Amber was so well versed in what she loved I always felt my passions were inferior. Despite our differences (such as she desired everything to be in pastels while I wanted to be knocked out by a rainbow), we shared our biggest goal—marriage, kids, and a picket fence—the epitome of happily ever after. The woman I planed to spend forever with helped me appreciate life, and missing the excitement she brought into it makes me feel broken. Shoot, everything about Amber makes me feel broken. Going to her grave used to sound comforting, but it always made me more miserable. Talking to her family kept me feeling connected to her, but then her parents confessed my being around was a reminder of death that caused the family to become at odds with each other. That’s when I left my world in Detroit behind.
When I came to LA three years ago, Mulligan’s had horseshoe-shaped booths with vinyl upholstery that matched the padded rim around the bar. Here in the back room sat a pool table and a dartboard. Despite honoring California’s no smoking laws, the place looked dim and hazy, like something out of a movie from the fifties. I always expected Sammy Davis, Jr. or Frank Sinatra to saunter in and start singing.
If Amber hadn’t got me to change the way I see the world, I probably wouldn’t think it is a crime that someone modernized the place by making it look like something it isn’t—from the Victorian era, down to the ornate wood bar and fake stained glass windows. Dale and I have said a zillion times that if we had the fortune of owning the place, we would have embraced the old décor and retro-dated everything right down to the glassware. If there is one thing Dale and I agree on, it is that class is timeless.
Actually, that and what he calls swanky, old music may be the only things we agree on.
Dale whips out his cell phone and starts typing. As much as I rib him about his work habits, I worry for the guy. “Dude, let up on the work. You’re gonna have a stroke and not see thirty-seven.”
“I’m not working. It’s bad enough they are shipping me off to Saskatoon tomorrow for a few days.”
“Canada? What’s in Saskatoon?”
“Nothing but bottom of the barrel problems no one else wants to handle, but it is fun to say.” Dale lets out a howl of “Saskatoooon!” He chuckles before snapping back into adulthood. “Anyway, I’m researching a new place to waste time with you nimrods. This way the next time I need alcohol to tolerate you two, I’ll be prepared.”
“Charming idea, oh great bane of my existence, but strip clubs are off the list.”
“Of course they are, Mother Theresa. I would not dare mess with your eligibility for sainthood.”
A petite, blonde-haired waitress in an alluringly low-cut T-shirt clears her throat and grabs our attention. Her cropped hair and how she raises her pencil bring about the notion of a pixie preparing to wave her wand. When she turns her head, I catch sight of the flower tucked behind her ear. My heart jumps into my throat. I haven’t seen a rose in such a deep shade of pink since …
I swallow the pain burning up from my stomach. Dropping a rose into Amber’s grave was intended to give us closure. My every dream was represented in that flower, and I couldn’t let go of the last bit of it I had. Now it is pressed in the final page of a memory book, and I feel I am in the presence of a ghost.
The waitress pops on a smile and asks for our order. Unlike the voice of the woman she brings to mind, hers is a little abrasive. It snaps me back into the moment.
“Hi,” Dale says. His smile is so charming even I almost find it irresistible. When it comes to style—actually, when it comes to pretty much anything—Shane and I are Dale’s polar opposites. Shane is in his forties and looks like he always wears ratty jeans, Chucks, and a rock T-shirt because he does. He also has an air about him like he wishes it were nineteen eighty-three and The Clash were still recording, which is exactly how he feels. Even though my pants are less worn and my jacket is made of leather, our wardrobes reflect similar sentiment.
Dale is one of those guys that either creeps girls out or has them eating out of his palm. He is good looking—tall, toned, sewn into a designer suit, and wears the coolest, Jazz Era ties imaginable—but his being of Middle Eastern descent is a put-off to a lot of people. Even though his family has been in this country for generations, he won’t tell anyone where his ancestors are from because he doesn’t want to battle the stigma attached. It’s a crap deal. It may also be why the waitress has suddenly found her note pad to be the most interesting thing in the world.
