by J. J. Murray
Hope totaled the order and punched the numbers into the register. “You are one trusting man.”
“I’m a pretty good judge of character,” Dylan said.
“I might just empty the account and buy a beach house,” Hope said, swiping the card.
“It would have to be a very small beach house,” Dylan said. “A one-room shack on some backwater cove on Long Island Sound.”
Hope smiled. “It’s a start.”
Dylan gathered the bags of folded cards into a large pile. “You know, I think we’ll travel in style tonight. We’re going to take a cab to the show.”
She handed him the receipt. “The theater is only ten blocks from here.”
Dylan signed the receipt. “Well, I need to drop all these off at my place first.”
Where we can get out, go in, lose track of the time . . .“You could pick them up here in the morning,” Hope said. “We open at ten.” That way I can see you tomorrow, that wonderful word.
“But then they won’t be ready to mail,” Dylan said. “We are going to get slammed with orders in November, Hope. Trust me. If we fall behind now, we’ll be way behind in November.”
“It’s such a short walk to the theater from here,” Hope said.
Dylan reached across the counter and took her hand. “Don’t you want to see where I live? I’ve seen your place. I want to show you mine.”
I’ll show you my body if you show me yours. Hope squeezed his hand. “Okay.”
“Can you get off a little early?” Dylan asked. “You don’t look that busy.”
“I’ll try.”
While Dylan called a cab, Hope went to the office door, knocking loudly. I hope I interrupted something. She winced. On second thought . . .
Justin opened the door a crack. “Yes?”
“I’m taking off early,” Hope said. For the first time ever. “All orders have been completed, and there are only two orders that may or may not be picked up before six.”
“Okay.” Justin closed the door.
Hope knocked again.
Justin opened the door a little wider. “Yes?”
“Kiki’s already gone, so you’ll have to run front.”
“Oh.” Justin stepped through the door, shutting it quickly behind him. “I’ll, um, just run front then.”
Hope nodded. Your brilliance is going to waste here, Justin. You need to work for the government.
After putting on her coat, Hope joined Dylan on the sidewalk, the air cold, the sun beginning to set. “It’s going to be a beautiful night,” Dylan said.
Yes. Any night that involves kissing is a beautiful night.
When the cab arrived minutes later, Dylan opened the door and stepped aside. “After you.”
“Thank you, kind sir,” Hope said.
Once she slid across the seat, Dylan handed the bags to her.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“The two thousand block of Pacific Street in Crown Heights,” Dylan said.
Hope looked at all the bags. It’s as if we’ve been shopping, only we’re selling everything inside the bags. She took Dylan’s hand. “I haven’t ridden in a cab in years.”
“Me neither,” he said.
They rode through thick traffic up Flatbush and turned onto Atlantic Avenue.
I like the sound of these street names, Hope thought. We’re riding on Atlantic and we’re going to Pacific. “How long of a walk is it to work for you?”
“About three miles,” Dylan said. “Takes me about an hour, and I am definitely awake by the time I get to work. Never liked the subway or the bus.”
She saw flecks of white paint on his knuckles. “Did you do some painting today?”
“The young artists and I,” Dylan said in a deep voice, “painted haunted houses today. I suggested that they paint some ghosts in the windows. I tried to impress upon them that ghosts didn’t have to be white, but they persisted.” He flexed his fingers. “We nearly ran out of white paint.”
The cab swung right on Ralph and took a quick right on Pacific.
“Can you wait for me?” Dylan said to the driver. “I’ll only be a minute.”
The driver shrugged.
Hope handed the bags out to Dylan, and he went through a white wrought-iron gate into a tan stone apartment building older than hers, with King’s, a chicken-and-pizza place, anchoring the corner. She stared at an ad on a billboard to her left hyping some new sitcom she’d never watch and a radio ad featuring a scantily dressed black woman.
Do they think her attire will sell music? She squinted. No. Her lack of attire will sell music. I’ll bet they fixed all her blemishes with a computer. No one is the same dusky color from head to toe.
