In Polite Company

by Gervais Hagerty

  Martha’s right: the concert won’t sell out. There aren’t even eighty people here. Neon lights flash and swirl overhead; a large disco ball spins and throws shimmery squares of light all around us. We find a spot near the bar. Martha orders a Budweiser. Sticking with the plan, I ask for a water.

  Harry appears onstage, walking toward his drums. Before he sits on the circular seat in the middle of his drum set, he pulls two drumsticks from his back pocket. He presses rhythmically on a foot pedal, creating a steady, tribal beat that awakens the room.

  “Hello. Hello.” A velvety voice booms. The lead singer of his band, Stone’s Throw, cups a microphone in his hands.

  A few girls in the front row cheer and lift their beers. “We love you, Jason!” one screams. Jason plucks out a few bars from “The Star-Spangled Banner” on his cherry-red guitar. The girls in the front hoot some more. Jason turns back to look at his bandmates. “Y’all ready?”

  I recognize the third member. It’s Harry’s best friend, Randy, from high school—the one who spoke in Harry’s defense when he got caught smoking cigarettes. Randy plays the electric bass. He nods to Harry, who strikes his drumsticks overhead.

  A gritty sound pours from the stage and pools into the empty spaces around me. It enters my mouth, my bloodstream. I let it overtake me.

  Harry doesn’t bother to look up for most of their set. He wears a Braves baseball cap pulled low; it hides his eyes. His lower lip glistens in the passing flashes of light. His arms and legs seem to move independently of each other. I’d never studied the movements of a drummer before, and I’m transfixed. I could watch him for days. In what feels like minutes, their set is over.

  “Thank you!” Jason waves and lifts his guitar. The crowd has swelled now to several hundred who have come to see the headliner.

  Martha heads toward the wooden staircase alongside the concert pit. It’s cordoned off. She removes the rope and sails confidently up the stairs. I follow closely behind, nervous that a bouncer will bark at us. No one says anything, though. At the top of the stairs, she pushes open a dingy door and enters the green room.

  Jason, Randy, and Harry are already seated, fresh beers in hand. Jason and Randy sprawl at either end of a ratty couch. Harry’s against the far wall in a torn leather armchair. Martha takes the only open seat in the room, between Randy and Jason.

  A guy with a Music Farm badge enters the room. “Good show, guys.” He lights a cigarette and reaches across a low table to hand one to Martha. She takes it without saying a word and falls back into the couch like she’s watching Jeopardy! reruns in her living room.

  Unsure of where to stand, I lean against the wall. I’m exposed. Perhaps unwelcome. I change my strategy. “I’m going to get a beer.”

  “We’ve got free beer up here,” Harry offers. He disappears into a storage room and quickly reemerges with a PBR and a metal folding chair. I try to look as disinterested as possible when he hands me a cold one and opens the chair, placing it next to his seat.

  The guys discuss the Music Farm’s new sound system. Martha coolly chain-smokes, giving occasional, surprisingly tech-savvy advice on how to control the reverb. She and the guy with the badge exchange thoughts on something about “settling.” I guzzle my beer, hoping to think of something helpful to say.

  Thankfully, the thrash of a guitar fills the room. The main act has started. There’s a hole in the wall that gives a profile view of the stage. I walk over to it. The band performs one song, then another, and I sink at the thought that Harry might not join me. Without warning, an arm grazes against mine. I jump.

  “Whoa there, didn’t mean to scare you.” He moves in closer, stands behind me. His hot breath tickles my ear. “So, are you going to come to my show and not talk to me?”

  I wriggle my empty can. “I’m just here for the free beer.”

  “Oh, really?” He traces a finger along the outside of my arm.

  This would be a time to win him over with my wit, if I had any. “Yep.”

  We spend the next hour watching the show, moving apart only for Harry to fetch more PBRs. Every now and then our bodies touch; each time an electric charge surges through my core. I drink another beer, then another; with each swallow I suppress the voice that says, Simons, what if Trip saw you? You know you still have to go to work tomorrow, right?

  Harry runs a finger down my neck, unzipping my inhibitions. He presses his pelvis into my back, reaches his hand around my waist. His hand rises up to my throat, pulling my head back to kiss him. I’m aware of this, but more as an observer than as a participant. I follow the lead of my body, of his body, and we kiss.

  I feel young, gorgeous, and brave. I feel daring and sexy. I also feel drunk.

  “Thank you, Charleston!” The lead singer waves and the crowd cheers, jerking me back to reality. The floodlights turn on over the stage and in the greenroom. The invisible becomes visible: stains on the carpet, cracks on the walls, dried paint peeling from the ceiling. Everything looks dirty, defiled, and profane. Fuck. I just kissed another man. “Harry, I’ve got to go.”

  Harry moves to block my exit, his large shoulders a citadel. “Stay.”

  I want to stay, but this is not how I want to start my new life without Trip—as a drunk cheater. I’m not being brave; I’m being a coward. “I have to go. I’ll see you soon?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Is he teasing? With his eyes shaded by his ball cap, it’s hard to tell. The room starts to spin. A wave of nausea rises from my gut. I swallow hard. “Goodnight.” I spin toward the staircase, gripping the railing on the way down. My head throbs, the pulsing of my temples intensifying with each step. But beneath the beat of pain is a thought that’s clear, pure, and unequivocal: now is the time to end it with Trip.

  On King Street, there are no private places to make a call. Around the corner is an empty back alley, quiet, lonely, anonymous. I sit on a small stoop beneath an awning and dial Trip. The phone rings and rings.

  Well, shit.

  I stand to leave but am tossed back to the steps by crushing nausea. A gripping force seizes my body. I throw up, heave over and over. Soon, mercifully, there is nothing left. When I lift the back of my shaking hand to wipe my sticky face, the name of the store comes into view: Lowcountry Bikes. It’s one of the few remaining independently owned businesses uptown, and the small group of retailers running the joint help lead the charge in converting our dangerous roadways into safer biking routes. Oh my God, I’m such an asshole. I find a couple of dead magnolia leaves to scrape my throw-up off the steps. With my stomach empty but my head still pounding, I stumble home.

  12.

  Breaking News

  The ceiling fan grinds above me. A lavender light shoots through my blinds. Beeping assaults my ears. I punch my alarm off. It’s 7:30.

  I’m still wearing my dusty-red pants and black T-shirt from the night before. When I pee, my urine spreads like bright orange dye in the bowl.

  My stomach rumbles. I’m ravenous. With trembling hands, I fry two eggs in olive oil and toast some bread. I chew with my mouth open; I gulp my water—all the bad eating habits Mom trained me to avoid. I have no extra energy for formalities. On my way back to bed, my gaze settles on the vase of wilting zinnias. I set my alarm for 8:20 and fall back to sleep.

  What seems like seconds later, the alarm blares again.

  * * *

  At the office, the news team gathers for the morning meeting. I dry heave when a videographer walks past with a microwaved burrito. Justin sniffs me out. “Late night?” he asks. “I have some Ensure if you want it.”

  “Oh, no—thanks, though,” I say, almost gagging at the idea of drinking anything other than water. Besides me and Justin, there are four people at the meeting: Meghan, the six-o’clock producer; the technical director; and two production assistants. We are waiting on Angela.

  Meghan looks up from her phone. “Isn’t that for old people?”

  “I drink it before I lift. It’s also good if you
don’t have time to eat or something.”

  “Oh.” Meghan returns to thumbing a message. One of the production assistants yawns. Justin’s knee bounces at a furious pace as he reviews his notes. I pass the time hoping for a good burp to settle my stomach.

  My phone vibrates: four missed calls from Trip and a text. “Are you okay?!?!?”

  Before there is time to process, Angela arrives, shaking a breakfast drink. “What have you got?”

  Justin pitches a story about the shortage of skilled workers in the restaurant industry. He adds that he plans to follow up on the murder case we ran at the top of all the newscasts yesterday. Meghan wants to give an update on the Isle of Palms residents working to save baby sea turtles from disorientation caused by renters leaving the lights of their beach houses on all night. She suggests the story could tie in nicely with the Sullivan’s Island controversy over the resurgence of the coyote population.

