Chapter 8 - Rose
“What made you decide to take guitar lessons, Rose?”
Rather than go on a legitimate hike, on the first Saturday in September, we decided to head over to Redondo Beach for a relatively easy, but nonetheless long, walk. It was a foggy, chilly morning and I wore yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt with the arms pulled down to cover my cold hands. Still, I shivered in the occasional light breeze. Truman wore shorts. I wondered if he ever got cold.
“I’ve always wanted to play. I write songs and stuff; I was just never good at the guitar. And . . . Well, now kind of seemed like a good time to sort of . . . occupy myself.” My voice trailed off as I gazed out over the water. It was eerily calm, and its grey color blended into the sky at the horizon.
“You write songs?”
I was thankful he’d focused on that part of my statement, rather than delving into why I needed to occupy myself. “Yeah. At least I used to. I haven’t written for a long time.”
“Lyrics?” He looked at me, his eyebrows raised and his eyes wide.
“Yes. That’s actually kind of my thing. More so than the music, anyway.”
“Hmm. Because that’s where I struggle. Lyrics.”
“I like your songs, Truman.” I smiled.
“Thank you.” He cleared his throat as he shrugged, and I couldn’t read his expression behind his sunglasses. “You know, I have a few good ones. But for the most part, I just can’t get the lyrics right. Or I’ll have one good verse and then the song sort of falls apart.” He grinned, looking down at me. “That’s why playing rock-‘n’-roll is good for me. Most of the time, you can’t hear the lyrics.”
“What about the other guys?”
“Forget it.” He waved a hand through the air. “They’re worse than I am.”
“You know, Truman, by insulting your songs, you’re pretty much insulting my taste in music.” I glared at him, teasing.
He smiled and abruptly glossed over what I’d said. “Why don’t you try to help me with some lyrics?”
My mouth fell open. “Uh . . . Did you fall and hit your head this morning?”
“Oh, come on. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. But why not try? I’ve been working on this new song. The music is pretty cool, if I do say so myself, but I have no idea what to do lyrically.”
“Truman . . .” I felt my palms start to sweat, even though the air was still cool. I gripped the inside of my sweatshirt in my fists. “I haven’t tried to write anything for a really long time. I don’t even know if I can anymore.”
I examined the grey of the sidewalk that fell beneath our feet as we walked until I felt his hand on my shoulder. I looked up into his kind eyes.
“Like I said, why not give it a shot? You can’t write anything worse than what I’ve come up with so far.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. “When would you want to do this?”
He shrugged and reached into his pocket to retrieve his keys as we neared his car. “Why not now?”
“Now?” My mouth fell open again as I headed to the passenger-side door.
“Yeah, instead of your lesson. I want to check on some things at work, so I’ll drop you off at your place and meet you back there in a bit.”
Once we were seated in his car, I stared at my hands, nervous and self-conscious. He didn’t start the ignition, but waited for my answer as I sat.
I had once been a decent lyricist, but I hadn’t tried my hand at songwriting in at least six years. Now, a musician I respected and admired wanted me to try it with him. And what was more, this was Truman.
Truman and I had gotten close, and for the most part, I felt quite comfortable with him. But I allowed him to see only the socially acceptable, reasonably normal parts of my personality. There were other, less attractive parts that nobody really knew. I tended to pull away if I felt too vulnerable or that he might get a glimpse of that darkness. Songwriting, at least for me, was an intimate experience. I didn’t know whether I could be that open and . . . naked with him. I didn’t want to scare him away; not just as I was getting used to having him around.
“Hey.” Truman’s voice was soft and sweet, and I finally looked over at him. His smile was the same. “We’ll just give it a try. If it doesn’t work out, we’re no worse off than we are now.”
“Well, except that I’ll be mortified.”
His eye narrowed a bit before he shook his head and smiled. “Rose. We’re friends, right? Why would you be mortified?”
“I don’t know” I shrugged my shoulder uncomfortably and looked out the passenger-side window. “I just haven’t done this in so long. What if I can’t do it anymore? What if I suck?”
“Then you suck.” His chuckle was soft as he started the engine. “And we’ll still be friends. We just won’t be songwriting partners.”
I turned my head to look at him. He looked straight ahead as he drove us down Pacific Coast Highway, back toward Long Beach, a small smile on his face. It occurred to me that he might be the kindest man I’d ever met. I didn’t want to disappoint him.
I took a deep breath and tried to keep my hands from visibly shaking, finally shoving them between my thighs. “Okay,” I said.
He turned his head and gave me a bright smile.
~*~
Since I’d moved out of my parents’ home, I was always a little nervous to have people over my apartment when they’d never been there. I worried that maybe I’d left a pair of panties out in the open or my visitor wouldn’t like my artwork or whatever. And this time, I lived in a place the size of a pea pod. When I left the bathroom door open, you could literally see every inch of the apartment from the front door. It was fine for me by myself, but apart from the occasional visit from Elvis, I hadn’t entertained. At least I knew Truman would appreciate my music collection.
I stood on my tiptoes, trying to reach the small box I kept on the top shelf of the closet. It was full of new guitar picks.
“Hey, can you help me reach this?”
I felt Truman come up behind me and saw his arm as he reached over my head and grabbed the box.
“What would you have done if I weren’t here, Shorty?” he asked.
“Catapulted from the love seat?” I winked in the face of his grin. “What’s with the ‘Shorty’ business?”
“Um . . . you’re short?”
I rolled my eyes. “You want a beer?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
He browsed through my collection of records before I met him at the love seat with two cold bottles. My guitar leaned against the arm of my side of the sofa, but I was hoping he’d forget about it, at least until I had a couple of beers in me.
“Ah . . .” he said, a small smile on his face as he took a swig and settled into his seat. “Sierra Nevada. Nice.”
The man loved his beer.
We sat in silence for a moment before he looked at me with a grin on his face. “Hey, did you know if you’re shorter than four-eleven, you can technically be considered a midget? Sorry, a little person.”
“What?” I looked at him, aghast, before I punched him on the shoulder. I actually hurt my knuckles on his bicep, though I would never admit that to him.
The bastard laughed and rubbed his arm. “Hey! I don’t make the rules, I’m just sayin.’ Don’t you think it would be worth it, if only for the handicapped parking pass?”
I glared at him, indignant, as he obviously tried to hold back another laugh. “How short do you think I am, anyway?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Short. How short are you?”
“I’ll have you know, I am five-foot-one-and-three-quarters! I am most certainly not a little person.”
He couldn’t hold it back any longer and he laughed at my anger.
“Besides,” I asked. “Can you get handicapped parking when you’re a little person? That’s not technically a handicap, is it?” The notion of great parking — everywhere, all the time — did begin to look appealing.
“I don’t know, but it would be worth checking into.”
“I am not that short,” I grumbled, once I remembered to be angry.
“Whatever you say.” He laughed again and took another long pull from his beer.
“Okay, can we please change the subject?”
“Of course.” He nodded, still grinning. “Your house, your rules.”
We sat in silence for a few moments, and I watched as he practically chugged beer from his bottle until it was almost empty. He kept running his hand along his thigh, like it was sweaty or something, even though it had never gotten very warm that day. I didn’t like the silence. It made me uncomfortable, which made me drink my own beer far more quickly than I ordinarily would have. I noticed Truman was bouncing his knee and fidgeting with the label on his beer bottle. I wondered if he was nervous about the songwriting process, too. Whatever the reason, I was happy for the delay. I figured it might be easier to write songs with him if I had a little more time to prepare myself, mentally.
After several minutes of our nervous fidgeting and inane small talk about nothing, I went to the kitchen and got us both another beer. I didn’t even bother to ask him if he wanted one. He’d finished his long before I did mine.
He peered up at me as I handed him his beer and took my seat. “Can I . . . Can I ask you a . . . personal question?”
I attempted to catch some clue in his eyes as to what was on his mind, but he dropped them to his lap where he fingered some invisible something on his shorts. He was obviously antsy, which made me nervous about what he might ask. I took another drink.
“Well, you can ask, I guess.”
Please don’t ask me about Jack’s death. Please don’t ask me about Jack’s death.
“Um . . . Jack was really tall, right?” He was still playing with his shorts, but he finally looked me in the eye, and I nodded. “Did the two of you ever have any . . . um . . . difficulties?” He must have seen in my eyes that I was puzzled, because, after clearing his throat, he clarified without my asking. “You know . . . with sex?”
I burst into laughter and almost spewed beer across the room in the process.