“Where are you going next?” the driver asked.
“Brooklyn Academy of Music, the Harvey,” Hope said.
“We were practically just there,” the driver said with a scowl.
“So we’re disorganized,” Hope said. “It’s our first date.”
The driver didn’t respond.
I’ll bet he’s just a lonely man on a Friday night.
The cab door opened, and Dylan slid in wearing a jean jacket. “To—”
“She told me,” the driver interrupted, pulling away from the curb.
Hope held onto the door handle. Maybe the driver has a date. Whoa, slow down.
Dylan put his arm around Hope’s shoulders. “Miss me?”
“Yes,” she said, “but you changed.”
“I only put on this jacket,” Dylan said. He poked out his chin. “And I didn’t shave. You wouldn’t want to be seen at a show with a man wearing a hoodie, would you?”
“I might.” She smiled. “That was quick. Do you live on the first floor?”
“The fourth, actually,” Dylan said. “Great view of Mount Sion Baptist Church. I’m three floors up from King’s. Everything smells like chicken and pizza.”
Hope’s stomach rumbled. I’m hungry already? “I hope I’m dressed up enough.”
“You look splendide, beau, sexy, et délicieux,” he whispered.
Hope’s mouth dropped, her eyes searching his.
“Did I say it right?” he asked.
“Oui,” Hope said. “Vous semblez élégants et délicieux vous-même.”
“Uh, I only caught ‘delicious,’ ” Dylan said. “The rest? Not a clue, but thank you. I think.”
“I said you were handsome,” Hope said. “You said the words perfectly.”
“I did? Okay.” He smiled. “I looked up some French words online when I got back to Kinderstuff. I hit the “listen to the word” button so often the rest of the kids were yelling, ‘Splendide!’ I think it’s cool that the word ‘sexy’ is the same in both languages, don’t you? It sounds so much better with a French accent, though.”
It does.
Dylan turned slightly. “Hope, I am going to be nervous all night thinking about kissing you. Would you mind if I kissed you and took the picture now?”
“A staged kiss before a show on a stage.” That’s not very spontaneous.
“Right,” Dylan said. “I want to enjoy the show without worrying about the kiss. It’s been a while since I’ve kissed anyone, and I’m worried I’ll botch it up.”
I wait eight years, and this is the kind of kiss I get? In the back of a cab in Brooklyn? Where’s the romance? Hope smiled. Ah, whom am I kidding? Lay one on me, Mr. Healy. “I suppose it would be okay.”
Dylan turned his head, moved in, and met her lips with a firm, soft kiss.
That was sweet. Lasted about two seconds, but as first kisses go, not bad.
“Oh,” Dylan said. “I forgot to take the picture.” He pulled his camera from a jacket pocket.
Hope bit her lip. He forgot. I’m glad he has a faulty memory. “Do you really need to take the picture?”
Dylan nodded enthusiastically. “Miss Aniya expects it.”
Hope nestled her head on his shoulder. “I’ll bet you forgot to take the picture on purpose.”
“You have figured me out,” Dylan said. “Take two?”
Their second kiss was much longer, much sweeter, and ended with a flash. Dylan showed Hope the screen on the back of the camera. “Looks like I missed.”
He got a nice shot of the cars behind us.
“Oops,” Dylan said. “What shall we do?”
The cab swung to a curb with a screech, jerking Hope into the door.
“Gimme the camera,” the driver said. “The flash is distracting me.”
Dylan laughed and handed the camera up to the driver.
“Go ahead,” the driver said.
Hope Elizabeth Warren and Dylan Riordan Healy kissed for a good thirty seconds this time, the driver snapping five pictures.
The driver handed back the camera. “No more flashes.”
The cab pulled away from the curb.
Hope looked at the pictures and noticed that her eyes were closed but Dylan’s eyes were open.
“Why do you keep your eyes open?” Hope asked.
“I don’t want to miss,” Dylan said.
“My lips aren’t that small,” Hope said. “I have full lips.”
“Then I just want to make sure I have full coverage on your full lips.” He kissed her cheek. He looked out his window. “I think we’re here.”
After paying the driver and tipping him a twenty for taking their picture, Dylan took Hope’s hand and helped her out of the cab. They stood in front of the Harvey Theater and its Greek columns, “Carpe Diem” and “Fugit Hora” carved into the stone on the side of the building.
“Seize the day” and “The hour flies,” Hope thought. I’d rather seize the night and have time stand still.
Once inside, they found their seats five rows back in the center of the auditorium, gold leaf columns and box seats above them on either side.
“These are great seats,” Hope said, looking at the stage. Why does that stage look like a big, black tongue? And why am I thinking about tongues? Oh, yes. I got a little tongue on the third kiss. “When’s the last time you went to a show?”
“Almost . . . six years ago. The Nutcracker.”
The lights began to dim, and once the auditorium was bathed completely in darkness, Hope could see the actors scurrying to take their places on that tongue of a stage as a curtain parted upstage to reveal a rust-colored wall that seemed to glow brighter and brighter until the backlights illuminated the actors standing or sitting in various poses holding musical instruments.
This is a musical. Hmm. Do I even like musicals? I hope they don’t do any Christmas music.
A spotlight roamed the stage until it found a gray-haired man downstage center on the tip of the “tongue” dressed like an orchestra conductor. Once the spotlight framed him, he “thawed” and flipped out the tails of his tuxedo behind him. He tapped a baton on an imaginary music stand, raised both arms, and pointed to his left.
A bass drum played like the sound of a heartbeat as the conductor’s spotlight traveled the stage to “find” the location of the drum. The spotlight stopped, changed from bright white to a soft blue, and circled a massive black man kneeling next to a bass drum.
Hope grabbed Dylan’s hand. That is so cool.
A dimmer, smaller blue spotlight lit up the conductor, who pointed his baton at a tall, leggy Latino girl in heels and a long flowing white dress upstage left. When a spotlight bathed her in amber light, she flicked out castanets and held them high above her head, adding a complementary rhythm to the drum, her arms whirling as she danced and spun around other “frozen” actors. Her castanets and heels rattling, she danced over to the drummer.
She smiled.
He smiled.
Then they both turned away as if they were shy.
That reminds me of two people I know. I wonder who has smiled at the sidewalk more, Dylan or me. Probably me.
The drummer thumped the bass drum faster, and she danced faster. When he slowed the beat, she slowed her feet and the castanets, becoming a graceful, leaping ballerina with only an occasional click in the air. After a pause, he grabbed another drum mallet, leaped to his feet, and pounded on that drum with both hands for all he was worth until the girl ran over and straddled his drum, swaying wildly to his rhythm, her back to the audience, the blue and amber lights becoming green. She shot out her arms and played the castanets so fast it sounded as if something was being ripped.
Wow! It honestly sounds as if her dress is ripping apart!
Then they played off each other, two pooms followed by two clicks, three pooms, three clicks, until he dropped one of his drum mallets, and she dropped one of her castanets. One final click, one final poom, and they froze in the sweetest, shyest kiss.
That got my heart beating. Wow! But how long will they have to hold that kiss?
“Amazing,” Dylan said as applause broke out.
The conductor pointed his baton at a young gangster wearing an orange bandana, a tight green T-shirt, ripped jeans, and boots. The gangster spun a snare drum in the air, light flashing off the silver. Then he stalked the stage as an orange spotlight followed him, “shooting” his drum, menacing the frozen actors, the conductor, and even the front rows of the audience with staccato bursts that made Hope jump repeatedly.
That boy can play! I wish his face wasn’t so mean, though. Oh, and I like his earrings.
As the gangster neared the kissing couple with an evil sneer on his face, the conductor pointed at an old man with a harmonica sitting downstage left, a pool of purple light enveloping him as he added a lazy, mournful ballad to the sound of rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat-tat.
Hope gripped Dylan’s hand.