  “Simons?”

  My stomach somersaults. “I think it would be interesting to interview the independent store owners, to see where they fit in with all this new development.” Perhaps a story on the district could give Lowcountry Bikes some more business and help my karma.

  She shakes her drink. “You mean on upper King?”

  I nod, because she’s right, but also because I’m afraid to speak; I might throw up. My phone vibrates again. It’s Trip. I need to call off the wedding, to salvage what little integrity I have left. But I can’t do it here, not while I’m at work. Why does he keep calling?

  “Okay, let’s start with Justin at the top of the six to cover the murder. We’ll do some national news and then segue into the restaurant bit. Meghan, give what you have about sea turtles to our resident tree hugger.” Angela winks at me. “Run the King Street story at the seven, too.” We wait for more instruction, but there is none. Angela waves us away, and we scatter like roaches.

  I sit at my desk to begin the long slog of research and writing. My work phone rings. So shrill. “WCCC News 14.”

  “There you are!” It’s Trip, and he sounds more annoyed than relieved. “I’ve been trying to reach you since last night. I heard this awful noise, like maybe you were hurt or . . .”

  “What? I can’t talk right now.”

  “You called me, Simons, at eleven fifty-four last night. I heard all this noise and was practically screaming through the phone to get your attention . . .”

  “Trip, I am so confused. I’m at work . . .”

  “I know. I called your work phone.”

  “Yeah. Oh.” Oh. The details of last night swim into focus. I did call him last night. I must have left the phone on while I was puking my guts out on the threshold of a bike store. Oh my God, I am such a mess. “Trip, I was sick, but I’m okay now. I need to talk to you, though. Can we talk later?”

  “Simons, what’s going on? I deserve to know.”

  I’d rather wait a day, giving me time to talk to Laudie, to hear her story, get her advice. But Trip is right. He deserves to know. Now. I tell him I’ll call him back from my cell once I’m outside the office and at a spot where I can have privacy.

  “Simons.” It’s Angela, who’s surprisingly agile when it comes to popping up out of nowhere. This time, she arrives with a swoosh, still seated in her rolling office chair. She plants her feet inches away from my desk. “There’s more to the Sonny Boykin story, I just know it. He was leaving an apartment complex. Judges don’t live in apartments.” She chews her thumbnail, raw and wet from anxious gnawing. Still, she wears a smile on her face.

  “I’ve got to take a personal call outside.”

  “Okay, well, hurry up.”

  Past the break room, on the opposite side of the building’s parking lot, there is a small clearing next to a retention pond. My only company are the geese trolling the fresh-cut grass, shitting as they go. I find a spot in the shade of the lone willow tree and phone Trip. It’s not where or how I’d planned to make the call, but it will have to do.

  “Trip, I want to call off the wedding.” There, I said it. No backpedaling. No excuses. I wait for him to speak. Nothing. My phone shows we’re still connected. “Trip, I said—”

  “I heard you.” A long silence is followed by the creak of an office chair. “You’d better be sure. You can’t unsay this.”

  “Trip, I’m sorry.” What else is there to say? I am sorry. I am sorry I am not in love with him anymore. I am sorry I have this aching need to be apart from him. I am sorry I have a wandering eye. And I am so sorry I kissed Harry.

  “So, what does this mean? Are we single?”

  “We could take break for a while. Like, six months or something.”

  “Ha. A break. From our relationship? Like a gym membership?”

  “I’m not trying to be funny. I’m just trying to figure this out.”

  “Let me get this straight. You want to break up for a while and try to get back together in six months.”

  “Then we could have a talk. See where we are.”

  “Okay, well, wow.” After another long pause, he says, “I’m not sure what else to say right now. I need some time to process this.”

  “Okay,” I say, thankful that he’s the one ending the call.

  “Goodbye, Simons,” he says, sounding a bit more ominous than I’d like.

  And then, it’s over. We’re separated. I tilt my head up to the sky and spread my arms, opening my chest to the universe to cast off guilt and receive the thrilling gift of sudden freedom. I did it. I answer to no one. I’m untethered. Unburdened. Unleashed into this wide world. Yet there’s a heaviness—in the atmosphere, in my heart—that lingers.

  13.

  Prima Ballerina

  Laudie invited me for lunch at 1:00 p.m. on Saturday, the time Tito plays chess at Battery Hall. I haven’t told Laudie about the breakup yet, but it seems she somehow knows. When I walk into the kitchen, she hugs me tight and lets me cry. “I did it, Laudie. I called off the wedding. I had to. I kissed someone.” I can’t see her face. I’m not sure if I want to.

  “Do you love Trip?”

  “I care about him so much.”

  “But do you love him?”

  “Not as much as I should.”

  “Oh, sweetie.” She hands me a tissue. “Life gets messy when our hearts don’t feel like they’re in the right place.” She guides me to a seat at the table. A pitcher of iced tea sweats on the sweetgrass place mat. She places a bowl in front of me: cantaloupe topped with cottage cheese and raisins: a feast for a prima ballerina. She retrieves her lunch from the counter and takes a seat.

  “Do you think I made a huge mistake?”

  “It depends on what you do next. Whatever you decide, don’t do it out of fear.”

  “Be brave, huh?”

  “That’s right, the moral of the story. And now it seems like it’s more important than ever for you to hear.” She slides her bowl, untouched, to the side, clearing the space between us. “I was nineteen. Your grandfather and I were dating at the time. Girls got married young those days. We weren’t engaged yet, but I knew he had marriage on his mind. And I knew if I ever wanted to be on my own, I had to leave before he proposed. I had read about this woman, Dorothy Alexander, in the paper. She had founded the Atlanta Civic Ballet. There was nothing like it anywhere else in the South, and she was looking for more dancers. I told Mother and Daddy that if they didn’t give me their blessing, I’d go to the tryouts anyway and take a bus in the middle of the night to get there.

  “They knew I was serious. Mother rang the Pruitts to ask if I could ride with them when they went to drop Mary off at Agnes Scott.” She chuckles. “Oh, we had a grand time driving there, packed like sardines with all our suitcases, singing show tunes and eating egg salad sandwiches. As you can imagine, Tito was furious.”

  “For leaving.”

  “Yes, for leaving him. Of course he never knew about all the fun I was having.”

  “Like what? What did you do?”

  “I went to the theate
r whenever I felt like it. I’d go to the river. I even jumped off a train trestle.”

  “What? How high?”

  “Must have been twenty feet.”

  “You daredevil.”

  “One night, on a full moon, some of the boardinghouse girls and I went skinny-dipping. There was a big house across the street with a pool. I had noticed the family must have left town on vacation, so we all did it on a dare.”

  “Wow.”

  “If your grandfather found out, he would probably have had me committed.”

  “Just for having fun?”

  “I think it bothered him that I wanted to see if I could make it on my own.”

  “Why would that bother him?”

  “Because girls from good families didn’t go off and work.”

  “Tell me about your job.”

  “My roommate at the boardinghouse helped me get that job as a secretary for a manager at Coca-Cola. I typed letters and ran errands and all that sort of stuff. I got a paycheck and was proud of it, but I was still just a little helper like the rest of the girls. In the end, most of them were there to meet their husbands, anyway.

  “I had other aspirations. I wanted to be onstage. I wanted something different for my life. I think your grandfather found that threatening. A lot of people found that threatening.”

  I take the last bite of my doll-size meal. “It makes perfect sense to me.”

  Laudie leans across the table to cup my chin. “I knew you’d understand.” She covers her lunch, which she never touched, with cling wrap and puts it in the refrigerator. “Come upstairs with me so I can get some time in at the barre before Tito gets home.”

  We walk to her room, where she changes into her ballet clothes. I wonder if I should stop her, but I can’t. It would be like stopping a person from prayer. She lays her day skirt at the foot of her bed and places her Capezio heels on the rug just beneath it. She ties on her ballet skirt and uses her finger to hook the heel of her ballet flats around the back of her feet. Her movements are slow but deliberate and graceful. A quiet peace surrounds her.