“No, seriously.” He was on the verge of laughter himself, but put his hand on my arm to convey his earnestness. “I mean . . . I guess I’ve never slept with someone so . . . um . . . vertically challenged as you.” I punched him in the arm again. He was going to get a bruise if he didn’t stop with the cracks about my height. “Does it — did it — present any problems?”
“You know, I’ve never even felt short. Before today, that is.”
“Oh, come on. You have to know you’re shorter than, like, ninety-five percent of the adult human population.”
“Okay, I don’t really think it’s ninety-five percent, but yes—of course I know I’m on the short side. It has never really been an issue for me. In any way.” I said rather pointedly.
He started to peel the label from his bottle of beer, distracting me, though he wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing. He had great hands, with long fingers. A musician’s hands.
“So, really? No problems?”
I thought about it for a moment, since he honestly seemed curious about the matter. I remembered a similarly “vertically challenged” friend of mine who, some years ago, had mentioned that she’d had some bedroom issues with her boyfriend, who was a foot taller than she. I’d never had that sort of problem, but I did remember that Jack and I had made some adjustments along the way.
“Well . . .” I started, hesitating. I felt oddly compelled to talk to him about the issue and the memory of sex with Jack didn’t even bring up any painful feelings. It seemed less personal than writing songs, for some reason.
“See?” Truman slapped his thigh. “I knew it.”
“You don’t know anything, bud.” I eyed him, pointedly. “But if we’re going to have this conversation, I am definitely going to need another beer.” I wasn’t quite finished with the one I had, but rose to get a new one anyway and he motioned with his bottle so I would notice it was almost empty as well. We were drinking a lot. I reminded myself that I hadn’t eaten yet, but pulled the bottles from the fridge anyway.
I returned with our beers, and we settled back into the love seat again. As Truman cracked his open, I finished off the last of my old one in one long swig. Then I burped, covering my mouth with my hand, embarrassed.
“Um . . . excuse you.” He laughed.
“Yeah, sorry about that.” My cheeks flushed with my embarrassment, and I took a deep breath. “Okay, so not only was Jack tall, but he was . . . you know . . . big.”
Truman’s new beer was on its way to his mouth when he stopped and looked at me. “Wait. What exactly are we talking about, here?”
“Not that, you perv.” I rolled my eyes and he laughed. “Although . . . truth be told . . .” I winked at him, and he laughed again as I took another swig and smiled. “I was just talking about his body, in general. You know, he had broad shoulders. Big legs. He was . . . thick. I don’t mean he was fat.” I was quick to clarify. “He was a big guy, you know? Kinda like Rod, only bigger, if you can believe it. Very . . . Nordic.”
I had no other way to explain what I meant. Truman nodded in understanding, but had a strange, clouded look in his eyes, that I couldn’t place. I took another drink and a deep breath before I continued. “And, you know, I have short legs.”
He looked me dead in the eye and I could feel the heat of a blush rising to my cheeks again. I couldn’t believe I was sitting there talking about my sex life with Truman. My disbelief did not keep me from continuing, however.
“Um . . . so when I was . . . you know, on top . . .”
He took a huge drink from his beer, and I figured I must have made him uncomfortable. I didn’t really understand why he would ask the question if he was going to get all embarrassed by my answer, but I backed off a little.
“Well . . . let’s just say I had to make some adjustments.”
His eyebrows shot up in interest as he looked into my eyes. His were an even deeper green than usual and I wondered if it was a result of all the drinking.
I answered his unasked question. “I couldn’t just be on my knees, you know? My thighs are too short, and his hips were too wide. I had to . . . adjust . . .”
This is so embarrassing.
But also . . . kind of . . . sexy . . . almost. In a weird way.
It had been way too long since I’d gotten laid.
“Like a frog?” he asked. His voice was so quiet, I barely heard him.
I smiled, though flustered, thankful he at least partially understood without my having to draw a picture. “Yeah, sometimes . . . and . . . other ways . . .”
He raised his eyebrows again, but I shook my head, and waved a hand in front of my face, which must have been beaming bright red, it felt so hot. “You now know quite enough about my favorite sexual positions, young man. I think I’d rather lay my guts on the table by writing a song, thank you very much.”
We laughed and drank some more. I was well on my way to being drunk, but the beer was helping to calm my nerves.