bands when I was younger, and it had served as a great outlet for me. At one time, I wanted to make music my career and I worked hard during my twenties to make it happen. I didn’t think I’d ever become Taylor Swift or Springsteen, nor did I want that level of success. I merely wanted to write and sing my songs and make a decent living doing so. I’d always felt like music was my gift and it was what I was meant to do. Moreover, it was the one thing I’d always been good at. At everything else, I was ordinary and mediocre.
My priorities shifted when I met Jack.
“I don’t know. I’ve been in bands before.” I shrugged again. “It’s kind of a long story.”
He watched me for a moment. “I’ve got lots of time, you know.”
“Yes, well, I am currently paying you for your time.” I smiled. “I believe you’re supposed to give me a guitar lesson.”
“How about I don’t charge you for this lesson?” He smiled back at me.
“How about we get back to business and have that conversation some other time?”
He continued to watch me for a long moment before he sighed and gave in. Relief washed over me.
“Okay,” he said, “but don’t think you’re off the hook.”
Although the hour had begun in emotional confusion, the rest of the lesson continued as usual. He’d been teaching me to read sheet music over the past few weeks, which I found quite boring, but I assumed it was par for the course, so I didn’t complain.
As we finished up, I looked through the glass door to see that Rodney was leaving. “Hey,” I said. “Rod’s leaving early?”
Truman followed my eyes through the door. “Yeah. He and Elvis have some big date tonight. Actually, between that and his extended lunch, he’s barely been here today.”
“Yes, I heard.” I wagged my eyebrows at him, and he smirked. “Actually, she completely flaked on me tonight. How could she throw me over for some hot-tempered guy with a cute ass?”
I looked more intently at him as I thought about what I had planned for the night and an idea came to mind. He raised his eyebrows as he waited for me to enlighten him with whatever I was thinking.
“Hey . . . Truman . . .”
“Yes?” He smiled.
“I know this is short notice, but are you free tonight?”
He gave me an odd look. “Yes. Why?”
I fidgeted a little in my seat. I’d never asked him to hang out with me at a bar before, but I figured if we really were supposed to be friends, I should be able to. I shook my head, slightly. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing, but I knew we’d end up having fun. I decided to focus on that fact and forget my apprehension.
“Well . . .” I began. It was silly how nervous I was. “Elvis and I were supposed to go out to this bar in Culver City. It’s called The Cinema Bar.”
“I’ve been there.” He nodded. “Cool place.”
“Oh, cool,” I continued. “Well, there’s a band playing tonight and they’re supposed to be good. Alt-country or Americana, I guess you’d call them. Anyway . . . now she’s flaked on me . . .” I gave him a wide-eyed, hopeful look.
“And you want me to be your fallback guy?”
“Yes! You understand me perfectly!” I grinned.
A cool smile crept across his features, and he took his time responding. It made me nervous. I was about to tell him to forget it, when he finally said: “I think I can manage that. What time do you want me to pick you up?”
“I can pick you up. I was the one who invited you, after all.”
“No way.” He shook his head. “Please allow me to assert my masculinity on this one matter.”
I shrugged and laughed. “Hey, that’s cool with me. That way I can drink. To excess, even.” Truman nodded in understanding, his smile still in place.
“How about nine?” I asked. “They don’t go on until ten.”
“Sounds good.” He paused, though, as we began to leave the little rehearsal room. “Actually, why don’t I pick you up at eight? There’s a great Jewish Deli not far from there. We could grab a bite first.”
“Do they have onion rings?” I asked and he grinned in reply.
“I believe they do, yes.”
“I’m in!”
~*~
They did have onion rings. Very good ones. I ordered a turkey burger and Truman split the rings with me.
“How can you come to a Jewish Deli and order a turkey burger?” he asked.
I looked at his huge pastrami sandwich, on rye. “Well, I can’t exactly eat that. Think about what it would do to my girlish figure.”
“The onion rings are okay on your figure?” He grinned.
“Well, that’s why I made you split them with me.” I shrugged. “A little sin goes a long way in my book.”
“Mmm-hmm.” He nodded.
He looked at me as if he wanted to say something, but he didn’t say it. Finally, before I screamed in frustration, I asked. “What?”
“Well,” he looked down at his pastrami. “I don’t know how to say it. I know how girls are and I don’t want to offend you.”
“Just say it.” I licked ketchup off my finger, my curiosity now incredibly piqued. “I have always found that the direct approach is the best one.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed.” He grinned.
“Shut up. And spit it out.”
He chuckled, but paused for a moment while he swallowed; then did just that. “I just wanted to say that you’ve been looking really good lately. Healthy, I mean. You were . . . a bit thin when I first met you.”
I raised an eyebrow. I knew I should probably be uncomfortable with what he said. More than that, I wanted to find a way to give him a hard time for making a comment about my weight, of all things, but I couldn’t. It was just the truth.
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “I lost a lot of weight earlier this year.” I hoped he would know why, without my having to draw him a picture.
His blank look didn’t tell me whether he understood or not. “Oh,” was all he said.
“I’ve gained some back, now.”
“Yes.” He smiled.
“I feel good.”
His smile grew. “Good.”
“You’re a man of few words, Truman Kennedy.”
