by Roan Parrish
I mean, is it, like, a requirement that just because he builds things professionally I’m not allowed to fix my own table? God, I can only imagine my brothers or my dad if they saw me calling my boyfriend for help because I couldn’t even fix a simple table.
Wait. Did I just think of Rex as my boyfriend? How do you know if someone’s your boyfriend? Oh Christ. This is why I don’t date.
I just need to have a quick meeting with a student and then I can get the hell out of here. I can’t wait to be gone. I definitely need a break. And a huge coffee.
“Hi,” I say to Marjorie at the counter of Sludge. “Can I get—?”
“Don’t you want to look at the board before you order?” she cuts me off, smiling a little too wide.
“Uh, no. I know what I want.”
“Come on, just a peek?” She’s twisting her hands together in a way that makes her look like a twelve-year-old girl, not a grown-ass woman.
I look at the board so she’ll leave me the hell alone.
“What am I supposed to be—oh shit.”
“Language, dear,” Marjorie giggles.
On the Specials board, in bright green chalk, it says “The Daniel: 3 shots of expresso in a large coffee.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s…. Wow. I’m honored. It’s espresso, though, just so you know; no x.”
Oh Jesus, this is so embarrassing. Ginger is going to laugh her face off when she hears this. Marjorie looks a little pissed that I pointed out the spelling mistake, but she fixes it with the chalk. Then she looks back at me.
“Well,” I say, trying to move things along. “Thanks again. So, I guess you know what I want, then.”
Marjorie still says nothing, just looks at me expectantly.
“Uh….” I smile, like maybe that’s the magic sign she’s waiting for.
“Order it!” she says.
“I… did?”
“No, order it by name.”
“You want me to order my own drink—the one you already know I want because you named it after me?”
“Well, no one else is ever going to order it,” she says, clearly exasperated.
“Then why did you—Oh Jesus. Okay, I would like one ‘Daniel’ to go, please.”
“Coming right up, Daniel,” Marjorie says sweetly.
Jay Santiago steps through my door just seconds after my student leaves.
“Hey, Daniel,” Jay says with a smile.
“Morning,” I say.
“You leaving soon?”
“Yep. On my way out.”
“Listen,” Jay says, sliding easily into the seat my student just vacated. “I really enjoyed our conversation last night. It was lovely getting to know you a bit better.”
“Me too, Jay. I mean, you too.”
Jay smiles warmly, then leans across the desk toward me.
“Look, Daniel, I don’t know what your situation is, but would you be interested in doing it again?”
“Again, like, dinner again?” I say stupidly.
“Yes. I wonder if you’d like to have dinner with me again. If we enjoyed one another’s company, that is, and it seems like we did.”
Oh crap, crap, crap. I can’t believe it. Rex was right.
“Like, as… friends?” I try, in a last ditch effort.
“No, as in on a date,” Jay says.
“Oh wow,” I say. “Um, well, thanks, Jay. I’m really flattered, I just—um, I’m seeing someone, though. Sorry.”
“The man I met last night?” Jay asks, seeming unperturbed.
“Yeah. Rex.” God, even saying Rex’s name almost makes me smile, even though I’m still mad at him.
“Of course,” he says. “I understand. Well.” He stands and reaches his hand across the desk. “Enjoy the conference, then. The offer stands, if you’d ever like to take me up on it.” He squeezes my hand once, lets it go, and, smiling, walks out the door.
Damn. That was the classiest ask-out I’ve ever seen.
My first thought is to call Rex and tell him he was right about Jay—both the gay thing and the into-me thing. But then what? I don’t want to apologize. I doubt he thinks he did anything wrong. No, better to just take the weekend and cool off.
Leo’s behind the counter when I walk into the music store I never knew existed. I think the reason I never knew it existed is because the sign out front says Mr. Zoo’s Rumble. I don’t even want to know. He looks up when the bell tinkles my arrival and breaks into a big, excited grin, which he quickly twists into a wry smirk, but not before I see how genuinely glad he is to see me.
“Daniel! Hey, man,” he says. “You came!”
“This place is… something,” I say, looking around.
The whole front of the store is second-hand instruments of every sort that parents would kill to keep out of the hands of their kids: recorders, clarinets, dented brass things that might be cornets, cheap bongo drums, and one very sad-looking ukulele. Around these, in boxes, are old music magazines, sheet music, and stacks of broken jewel cases.
On the other side of the counter where Leo sits are crates of CDs with signs written on the backs of cardboard flaps hung from the ceiling with fishing line, a few flapping in the breeze of the air duct above them. The crooked black Sharpie lettering spells out “World Music,” “Rock ’N Roll,” and “Country,” but also “SoundTrax,” “Mrs. Perelman’s House,” and “Busted/Take.”
“Who’s Mrs. Perelman?” I ask Leo.
“Oh, she was this old lady who lived above the store, and last year she, like, died, and so Mr. Zoo got all her music—I guess her kids didn’t want it—and he didn’t want to file it because it’s old and didn’t fit in his categories, so he just left it together.”
“Mr. Zoo is a real person?”
“Oh yeah, Mr. Zuniga. He owns the place. So, what’s up, Daniel? It’s cool you came by!”
“Do you sell tapes?” I ask.
“Tapes.”
“Yeah, you know, cassette tapes, the plastic rectangles with two circles in the middle.”
“Um, right, yeah, we have some, but….” He runs a hand through his messy hair.
“What?”
“Just, there’s nothing good on tape. Just crap people donate.”
“That’s okay. I just need a few. I’m driving to Detroit and I don’t have a CD player in my car and I broke my tape adapter.”
When I say I don’t have a CD player in my car, Leo’s face fills with intense pity, as if I’ve just confessed to him that I live on the streets and would like a warm meal and someplace to sleep.
“Yeah, man, of course, come on.”
He’s right, the tapes are mostly crap. They’re shoved every which way into a bunch of shoeboxes under the counter. I sit down on the floor and pull a few out. Leo plops down across from me.
“Hey,” I say to him suddenly, “shouldn’t you be at school?”
“I already graduated,” he says, looking down.
“Wait, how old are you?”
“Eighteen,” he says. “And a half,” he adds like a little kid. “But I did junior and senior year last year because I wanted to get out of there.”
“Wow,” I say, “that’s awesome. You must be really smart to have been able to do that.”
He smiles at me again, what I’m coming to think of as his real smile. He reminds me so much of myself in high school I can’t believe it. And for the first time, I wonder if what Ginger said is true. If I seem totally different with her than I do when I’m with other people.
“So, how’re you liking Holiday?” Leo asks.
“Um, it’s nice,” I say, setting aside a John Hiatt tape. “Really different from what I’m used to. I lived in Philly all my life, man, never thought about living anywhere else. It’s just an adjustment, that’s all.”
He nods sagely.
“You’re totally having a Buffy, early season four moment, that’s all,” he says.
“Sorry?”
“Buffy the Vampire Slayer. You know?”
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“Never saw it.”
Leo’s eyes go wide. “What? Insanity! Aren’t you an English professor? Who would ever listen to you talk about literary analysis if you haven’t consumed, like, the greatest text of popular culture?”
“I’m not actually convinced that anyone does listen to me talk about literary analysis,” I say.
“Okay, anyway, the point is, Buffy, right? In high school, she was at the top of the food chain. Pretty, popular, friends who worshipped her and had nothing better to do on a Friday night than follow her around on patrol. I mean, sure she had her problems, what with the whole Angel going dark thing—oh shit!” He stops, hand flying to his mouth. “Spoiler alert. Major spoiler alert. I am so sorry.”
When I don’t say anything he continues.