“Can we have a pitcher of Sam Adams and three chilled mugs?” Dale asks. “Oh, and a couple of orders of fries please.” The waitress nods without looking up and then leaves.
“Damn! Check out the ass on her!” Dale says after she wiggles away. His smarmy grin tells me he wants the pixie to sprinkle fairy dust on him. Of course, I crane my head to see if I agree. Well, I am a man, and men are pigs, thus I am obligated to uphold the stereotype of my gender. Really, that’s all I’m doing.
And yes, it is a nice ass—a nice ass in a microskirt that leaves little to the imagination. Did I catch a flash of yellow panties under it? No wonder why Dale commented on her ass. It’s pretty much right in front of us. Is it odd that makes me uncomfortable?
Shane’s bopping head signals he agrees with Dale’s observation about the girl’s anatomy. Since Shane’s hands are tucked into his lap, and he’s a little on the hunched side, he reminds me of a bobble head wobbling in the wrong direction. Experience tells me it is his way of saying he is as uncomfortable with the situation as I am.
“One of us needs to go for it,” Dale says while staring at me. “You know how they say pixies are mischievous and magical. Imagine those qualities while she has you tied to the headboard.”
I hate it when Dale’s comments go off color but …
Okay, I am well aware how a woman dresses is never an invitation into her bed. However, am I wrong in thinking that flashing her underwear is a hint as to the type of relationship she wants? I don’t want to be put in an uncomfortable position. If I can get Dale going in a friendly battle over something we both have some passion over, maybe he won’t pressure me about the waitress. My attention goes to the hockey game on the TV behind the bar. “Why did I move to Los Angeles? If you don’t like The Kings, you can cross over to the dark side and be a Ducks fan. Yay, a team named after something puked up by Disney. That’s what a Red Wings’ fan wants. Please! I should have moved to New York or Canada on principle.”
Dale ignores my bashing and groans over my not giving a crap regarding his comment about banging the waitress. It makes me snicker. Shane reclines in the booth, stretching out his legs and tossing his arm over the back. Instead of looking relaxed, he looks awkward. If these seats were not a little on the sticky side, I’d expect him to slide off. “Don’t you think that if we want to check out the chicks, we should be in the front where all the action is?” he asks. I love this guy, but his lack of comfort with the idea and spotty experience in dating makes him sound like a little boy lost.
Dale’s sigh is so heavy it’s almost comical. “Yes, I absolutely know that is where I should be. But no, I’m with you two strait and narrow, goody goods. You know, there is nothing wrong with a one-night stand. However, for some crazy reason I choose to hang out with the worst wing men in history.”
“Maybe we want something different,” Shane says. I couldn’t agree more.
A commercial for an upcoming episode of a TV show interrupts the game. A woman with long, deep auburn hair and bottle green eyes as bright as beacons appears on the screen. She’s hot yet odd looking. Like, she’s cute—some would say gorgeous—but something is off. Maybe it’s the green eyes that are so bright they must be enhanced with contacts. It really seems her eyes should be blue.
Blue? No, not with that hair color. Hazel or brown, yes. Yet all I see are blue eyes that would be unnatural to her.
A montage of scenes forms, and each time I catch her little spikes jab, reminding me of a toddler who is repeatedly poking his finger at my torso. She’s so fami
liar … Not familiar looking, but familiar feeling.
A promotional still with her image fills the screen, and I get locked into her eyes. Something inside my head ticks, and I am coated in the sensation of becoming disconnected—as if I am turning into someone other than whom I have known me to be for my thirty-one years. My butt is in the booth, yet my mind drifts, nearly floating away from Mulligan’s and …
A white T-shirt cuts dead in front of my line of sight, yet it isn’t until the tray is set down that I realize our waitress is here and fully snap back to reality.
The waitress’s hazel gems briefly catch sight of my chocolate browns before they give my nearly black hair, (I-wish-it-were-vintage) UXA T-shirt, black jeans, polished combat boots, and leather jacket a stealth scan. I get eye contact again when she gives me a chilled mug. A smile comes with it.