“Yes.” We laughed and went back to work on our meals.
I had the last onion ring in my mouth when he said, “So Rose, we have time now.”
“Time for what?”
“Time for you to tell me why you don’t sing professionally.”
True to form, I tried to deflect the real issue at hand. “You say that like it’s so easy. Like all I have to do is decide I want to make be a professional singer, and it will miraculously come to pass.”
“I don’t mean that. But you don’t even try.” He looked me in the eye. “Do you?”
“No.”
“Have you ever?”
“Well, not really.” I shrugged. “I mean, I was in a few bands, a long time ago.”
“Like, how long ago?” He took a drink of his soda.
My turkey burger was good, but his pastrami looked far better. I tried not to stare at it and to focus on the rather uncomfortable subject at hand. “Well . . . mostly in my twenties. I haven’t been in a band for . . . I guess like six-seven years.”
“Why not?”
I knew enough about Truman by this point to know he was not going to let it drop, so I sighed and sat back in my seat as I told him the story.
“The last band I was in, we were together for five years.”
Truman raised his eyebrows. “You were good?”
I smiled, as the question itself implied that he already knew the answer. Being in a rock band for five years is something akin to being married for fifteen. If you stick it out that long you either love the guys you’re playing with, or you believe in the music you’re making, or both. In my case, it was both.
“I thought so,” I said. “I loved them. And the music. A lot.”
He didn’t ask what happened, but his eyebrows did.
“I met Jack at one of our gigs, actually. He saw us play down in Huntington Beach and he stuck around, bought me drinks and tried to charm my socks off. Well, he tried to charm something off me, anyway.” I sent Truman a meaningful look and he nodded. “Anyway, we ended up dating, obviously. Things got serious pretty quickly.”
I watched as Truman finished his sandwich and wiped his mouth with a napkin before I continued. “So . . . you know, Jack kind of became . . . my priority.”
What he said was, “Okay?” but the way he said it conveyed more as, “So what the fuck does that mean?”
I sighed. I hated to admit what happened. I knew what I’d done, and I was fine with it, but the consensus of others was that I’d been weak or that Jack was controlling. I thought for a moment about making something up or giving him a condensed version of events, but there was something about Truman that made me want to tell him the truth—the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
It was almost annoying.
“Well . . . you see . . . Jack . . . he had some jealousy issues.”
“Oh?”
“He never actually asked me to quit the band.” I felt myself on the defensive. “Really—he wouldn’t do that. He knew it was important to me.” I licked my lips, feeling oddly nervous. Truman waited silently for me to continue. “It’s just that . . . well, things would happen that upset him. For one, I think it upset him that I was so close to the guys in the band. You know, in a way he wasn’t close to me.” I looked at Truman to make sure he understood, and he nodded, because of course he did. “And two, I don’t have to tell you what it’s like when you’re playing in bars all the time. Guys would–”
I squirmed in my seat. It’s not like I thought I was some super-hot chick and guys couldn’t help but come on to me. It’s just what happens when you sing in a cool band. They like the music, so they automatically think that means they like you.
“You know, guys would sometimes want to buy me a drink or try to talk to me or whatever.” Truman nodded, again. “I mean, that’s how I met Jack, ya know? So he thought I was always meeting people—guys. Sometimes he would get in fights when he thought someone was paying too much attention to me. It just became . . . such an ordeal.”
I looked down into my lap, upset with myself. I made Jack sound like a giant ass. “We fought about it a lot,” I continued. “In the end, I guess I just decided it wasn’t worth it.”
He gazed at me, silent, for a long time; so long he made me even more uncomfortable than I already was. I bit the inside of my lip, apprehensive about what he was bound to say, and I wished the restaurant sold alcohol.
Finally, he grabbed the check from off the table. “You ready to go?” he asked.
“That’s it?” I think my jaw became unhinged. “You have nothing to say?”
If he had nothing to say about the fact that I’d quit the band to be with Jack, he was the only one. Elvis had ridden me hard about it for months and even still brought it up, on occasion. The guys in the band — guys who had been like brothers to me for years — were so angry and resentful they refused to speak to me, even years later. Even my father had voiced his disapproval.
Truman’s expression was unreadable. “What do you want me to say?”
“Well, I don’t know . . . It’s just that most everybody has an opinion about it.”
“You made a choice. You chose what was most important to you at the time.” His eyes questioned mine. “Right?”
“Yeah . . . I guess so.”
“Okay. So?”
I’d never had anyone react so simply to what had been a huge dilemma for me—something I struggled with for many months, both before the decision was made and after. I agonized for years over whether I had made the right choice. I would have thought Truman — who acted as if it was pure insanity that I didn’t pursue music as my career — would have thought it a much bigger deal than he apparently did. I tried to read the expression on his face for several moments before finally retreating into that defense mechanism I inevitably resorted to when things became uncomfortable or too real for me to handle well.
“So . . . sew buttons on your underwear.”
Truman’s eyebrows knitted together as he tried to figure out what the hell I’d said. Then he laughed.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, finally.
*Mystifies Me, lyrics by Ron Wood, ℗ 1974 Warner Records Inc.
And since I already linked to Son Volt’s version of the song, here is Ron Wood’s original version or Mystifies Me: