"Really?"
"I got that Bobby Sherman TV marathon reference earlier, and he always wore chokers. This way if the date sucks, you can realize that your alternative was dreaming about a once cute guy that is now in his seventies. Put it on along with some black boots." As I slip off the dress, Jacqueline calls to me, "Make sure your heels aren't too tall. His boots had Cuban heels so he probably has some kind of height complex."
"Cuban heels? Really? How'd I miss that? Seriously, I'm slipping. I mean—"
"You were probably too busy drooling over his paisley tie and sleek suit."
"I sure was—until I pictured it off of him." Yeah, that's how I missed the shoes.
"That's my girl!" Jacqueline hollers back while digging into my jewelry box for some earrings. "Do you think he wears boxers or briefs?"
"Probably boxers since his pants were a little formfitting and I didn't notice a seam." Yeah, I was too distracted to notice the shoes. "Maybe he wears those funky boxer briefs that remind me of a male version of Spanx. Poor guy. Clearly he needs a woman to break him of his ridiculous habits."
"Welcome back to reality, Rox! Now go get dressed. You don't have much time."
The clock strikes eleven, and the doorbell chimes almost as if Niles had been waiting for precisely the right moment to announce his arrival. He looks amazing, standing there in tan skinny-jeans, a black turtleneck, a deep grey blazer, and not just Cuban heels, but Beatle boots! (Why, yes. Mentally I am fanning myself over the Roger McGuinn, circa nineteen sixty-five, ensemble.) Niles truly put some thought into his outfit instead of just rolling out of bed and throwing on a pair of jeans along with yesterday's pre-cologned T-shirt. Sadly, I consider this to be impressive.
It also makes me all kinds of bouncy inside that he dressed up for our date!
With a charming curl of the lips he steps back, touches his hand to his chin and sums me up. "Huh, a bit of the Goth look. Not quite what I expected." And now I'm back to not being able to win with this guy. "You know, black really becomes you. I appreciate a creative dresser."
The overly sensitive part of me that fears being hurt again debates the meaning of the term creative dresser as we walk to his car. It seemed respectful, yet was a bit of a zinger, so I reciprocate in a way I feel is equally iffy. "Huh, a new Camaro. Funny, I had you pegged as an Audi man."
"Ouch!" With eyes pleading me not to wound him further, Niles touches his hand to his heart and then winks while opening the passenger door. I'm taken aback. The gesture speaks volumes with me. I'm one of those girls who may be independent, but also adores old-world, male chivalry.
The instant the engine starts I wonder how I missed the dual exhaust on the back of this thing, because I am clearly hearing it. Interesting … The classic look of a muscle car along with some fun accessories, not a bad combination for a man who has put together two retro outfits, let alone is being a gentleman. Dare I be hopeful?
The E Street Band plays over the satellite radio, which is tuned to the all Springsteen station. Niles is already a huge improvement over the last guy I went out with who had never heard of Led Zeppelin. How people like that can manage to function scares me.
"What do you think of the new Camaro?" I ask.
"Eh. They're kind of poser fodder. I mean, it's a fantastic car, but I prefer the real deal. I've been working on one for the last couple of years whenever I visit my mom. It's kind of the thing I do when life doesn't go right. When I step back and see progress life seems okay again."
Hmm… Vintage Camaros were kind of girly for a muscle car. "What year?"
"Sixty-nine with the rare, four twenty-seven engine. My mom didn't want it anymore, but I couldn't let her get rid of that thing since I practically grew up in it. It'll be a beast when I'm done. You a car girl?"
Okay, I retract that girlie car thought. "A little. Mostly I appreciate anything classic. I'm driving a newer model Mustang, and while I absolutely love the little thing, it's just not the same as being surrounded by a real hunk of metal." My eyes come off of the man and onto the road ahead. Suddenly I become aware of the existence of my heart. My right hand presses into my leg as we head into a turn next to an embankment. While I'm grateful for the handling power of a new Camaro versus a classic one, my voice strains to remain calm. "Engines are referred to in terms of horsepower for a reason, and I've yet to find a horse with a built in computer." My right hand slips to my side to conceal that I am gripping my pants with a tight fist. I freaking hate embankments or getting anywhere near the edge of a road. It's not one of my more endearing quirks.
The corners of his lips rise so high it brings crinkles to his eyes. "So you'd rather have something that roars versus something that whines like a cheap jet engine?"
My hand relaxes as we come out of the turn, and I'm back in the moment. "Exactly. I love the deep roar of a classic engine."
His face enlivens. His glow brings me from tense to tingly. "I couldn't agree with you more."
Niles has all the marks of a well-raised gentleman; opening doors for me, helping me with my chair, and awaiting me to take my napkin before grabbing his own. He folds his into a neat triangle and places it in his lap with the fold facing him before smoothing it. It's really charming.
"Man, this all looks so good," he says of the menu. "Sadly, part of me just wants a big tub of fries to soak up some of the residual effects of the alcohol from last night. What are you leaning towards?"
"As much as I know I shouldn't, I'm going for the Caramelized Banana Waffle." Yep, I'm going to risk looking like a pig, because well, I've been honest about who I am so far, and the food looks too damn good for me to eat a salad that I can make in my sleep.
Niles's mouth and eyes widen in disbelief. "Oh my God, they have that? That sounds incredible!" His eyes dart to the menu. Wow. Their lime green color almost glows. "You're really going for it?"
"Yeah, either that or the Brandied Cherries French Toast."
"God, that looks amazing!" He tucks his hand under his chin, and a cluster of golden-brown locks skids across his brow with the tilt of his head. His eyes peer at the ceiling. Adorable. "I still think I need fries."
"Tell you what, if it will make you feel better, I'll share."
His face brightens, reminding me of a little boy. "And I'll get the Cherry French Toast and we'll go halfsies?"
Oh, my God. That was so cute.
Relaxation travels through my nervous system. It's reminiscent of when you take a few sips of vodka on an empty stomach and its effects first course through your veins. "Sure."
Niles places our order and tacks on two sides of hot fudge. He's brilliant! The fudge with the cherries and caramel will be absolutely epic.
And … And now I'm menu less, meaning it's time for that awkward moment when people succumb to small talk. I've no idea where to start.
"So, what type of music do you listen to?" he asks.
Glad to see Niles saved me by going for the jugular. My insides get all twisty. I love talking music, but this question usually goes the way of what I suspect would happen if the earth stopped moving at the same moment that gravity failed. There are few people I've ever really been able to talk music with; my dad when he was alive, Jacqueline's family, and the guys at the record store. So, do I tell Niles the truth and risk looking even more like a dork than I did last night, or should I cower? "I'll try just about anything. It all depends on my mood and surroundings." Well, it's not a lie. I will try anything once. It's just the odds of me liking something that most people my age have heard of are slim.
Niles has that look—the one where people slightly pull back because you so convincingly told them you were Cleopatra in a former life they want to believe you but can't. "Really? Last night I kind of had you pegged as a 'Cinderella Sunshine' type." My eyes go all circular at the mention of the song about a free spirit who wears clothes from outside of her time. It's one I have always identified with. "Sorry, that's a reference nobody would understand. I do that a lot. I'm really tr
ying not to, but it's hard to stop being who you are."
Speech fails me. The waitress arrives with our food as I process the words Niles just smacked me with. "Are you talking about the song by Paul Revere and the Raiders?" I casually pop a fry into my mouth, but in reality I'm stunned—and dammed freaking giddy! Holy St. Hendrix!
Niles's face freezes mid-bite. "How do you know—"
"It was a single off of Hard n' Heavy, which sold so few copies that after the mis-issued black-and-white cover sold out, the next issue with the proper cover seems nearly as rare. It's really sad because it contains some of the best fuzz guitar ever."
Niles's mouth drops open with part of a fry sticking to his lower lip. "Yeah, that's exactly what I meant." The fry falls. "Wait, how do you know about that? No. Better yet, which version do you prefer, the album track or the single, and what's the difference?"
My arms cross in mock confrontation as I baulk at him. "Are you challenging me? Please! The single version. There's no contest. The break in the album version is too flowery, and yes, you are right. It's hard to be somebody you're not. You nailed it with the 'Cinderella Sunshine' reference." While I keep my cool outward demeanor, inside my mind my arms are being thrown up in surrender to the truth I wish I could change. "As much as I love who I am, I feel completely out of place in this world."
Niles's expression freezes. I can almost see inside his mind as he takes a step back and digests my words. "I know what you mean. Some days I would give anything to fit in. It's not a lack of self-esteem; it's my reality." His words come forth with a disguised, heart-felt pain that tugs at my insides. Now I am so grateful I put myself out there last night with him. If I'm going to start taking risks again, I think I was guided to the right one.
Niles sighs deeply at the fry in his hand before dipping it in hot fudge and popping it in his mouth. Oh, that's just gross. Is he trying to break the sad turn the conversation took with levity or does he really eat that way? I try to conceal my repulsion while spreading fudge on the caramel-doused waffle. Niles's face goes blank. A beat later his eyes light as if it's the most ingenious idea ever. "Oh God, you're brilliant!" He dips a fry into my fudgy caramel sauce and goes to town on it. "This is phenomenal. You have to try this."
Ugh… No, I don't.
Okay, well, it can't be much different with fries than waffles since both are starches, right?
Niles awaits my reaction as I try his new obsession. The caramel sauce hits my tongue and tastes decadent. With the crunch of the fry an oil slick covers my mouth. The grease gets mixed into the caramel with each chew. I almost gag. It's like swallowing chunky motor oil. "Kind of gross," I say, bursting his bubble. In sympathy for the crazy man, I grab another fry and dip it in the cherry sauce. Niles's throat seems to be closing in on him as I pop it in my mouth and savor the cherry, and then—"Gah! I stand corrected. Fries and cherry sauce, that is gross!" My exaggerated look of gagging brings the most amazing smile to his face. He hands me his cup of coffee to wash down the vileness.
"Well, at least you tried. I had a feeling when I saw you last night you were a kindred spirit of sorts. I couldn't put my finger on it, but other than the outfit, something inside me said I needed to talk to you. Unfortunately, the timing was bad and I handled it poorly. I'm really sorry I blew you off."
"And I'm sorry that I interrupted you. I kind a got dared into it."
"I'm glad you did." Niles dumps some fudge on his plate and swirls a piece of the toast in it and the cherry sauce. "Do you like old movies?"
"Yeah, any era of film as long as the movie is good."
His head dips down a bit, and his eyes peer up. There's that boyish innocence again. "There is a silent film festival happening next weekend. Will you join me?" Oh, my God. So seriously cute!
Yes, I most definitely will, and with the added bonus of the quirkiness that is Niles, I'm excited for the unexpected.
The Job That Ate My Brain
Do I love my job or hate it? The answer varies from moment to moment.
Endeara Candies, a "mom-and-pop" owned candy plant, specializes in chemically flavored jellybeans and those red and white peppermints you get at Christmas. The continued success of this antiquated company is even more surprising when you learn everything is still run as if it's nineteen forty. Given the choice between keeping the old equipment and paying a maintenance crew versus going top-of-the-line and breaking even financially in under five years, the owners opted to keep the loyal crew of mechanics that save our butts on a daily basis. Even our office computers are nearly obsolete.
In all honesty, being a Payroll Specialist is an epically brainless waste of my business degree. However, when your world flips around a few times, you need to be gentle on yourself.
My friend, Oliver, whom I met a few years back in an Internet forum for an obscure band, is not only responsible for this job landing in my lap but for Darla getting her job as well. Meeting Oliver in person was surrealistic because for years we had been familiar faces at various concerts. At the time I was with Joe, which makes Oliver one of the few people who knows what I've been through. Now he works just down the hall from me in the sales department.
Today, in true company fashion, I've been presented a stack of employee folders I should have been given a week ago for promotions processing. They come with a huge apology and a high-quality chocolate bar with ground up potato chips in it. Translation: I'm being begged for forgiveness with traitorous chocolate.