I shoot her a smile back, yet my eyes stay low. I’m still not sure what just happened with the sensation I got during the commercial. Also, this girl is cute. Cute girls make me nervous—and the flower tucked behind her ear isn’t helping matters any. I’ve got to get my head back on.
The waitress is barely out of earshot before Dale reminds Shane and I that being selective is something he defines as unnecessary. “What would be so wrong with kissing her goodnight and then slipping out before she gets attached? If you rode that rocket once, you boys would be addicted.”
Shane rests his head in his hands while looking hopeless. “And what is so wrong with wanting more?”
I’m with him. Truthfully though, even a tart for a night doesn’t sound too bad. It’s been a while.
“Nothing,” Dale says. How earnest he sounds seems out of character. All this weirdness has me thinking someone slipped me a hallucinogen. “More is great,” he continues, “but you guys do nothing to help you survive while waiting. What if you never find her? Are you willing to risk living a life of near celibacy? There is nothing wrong with sharing a night with someone if that’s what she wants too.”
I hate that he is right. Neither Shane nor I have had a date in months. I also hate that I can’t find someone to share even a few kisses with. I’ve got to get away from this conversation. I don’t need a simple change of subject; I need to flee. The men’s room is the nearest haven, so I excuse myself.
I miss Amber—her smile, her laugh, her walk—everything about her. I’ll never understand why her life was cut short. She left to get ice cream and …
Life is a chain of events leading to fate. One broken link and all of the pretty trinkets fall off.
On my way into the bathroom, I wave to Darla, my friend and co-worker. Her exasperated look cues me in that she is probably on the phone with her sister, who seems to be having all kinds of relationship problems. Darla waves to me while saying into the phone, “Escaping your situation only takes listening to your inner voice.”
Yep, she’s talking to Bailey. I guess I am not the only one who misses being happy. Maybe we should form a club.
The cool splash of water on my face finishes clearing my head. I can’t keep living this way. Just because my fiancée died nearly ten years ago doesn’t mean I need to lead a life of loneliness. Seriously, ten years is a long time, but it’s not like I haven’t been trying to move forward.
On my way back, the cute waitress zips past and slips me a piece of paper while only breaking stride to turn and make a gesture to call her. She spins back toward the bar and heads off, not noticing her flower has dropped to the floor. My reflexes nearly have me reaching for it, but I can’t bear to look its way. Instead, my eyes go to the note, and my heart squeezes so hard I may fall over.
Amber.
The name of the pixie waitress is freaking Amber.
Weird things always keep me from moving on. Maybe my brain is finding excuses. Is this girl really poorly dressed, or did I imagine seeing her underwear as an excuse not to think about asking her out? Right now everything seems uncertain.
I tuck the number into my wallet. With the lame, yet truthful, reason of suddenly feeling ill, I excuse myself and head home.
The reels of tapes bounce when I drop the box on my living room floor. One falls out and rolls, unwinding a trail across the room until it plops onto the ground, reminding me of a soldier who has lost the battle. My heart breaks a little for the guy.
I plop down, and my normally comfy sofa seems to have lost all of its padding. I can’t seem to find solace in anything. Anniversaries of monumental events of sorrow are something I do my best to forget. I need to think of something else—anything else.
My coffee table looks a little beat. I could head up the coast this weekend and hit some antique stores. This building is old—nineteen thirties old—and the entire far wall of the living room is made of built-in, walnut bookcases with decorative glass doors. I’ve done what I can to keep the décor appropriate to this place without breaking the bank, but maybe it is time to show it more respect.
The inside of my bedroom is a different story. Much like the contrast between the suit-covered, corporate tool I feel like at work and my casual, real-world self, this room is the other side of me. I like to keep people guessing where the line is drawn, which may be because there are times when I am not so sure myself. Concert posters are tacked to the walls. Some represent memories, such as Cavestomp! 2012—The Garage Rock Festacular, while others are from shows I wish I had been at, such as Badfinger when they played a school gym in nineteen seventy-three. How did that happen to a band championed by The Beatles? Sometimes the world doesn’t make sense.
