by Leslie Pike
I expected a bigger venue. The crowd outside tricked me into thinking it could hold them. This room can be described as modest. The sign at the entry declares a maximum occupancy of one hundred and fifty. The lighting is bright and the furniture dim. But those details don’t tell the whole story. Every seat is taken and the servers are busy as drinks are ordered and delivered.
Past patrons have pinned short reviews on the wall to the right of the wooden bar. Pieces of napkins or backs of business cards. There’s a square of toilet paper folded neatly with just an exclamation point. I’m too far away to read them, but there’s lots of exclamation points. Someone has sketched a sexy girl at a mic, and two words in big, bold, black letters say, Marry Me!
On a relatively roomy stage for the space, sits a set of drums, a keyboard, and three microphone stands. Only two have mics in them. The speakers stand guard on either side, cords winding from them like entangled snakes.
I take a curving course through the patrons, following the woman. She stops at the only vacant table in the entire room, and gestures for me to sit. I chose the chair with the best view of the stage.
“A server will be here to take your drink order.”
“Thanks.”
The retreating figure is replaced by an older woman who comes to my table. I get a broad smile and a hand on my shoulder.
“What are you drinkin’, darlin’?” she says over the voices of the crowd.
“Give me a whiskey. Gentleman Jack’s.”
“You got it. Want me to bring another when I see you need it? It gets pretty crazy in here.”
“Thanks. Yeah.”
And then the lights dim and the room explodes in applause and whistles. Shit! I just made it. An exceptionally deep voice from offstage interrupts the excitement.
“Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for your favorite band, the pride of McCandy’s, the reason you came out in the cold … MONTANA!”
Four guys come onstage to applause and whistles of the crowd. They’re young. Everyone looks that way to me at this point. Two carry guitars and walk out playing the intro to their first song. It’s a Stones song. We are being teased. That guy I noticed on the billboard is better looking in person. And close in age to Dove. Great news. I smirk.
Whoever dressed him took into account the guns. A tight, white shirt shines a spotlight on them for the ladies. Bracelets are stacked on each wrist. He winks at the blonde sitting closest to the stage and bites his lip. The girl is practically wiping the drool from her face. The guy she’s with touches her arm and says something in her ear. Uh oh. Is there going to be an argument?
The other guitarist is dressed to blend with every other band member across the last seventy years. Jeans, a faded T-shirt, the obligatory scarf wrapped loosely around his neck, as if he just threw it on last minute. Kind eyes and a shy smile greet the room.
The drummer is a hard-looking guy, who I picture having a mugshot. He takes his place and doesn’t look at the audience at all. Drums sound the beat, and he becomes lost in the music. A tall long-haired guy, wearing jeans and a green velvet shirt, stands at the keyboard scoping the faces in the audience. He points to a couple of people a few tables from the front and gives them a nod followed by a grin.
Da da. Da da da da da da da da…there it is. Oh yeah!
Final notes of the intro sound as Dove walks out onstage, singing the opening lyrics of “Jumpin’ Jack Flash”. When she sings she was born in a hurricane, it lights the audience. The level of excitement rises in every one of us. Hell yes, woman. Wow! In a beat I’m a crazy fanboy. There’s a sexy rasp to her voice. A sultry ache.
The look, and the way she moves across the stage, connects with the audience. Fuck. What is she wearing? It’s a great choice. The long golden gown is body hugging. The tight sleeves, the top half of the dress poured over her, then flowing and see through from the thighs down. It follows her every move like a trailing mist. The loose wavy hair and the gown match, and a thin ring of gold stars sits atop her head. Looks beautiful. Like an angel. A Sexy. Fucking. Angel.
Is she looking in my direction? No. That was wishful thinking. Scanning the room, it comes together. The men are mostly in the same frame of mind as I am. They all think she’s looking at them. We are held captive to Dove’s appeal like worker bees to the Queen. All happy just to be around her.
There’s a table of four guys who are moving with the music. If I’m not mistaken, and I’m not because one guy just made eye contact with his tablemate and blew him a kiss, they are gay. Their excitement plays out differently than us drooling heterosexuals. It’s the men in the band they’re lusting over and the woman whose beauty they appreciate and love.
The women around the room are moving to the beat. When they do it, it looks cool. Arms in the air, dancing in their chair, always feeling the tempo. It is organic for them. But for us guys, things can be very different. I was not in line when they passed out rhythm. I look like a big dork dancing. But if ever there was a time to be inspired, this is it. So, I tap my foot and rock in my seat. Just so I don’t look like there’s a stick up my ass.
When the song ends, Dove speaks to the audience with an ease that can’t be learned. She’s a natural and comfortable in her art. The band plays a background accompaniment.
“We are so happy to play for you tonight! We’re Montana!”
The applause grows as she walks to the bass guitarist. Mr. I Know I’m Hot.
“Give it up for Tony Taylor!”
The women respond as expected, which prompts Tony to play a riff and bite his lip again. She blows him a kiss. Dove lifts an arm in the other guitarist’s direction.
“You know Oscar Rodriguez! Send him your love!”
Another great reaction, but this guy doesn’t feed on praise. His head lowers with his smile.
“And what about Jimmy Dinkins on the keyboard?”
He makes eye contact with the people in front and sends a salute in response to their whistles and cheers.
“And I know you love our drummer, Z.Z. Casper!”
The ten second drum solo and the response from the crowd makes her point.
“And I’m Dove Solomon,” she says, touching her heart with a bow.
Now the sound grows to an eardrum blasting level.
“Let’s get moving, shall we?”
* * *
The time passes quicker than anyone in the crowd wants. This band cannot be pigeonholed. They played rock and country. They did oldies and some original songs. The keyboardist and bassist sing too and the voices blend well. There was a funny bit introducing her grandparents’ love song. The lighting on stage dimmed, and Dove got serious. She layered the sweet moment by sharing she was raised by them, and what their relationship’s successful union was built on. She says they shared a love song that inspired them for over fifty years.
Then the long whine of a guitar sounds, and familiar chords let everyone know what’s coming. An anthem for every generation since the sixties. Dove calls out, “Wild Thing!” It’s a rallying call that prompts everyone to start singing along. I’m grinning like a crazy man. This is very cool, and it gives me a peek inside her upbringing and the things that shaped her.
About an hour in, she spots me. The acknowledgment she sends with her eyes and soft smile land in my heart. And then, as she takes a seat center stage, the words of Faith Hill’s “Breathe” are directed my way. It’s not that I’m so sure of myself, or that I’m reading too much into things. It’s the strange feeling that swept through me when our eyes locked. Like a gentle wind.
4
Dove
The initial high of performing is usually followed by an energy crash. Splat! Then by Oreos crumbled over cookies and cream ice cream in bed, watching recorded episodes of Jimmy Fallon. Or my current reality program obsession. Tonight, I am officially breaking with tradition. This is a proper dinner. With a man. An actual date.
“Want to hear which song I liked best?” Nobel says, cutting his
steak.
“Was it ‘Wild Thing’?”
That’s the usual favorite of the men in general. No mystery why.
“No. Although that was great too. It was ‘Breathe’.”
He stops there, not explaining his choice further. Not acknowledging I was looking right at him as I sang. His knife and fork are still in his hands but resting on either side of his plate. He’s held the stare and is waiting for my reaction. The ball squarely in my court. Two can play.
“Why that one?” I say, forcing him to put words to feeling.
“Because, well, I kind of thought for the first time in my life I was being sung to.”
His head dips as the words come out. As if it took courage to admit it happened. What a doll. He’s damn cute for being such a handsome man. So I rescue him from drowning in unnecessary embarrassment.
“You were. Glad you noticed.”
Now the head lifts and a gorgeous smile breaks out. “I did. And I liked it.”
If anyone is watching us, they are wondering what was just said because I’m certain I look about twelve and he looks sixteen. The boy I like just said he likes me. It feels like happy mixed with embarrassment, desire with excitement. It’s a huge ball of emotions. Both of us chuckle, and now I know he feels it too. It takes a few seconds before he speaks.
“So no boyfriend? And please say no.”
Chuckling, I answer truthfully. “I’ve been too busy for a romantic connection. There have been boyfriends, but nothing has stuck. I’m a picky woman disguised as a free spirit.”
“A great combination for the right man.”
That quiet confidence he has? Gold.
“What about you? I’m certain the ladies love you.”
“It’s not like that. I’m not like that.” He says it with such certainty it’s hard to doubt.
“What are you like? Tell me.”
“I’m a man who finds satisfaction in quietness, solitude. I like my house and my job. I love my family and my dog. I am not a complicated man, in fact, what you see is what you get.”
“Have you made room for the one?”
His brows come together as if I’ve just proposed some novel idea.
“I’d make room if it happened. So far that hasn’t been the case. But I was in a long-term relationship a few years ago.”
“What happened?”
“She was too much like me. She liked her own world as much as I liked mine. We never made room for each other. Ends up, that isn’t the best way to be. Obviously love had nothing to do with it.”
“Wow. You are really fucked up.”
I hold a straight face for a good five seconds while he questions if he just heard right. Then he sees the devil in my eye. A wide smile lifts the corners of his mouth.
“For our first date this is remarkable,” he says. “I’m absolutely sure it’s going down as the best one ever.”
I lift my glass of Rombacher Cabernet Sauvignon in a toast. He responds in kind. Apparently, this is good wine. It would take a better palate than mine to discern the difference. My lightweight status as a drinker is not debatable.
“To weak tree branches.” I giggle.
“And to the woman in the river,” he adds.
A sip later, I look up at his eyes. Oh God, he hasn’t looked away.
“So tell me about how you ended up being raised by your grandparents.”
As he goes back to his meal, I fill in some of the blanks.
“My mother was a single mom. I was about a year old when she passed.”
Nobel’s eyes soften with my words.
“She was diagnosed with breast cancer while she was pregnant. When she died her parents took me in and cared for me until I went out on my own.”
He puts down the utensils.
“I’m so sorry, Dove.”
“It’s okay. I never really knew her, but I so wish I had. My grandparents kept her memory alive.”
“What was your mom’s name?”
The question hits me square in the heart.
“No one has ever asked me that. It was Rosalie. Her name was Rosalie.”
He just scored major points, even though I don’t think he was aiming for that.
“Pretty.”
“Her parents became responsible for me and they didn’t ever make me feel they didn’t love the experience.”
“The fact their love song was “Wild Thing” tells me a little about them. Did they teach you to fish? Is that where you got your love of the outdoors?”
“Oh yes. They were old hippies from back in the day.”
“That’s cool. What were they like?”
“My grandmother kind of looked like Janis Joplin. Even when she was eighty, she had hair down to her waist. Before my mother came along, they lived in a commune if you can believe that. But once they had a child, things changed. They decided to have a more stable lifestyle.”
“Did they live here in Montana?”
“Yes. They eventually bought the house I live in now. They were wonderful people. Lived simply, spoke gently, and made their own fun. I feel privileged to have been raised in that environment. We made most of our clothes, and we had a big garden of fruit trees and vegetables.”
“It sounds idyllic.”
“Many times we fished for our dinner. In fact, my grandfather fished on your land. Right at the spot you found me last week.”
Eyebrows knit and his head tilts to one side. “Did your grandfather have a big white beard and a bald head?”
“Yes! How did you know?”
“I think I saw him once. He impressed me because he was older at the time and he was obviously still able to make the trip down.”
“He was as strong as a bull.”
“And now that I think about it, he had the same kind of reaction you had when he fished. Like he almost apologized to the fish. Kind of a Zen thing.”
“That’s him! Oh! He used to fish there all the time before you owned the land but he had a heart attack and didn’t make it there again for years. That story makes me so happy,” I say, a tear suddenly welling and running down my face. “To think you saw him.”
We braid fingers. He doesn’t say ‘don’t cry’ or get embarrassed that his date is weeping in the fancy restaurant. He stays silent in my grief, standing by me.
“Your sympathy is touching,” I say. “You seem to get it.”
“It’s empathy. My sister Kristen died a few years ago.”
“Oh, Nobel. I’m so sorry. That must have been crushing for your family. I saw her picture on your wall.”
With a sigh, Nobel lets me inside.
“I don’t think I can ever get over what happened. People say you get through it, but I think you end up in a new place. Missing her is just part of life now.”
“Same here with my grandparents.”
“Do you ever talk to them? I mean out loud?”
I chuckle. “All the time. And I see nothing odd about it.”
“We find comfort where we can.”
He kisses my hand and that one gesture soothes me to my core. Then I get a brainstorm.
“I have a favor to ask of you. But I don’t want you to say yes because I’m teary, or because you want to get into my pants.”
A contained smile appears on his face. “I won’t, and I do. But we can talk about that another time. Ask away.”
That gets him a silent brownie point.
“I still have the remains of my grandparents. I’ve been waiting to find the right place that would mean something. A place in nature because they were so at one with the land. What are my chances of sprinkling their ashes on the shore of the fishing hole?”
“I have no problem with that. None whatsoever. In fact, I practically owe it to you.”
“Thank you, Nobel,” I say, squeezing his hand. “Oh, that’s really kind of you.”
“Don’t be so surprised. I’m more than just a man with questionable self-control.”
His hand picks up one of my c
urls and gently winds it around his finger. He plays with it for just a moment before tucking it behind my ear. His fingers sweeping the edge. Who knew the curve of my ear could be so fucking erotic? Never has been before. I felt it down to my wiggling toes.
An image of kissing him pops in my mind. We are naked in his bed. Clear as day. Not sure if that’s a vision or just a wish, because his shlong was awesome looking. I’m going with the second one because if it turns out he has a little pickle that would blow confidence in my gift.
I’m at a crossroads here. If it was a vision, I want to throw every reason not to sleep with him out the window. Why wait? It’s already ordained. Why shouldn’t I be the aggressor? But it’s important to remember he may not be there yet. Just because I saw it, doesn’t mean he has.
My Devil self is making her case on one shoulder, while my wisest Angel across the way is simply filing her nails listening to the argument. Can’t hurt to consider all options. Can it? That fucking white winged know-it-all. Every time she’s silent I know I’m going to do the right thing. The safe thing. The thing that will protect me in some way. Damn brain.
“Where’d you go?” Nobel asks.
My daydream dissolves instantly. I’m a little embarrassed.
“Sorry. I was just ... You might catch me doing it again.” I chuckle. “You don’t know yet, but I have this sort of sixth sense. Once in awhile I get a fleeting picture in my mind, or a certain feeling. I know it sounds crazy, but I respect it.”
He gathers a question before speaking.
“Did you have a feeling just now or see a picture?”
I’m surprised he takes the news so well. As if it is a given. I learned early on to only share my gift with certain people. It can be misunderstood. God help the man who belittles it. But Nobel has taken it in stride, so I continue.
“A picture. It’s nothing bad.”
“Tell me.”
Oh shit. Now what? My mind flips through my choices.