I sit huddled over my tan, metal desk in the warm office whose flat, white walls make it appear cold. I've done my best to pop life into it with some framed, old concert posters and spread about chatzkies, but I've failed to give it the hominess I'm shooting for.
Footsteps stop to my left while I moan over the files. The wafting smell of cigarettes tells me it's eleven forty-five on a Monday morning, and Oliver's rounding me up for our weekly lunch hangout. It's one of my two lunch rituals; hanging with Oliver on Mondays and on Fridays it's whatever food the boss has sent in so the entire crew can eat together as a family. That's what happens when you work at a place run by Italians. Same as with your own relatives, everybody at Endeara Candies is family—like it or not. Truthfully, Friday lunches and the sense of kinship they bring are one of the few things I love about this place.
With a sheepish grin I slowly rotate my head to face Oliver and mouth, "Sorry." There's no way I will get these processed in time if I don't bail.
His heels click on the tile floor as he tosses his head back. Every time Oliver gives a funny little grin I struggle to keep from laughing. It's bad enough that he's already got the name and the straight, blond hair, but something in his jovial nature reminds me of Cousin Oliver, the goofy kid who popped in during the last season of The Brady Bunch. Actually, with the way he and Darla tease each other, it's more like Sesame Street and I'm Bert working with two Ernies. "They finally got you those folders, huh?"
My head hangs as I whine. "I hate being destined to die by eating off of the roach coach. Save me, please." Oliver chuckles at my misery. His hands fly out at the sides, as if asking how. "I buy, you fly." He shrugs, and I smack a twenty in his palm before he can change his mind.
He tosses it back on my desk. "I got it. Looks like you need someone around here to be nice to you. The usual?"
I nod. "Thanks, Oliver."
While just crossing the threshold, one of the warehouse team leads smacks into Oliver. He apologizes, darts in, and drops a three-inch stack of time cards (that should have been here when I walked in this morning) on my desk. He flashes a smile before speeding off.
Sometimes this place makes me wish I could grow a beard and join the circus.
The Last Rock Show
October 1966
Yet another day was spent in the studio where the band perfectly played the same riffs over and over while the engineers whacked off.
Excuse me. I meant they adjusted the console and perfected our sound.
How was it that we were to cra
nk out tunes and hit everything flawlessly on each and every take while the engineers were allowed to piss away time perfecting things that sounded brilliant in the first place?
At 5 P.M. it was off to the pub for the engineers while the band left to play a date anywhere from Leeds to Portsmouth. Another day, another recording. Another night, another date. "You have to play to sell those records," our manager said, over and over again.
Jane jumped out of the car, and the stress of the day flew away with the bounce of her strawberry-blonde hair. Once on the road my lids fell, and all turned into a peaceful black until we arrived in Liverpool. We'd barely enough time for soundcheck before heading off to the pub for dinner. The brick of fish I raised felt weighted while my mouth opened to it with a yawn. Fans clamored as I raced through the club's back door with the last of my chips in hand. Jane pulled a napkin out of her bag and wiped my lips and greasy paws while I chewed. It was so sweet I wanted to halt everything and walk off alone with her, but the stage manager yelled for us to get on with it. Ah, glamour. And to think merely months before I was jealous of people like me.
A spark jolted me from the inside the moment my shoe hit the stage. I struck a chord, the crowd cheered, and my body's voltage surged. Before me the ladies screamed while their boyfriends raised their beers. These were the things I lived for. All the other stuff—the magazines, the records—they didn't matter. Despite the fact I was being run ragged, I was happy as hell.
Proud Mary
For nearly two years insomnia has been a well-deserved hell that I suffer in penance for my sins. Since lack of sleep suits me better than the drug-induced haze slightly effective sleeping pills bring, I often suffer through it by staring at the ceiling, watching TV, or by playing with battery-operated boyfriends until a coma hits.
Scary Modsters... and Creepy Freaks: A Rock and Roll Fantasy (The Rock And Roll Fantasy Collection) Page 4