“So, yeah, she takes her hits and all, but basically she’s queen bee. Then she starts college and it’s like, all of a sudden she’s not a big fish in a little pond anymore, you know? Like, Willow’s super smart, so she meets people and is all into school and stuff—let’s all just pretend she would ever actually go to UC Sunnydale, yeah, right—and Buffy kind of feels abandoned. Also, her roommate’s a demon, no big deal. Plus, let’s be honest, girlfriend is not really that smart, okay? Good under pressure? Totally. Wicked clever at outsmarting monsters? Sure. But college-smart? Um, not so much. And she feels out of sorts, you know, which is very un-Slayer-like.
“And that’s you. Just out of sorts because you’re in a new place and you don’t quite know where you fit in.” He pauses, nodding to himself. “But don’t worry. No spoilers—because, obviously, the Slayer has to go back to being a badass—but Buffy totally finds her footing at college, and she starts dating Riley, and, okay, that actually doesn’t work out that well, but the point is that you’ve just got to fall back on your own superpower and you’ll be fine!”
“My only friend isn’t even old enough to drink and Michigan named a coffee after me,” I moan to Ginger when I’m five miles out of town, Meat Loaf’s Bat Out Of Hell II: Back Into Hell in my tape deck. I’m feeling particularly in tune with “Life Is a Lemon and I Want My Money Back” at the moment. God, Jim Steinman, you are a genius.
Ginger does, indeed, laugh her face off when I tell her about The Daniel.
“Oh my god, pumpkin. I am going to go into every coffee shop in Philly and order The Daniel.” She starts laughing again.
“Jesus fucking Christ, I am so glad to just get out of here for a little while.”
“Won’t you miss the lumberjack? How’s it going? I need an update.”
I sigh.
“I heard a sigh and I can hear Meat Loaf in the background, which I am considering an official cry for help.” She pauses. “Is ‘Paradise in the Dashboard Light’ on this album?”
“Ha! You love the Loaf. No, that’s on the first Bat Out Of Hell.”
“Damn it. Okay, commence update.”
“We got in a fight.”
“Oh my god, you got in a fight? That would require actually talking with him about something that matters to you. That is major, sweetie!”
“Jeez, you sound like the imitation you do of your mother when you told her you got your period.”
Ginger giggles. “You’ve entered the cult of womanhood! Congratulations!” she says in the weird mom-voice she always does.
“So, what happened?”
“It’s just, I had dinner with a colleague. It was nice, you know, just talking about the department, about our research. He’s from Phoenix, so Michigan’s been culture shock for him too. Anyway, he was helping me with this committee I’m on because he was on it last year, so we met for pizza. Then Rex was telling me that he could see that Jay was interested in me, which pissed me off because, you know, it was for work. And then Rex got all mad at me because I didn’t ask him to fix my table. I mean, I can fix a fucking table, you know? I don’t need him to do it for me.”
“Doesn’t he fix things as his job, though?” Ginger asks.
“Yeah, but so what? Doesn’t make me any less capable of taking care of it myself, does it? What, like I’m required to ask him just because he’d do a better job?”
“Whoa, babycakes, whoa. Slow down. Let me ask you a question. If you wanted a tattoo, who would you ask for one?”
“Is this a trick question?”
“Just hear me out, Daniel.” Ooh, she’s serious if she’s using my name. I sigh.
“You.”
“Right. Now, if I had to write some copy for the shop’s site and I wanted someone to proofread it, who would I ask?”
“Me.”
“Right. So, it’s not like I can’t proofread things. I mean, I’m not as good at it as you, but I can write a sentence. And you know ten other tattoo artists in the city. But you come to me because?”
“You’re the best, obviously.”
“And?”
“You’re my best friend, idiot.”
“Exactly. Look, sweetie, I know you’re not actually a sociopath, but I’m also not the one trying to date you, okay? Sometimes you’re totally dense about this shit. When you like someone and you respect their talent, you ask them to do things for you because you think of them first. Because the second you think of that thing, you think about them. Rex wants you to think of him first when something is broken. If he needed help writing something wouldn’t you want to be the first person he thought of?”
“I guess,” I mumble.