My back hits the bed, and despite how this room is usually where I feel most comfortable, I swear the walls are nagging at me. Amber would have loved this apartment, except for this room—especially if she opened the closet and got sight of my wardrobe, which consists of an array of rock T-shirts, some wickedly cool, semi-Goth dress shirts, and a few fifties lounge shirts. She’d be fine with all the straight jackets disguised as work suits though. When she died, the khakis, the sweaters, the button down shirts—everything about my wardrobe that didn’t represent me—went to charity. People were so used to the repressed version of me that allowing my spirit to grow confused them. I’m happier with myself, yet I feel awful for the relief this new version brings.
How ironic is it our passions for art and music grew yet what we loved was vastly different? Amber was never crazy about my music, but she dealt with it, much like I did her … stuff.
Man, having tastes as different as we had makes you both learn to be politically correct and despise having to do it. Truthfully, I hated everything she listened to. Keeping my mouth shut got pretty difficult at times. In the end though, I took away a huge lesson: we love what we love, and what we love is worth cherishing.
I strip off my clothes and tuck myself into bed. If sleeping this mood off were the only way to kill it, I wouldn’t mind if someone knocked me out for a month. I need my brain reset. I also need weird things to stop happening. Why couldn’t Pixie Waitress have been named Wendy, or Barbara Ann, or Sheena? Anything else.
Sheena … What a cool name …
What would a girl with such a name be like?
The room is as quiet as the night can be long. It’s almost too quiet for Los Angeles. My heart rate slows, and my thoughts slacken, putting me on the cusp between reality and slumber. The peace you feel when sleep is about to conquer your body is magic for the mind.
A whisper drifts in, sounding as if it is from another world.
“… hear me? … must be… somewhere.”
Crazy. I don’t think I’m asleep, let alone dreaming.
“… try this… a shot.”
My eyes pop open. That was no dream! What the hell am I hearing? Am I awake, or do I only think I am? That was a woman’s voice among static. It reminded me of an old radio broadcast, but it was also kinda ghostly. What the hell was it?
Okay, it might have been sudden and sounded as if it were in my head, but there has to be an explanation. Does one of the neighbors hav
e a radio or TV on? The walls around here may not be thick, but I generally don’t hear through them.
I pop up to get a better listen, yet all is so silent I question if my senses have shut off. Did I really dream that?
Seriously, I have to let up on myself today. There is a logical reason. Someone probably pulled into the parking lot outside with the radio blasting. Maybe one of the neighbor’s cats stepped on a TV remote and shot up the volume. I can’t let myself overthink this. If I do, my mind will start wondering to places I can’t allow it to go.
After a few more minutes of dead silence I decide one of my theories must have been right. It is time for some much-deserved shut-eye.
In the dark of night, tiny lights surround me, but the glow of the dashboard is as bold as the morning sun. Suddenly, a horn honks so loudly it sends my heart racing. Headlights come from my right. If I keep going at this pace, the car will slam into me as it crosses my path. I hit the brake with my every muscle clenching to maintain the pressure.
The squeals of two sets of tires ring in my ears. Impact crunches, and the car skids left and spins out of control. It finally stops, yet my eyes stay locked on the road. God, please, I can’t bear to see her. Just have her tap on my shoulder and tell me she is okay.
A chill swipes across my sweat-drenched face as I pop up in bed. “No! She’ll die! I can’t live with myself if she dies!”
The heave of my chest is so heavy it hurts. My eyes dart across the room, expecting to see that I am somewhere else.
Dear God, why now? All these years later, why am I dreaming of Amber’s accident again? I wasn’t even with her when it happened, so why am I now the driver?
Round And Round
Thirty minutes into what should be a five-minute commute I’ve managed to battle my way to an exit so I can backroad it to work. Fatigue from a night filled with horrors has set in, and I’m wiped out to the point where I turn off the radio because listening feels exhausting. When I reach a stoplight, I set the parking brake and close my eyes so I can feel I have crawled into a hole.
Voices Carry: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection) Page 2