The gangster acted as if he “heard” the harmonica and raced over to the old man, trying to rat-a-tat him into silence. The old man didn’t even look up, playing his song more mournfully than before. The gangster played as fast as he could, sweat flying, his arms straining, veins sprouting in his forehead—and still the old man played his sad, sad song. Exhausted, the gangster sat shaking out his arms and panting. The old man lowered his harmonica and smiled at the audience.
The old man wore that gangster out! Slow songs win every time. Slow songs last the test of time.
The old man smiled at the gangster, but the gangster only scowled. The old man shrugged, lifted his harmonica, and played a livelier tune until it sounded like the chugging of an old steam train. The gangster reluctantly joined in, adding a rudimentary beat, and then the two played together until the end of the song, their spotlights fusing to a rich brown. After one more beat of the snare drum, the two clasped hands and froze.
More applause.
“This is so good,” Hope said as the ovation subsided.
Dylan squeezed her hand. “So is this.” He pulled up her hand and kissed it.
I may begin to like musicals now.
The conductor turned and faced the audience, smiled, sighed deeply, and shook his head. After giving an exaggerated shrug, he turned and pointed his baton at a tall, sexy black man in an old-fashioned three-piece suit and feathered hat playing the saxophone dead center in a growing blood-red spotlight.
There’s no doubt what this song will be about. “This is going to be sexy,” Hope whispered in Dylan’s ear.
Dylan turned and kissed her lips. “You’re sexy.”
Hope finally took off her coat. It’s getting warm in here.
As the saxophonist began, Hope could almost see his notes. She heard flesh and skin, sweat and sighs.
I hope they make a CD of this performance. What he’s playing is perfect music for playing around.
The conductor motioned to a white woman playing a black clarinet in a circle of pink light.
Uh-huh. Okay. I see ruby-red lips sucking on a long black instrument. A bit obvious, isn’t it? She shot a glance to Dylan. His mouth is open, too. That’s good. It’s shocking him, too. Kiki said some of the show would be about sex. She wasn’t lying.
The sexy saxophonist and lily-white clarinetist played togeth
er immediately in beautifully blended harmony and got as close to each other as was legally allowed in public in the state of New York, his saxophone sneaking under her tight miniskirt and popping out in front of the audience.
The conductor waved both his arms, the music stopped, and the lovers froze. He turned to face the audience, his hands grasped together at his chest. “I am so sorry,” he mouthed.
Lots of laughter.
The conductor shook his head, smiled, and mouthed, “Oh well.” He turned and pointed at the woodwind lovers, and they continued to play. She danced back and forth over the bell of his saxophone, his head thrown back in ecstasy.
Then suddenly, she squeaked.
He squeaked.
A count of four later, her clarinet shrieked, and his saxophone shrieked.
That was the first musical orgasm I have ever heard. Wow.
Then the two lovers laid back on the stage with their instruments high in the air playing the first few notes of “That Old Black Magic” as the red and pink spots shrunk to dots and winked out.
Applause and laughter.
Dylan let go of Hope’s hand and rubbed her leg.
Very nice. If he keeps that up, I may squeak and shriek.
The conductor pointed his baton toward a black woman Hope’s age upstage center in turquoise light. She rolled her neck and pulled out . . . a kazoo.
Now there’s an instrument I can play.
She started humming a slow blues melody through the kazoo as she walked to the edge of the stage beside the conductor, who nodded behind him at another black woman, this one younger and dressed colorfully, who rose from the first row in yellow light and played her kazoo in short, jazzy bursts. Each woman held her kazoo in her teeth, which made them look as if they were smoking cigars. The younger woman slunk up a set of stairs downstage left, weaved around the woodwind lovers, and approached the older woman with her hands on her hips, that kazoo still blowing those staccato notes. The two women began circling each other, and then they started to “argue,” and it was the funniest unspoken, hummed argument Hope had ever heard.
Hilarious! I can actually see the story. The younger woman cheated on the older woman, and the older woman is letting her have it! The younger woman doesn’t seem to care a bit, however, shrugging, laughing, and pointing at the older woman’s body. That’s some cruel foolishness there.