“And I’ve said it before, but it’s obviously time you started listening. Sometimes people do want to help you and you get closer by letting them. That’s what happened with you and me, remember?”
I smile.
“I remember.”
“Good. Now what was the deal with Rex getting all caveman over this guy you had dinner with? That’s so shitty. Though, good to know the lumberjack has at least one flaw. It was starting to disgust me, picturing him as some kind of buff Michigan Marlboro Man.”
“Weeeell,” I say.
“No!”
“Yeah. I thought it was totally professional and Rex was being crazy, but then this morning Jay asked me out. It was weird—he was so calm about it. Super suave.”
“Wait, he and Rex met last night, or you just told Rex about him?”
“No, they met. Rex came to the restaurant after dinner to meet me.”
“Did you introduce Rex as a friend or something?”
“No.” I don’t think I said he was anything, come to think of it.
“What a player!” Ginger says.
“What do you mean? Jay? He was really nice about it.”
“He could totally tell you were with Rex and he asked you out anyway!”
“Well, you don’t know that. And even if he did, it’s not like he would know if we were monogamous or not.”
“Come on, pumpkin, that is classic slimy moving-in-on-you-because-he-thought-your-boyfriend-wasn’t-good-enough behavior.”
“Don’t say the b-word!”
“Be-havior?” Ginger laughs. “God, you’re a fucking mess, kid.”
I’m on the highway now, and “Out of the Frying Pan (And into the Fire)” is playing.
“The nightmares are back,” I say softly.
“Shit. Bad?”
“Nah, not as bad as before. I had one the other night, though, and it was… weird.”
“Weird how?”
“Well, I was really… happy? Rex gave me this amazing massage and we, you know, had sex, and I fell asleep with him and it was just, like, kind of perfect. But then I woke up in the middle of the night with the nightmare. And I’ve had it every night since.”
“Did you tell Rex?”
“No. He didn’t wake up, fortunately.”
“You should tell him, Dandelion. Tell him about Richard and about the dreams.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
“Did you tell Rex about your colleague asking you out yet?”
“No, it just happened. Besides, he probably doesn’t want to talk to me. He’s ma
d at me.”
“What are you, five? You hurt his feelings last night, and he was jealous. He might be upset, but you have to talk it through. Now, hang up the phone, blast Meat Loaf with the windows down, and relax. Call Rex when you get to Detroit. Okay?”
“Yes, mother,” I say.
“God, you’re so lucky I even speak to you.”
“I know I am,” I tell her.
I did try Rex when I got to Detroit, but he didn’t answer and I didn’t leave a message. I called him this morning too—no answer. I texted Ginger. Called twice, no answer. Told you he’s mad.
She wrote back. Sometimes ppl have lives & its not all abt YOU. Xoxo.
I know she’s right, but I can’t concentrate. My paper this morning went pretty well anyway, though, and I got some good questions that’ll be useful if I want to try and turn the piece into an article down the line. It’s been the usual sideshow of macho academic posturing, panels claiming to name the next turn in analysis, and badly concealed anxiety. Everyone’s trying to make a good impression and pretend they don’t care what anyone thinks. Everyone’s trying to look like the smartest one in the room while acting like what they’re saying is totally obvious. I hate conferences.
I’ve been looking forward to the last panel of the day, at least, because Maggie Shill, a nineteenth-century Americanist whose work I’ve always really admired, is going to be giving a paper about gilded age architecture and its influence on literary aesthetics of the time. Professor Shill teaches at Temple now, but she was hired after I left, so I’ve never worked with her. Her first book totally blew me away, though.
I slide into a seat just as the moderator is introducing the panel. I make a habit of never arriving to panels early and never sitting directly next to anyone so I can avoid any awkward small talk with other people in the audience who only ever want to know what you’re working on and whether you’re more successful than they are. The room’s crowded, though, so I have to sit right next to a woman in an ill-fitting skirt suit who looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here.
“Sorry,” I say as I accidentally brush up against her shoulder while I get myself situated.