by Jesse Jordan
After dinner, Mama leaves to go do her babysitting, while Maria gives Angel his bath to start getting him ready for bed. I finish up what I'm putting together around eight o'clock, while Maria comes out with a smile on her face. “He wants you to read with him.”
I nod, wiping my hands on the dish towel next to the sink. “Okay. What did he pick out?”
“Harold,” Maria says, handing over the familiar purple backed book. “What else?”
I smile and take the book, heading back to Maria's bedroom, where Angel's waiting in his little second bed. “Harold, buddy?”
“Uh-huh,” Angel says, yawning and smiling. “Joey, if you start dating... are you going to stop spending time at home?”
I shake my head, sitting down and giving Angel a kiss on the top of his head. “I'm never going to stop spending time with you, Angel. You're one of my favorite people in the world. Think of it this way. Before you were born, it was just me, Maria, and Mama. Did you showing up mean I spent less time with them or thought of them less?”
“No, but I live here.”
Good point. “Well, did Rocky and Cora getting together mean that Rocky spent less time with me and Ian? Or that he doesn't like you any less?”
“No... it means I got to make a new friend in Bella.”
I nod, opening the book. “Exactly, Angel. Meeting Cora means you got to make new friends.”
Angel hums, nodding. “Bella's pretty. I'm going to marry her someday.”
I try not to laugh at the matter of fact way my four-year-old nephew says that about six-year-old Bella, but instead just reach over and give him a hug. “Well, we'll wait a few years to see how that pans out. For now, though, let's see. Harold and the green....”
“Purple, Joey. Purple.”
I chuckle and turn to the first page. “I should make you start reading this to me.”
I wake up at nine thirty, enjoying the luxury of sleeping in. Mama was right, I've been the man of this house for over half my life, and a lot of those years were spent working my ass off. And while the Fragments have made it possible for me to not have to work quite so much, with touring, traveling, multiple time zones, and media events, it is a luxury to sleep in my own bed and wake up at my own pace. While the room doesn't quite feel right, the bed is the same, comforting in its slightly lumpy usedness. Rolling over, I stretch and sit up, rubbing at my face. I need to shave. And a shower.
The nerves start to creep back as I shave, and I nick my chin, hissing as the water washes away the blood before I look at the damage in the mirror. Okay, not too bad, but it still hurts. I finish shaving and go out to the living room, where Mama is reading a book. “Maria and Angel left to go check out some play equipment that maybe we can put in the back yard.”
“Sounds great. Just don't let Ian hear about it, after what he got Bella.”
Mama smiles, shaking her head. “Your giant friend has a big heart. Like you.”
“I've got better hair,” I joke, rubbing at my eyes. “Okay, well, last minute prep for my date, I guess. What should I wear?”
“Just be yourself, Joey,” Mama advises. “This girl, she obviously saw something in you, and you've said so many times you just want to be yourself with people. So be Joey with her. He's pretty special, you know.”
“Thanks, Mama.” I go into the kitchen, where on the counter are four wrapped jibarito sandwiches. “Mama?”
“You're a good cook Joey, but I make better plantains,” Mama jokes from the living room. “Never doubt a mother's plantains.”
“Words of wisdom, Mama. Okay. Hey, this evening maybe, I was thinking of some ideas to give the business more space. What about converting the garage into a kids' room, or some sort of play room that the daycare can use?”
Mama thinks, then shrugs. “Maybe, honey. Let's talk about it later. By the way, Maria's got babysitting this evening.”
“Okay, Mama. I'll be back in time to help.”
I pack up the small cooler that I'm keeping everything in and put it in the back seat of my Buick, buckling it in just to make sure things don't get scrambled all over the place. Getting changed, I decide to go with Mama's idea; nice, normal clothes, a polo shirt and jeans. Looking at myself in the mirror, I ditch the polo shirt for a vertical striped short sleeve button down over a tank-top undershirt. I take a deep breath and look myself in the mirror. “Okay Jose Rivera, just... go have fun.”
My watch beeps, and I see it's already eleven o'clock. Time to go pick up Andrea. I run out to my Buick and hope she doesn't mind a ten-year-old car with a hundred thousand miles on it for a date.
Next royalty check. After I pay for the renovations to the garage for the playroom. And a thousand other things. It's cool, though, I've got a date.
Chapter 5
Andrea
Looking in my mirror, I touch my hair one more time, trying to figure out if I want to pull it back, or just let it bounce around my face today. I can't believe I'm this nervous, it's just a date. But it's the first date I've had since Chad, and with him turning up just a few days ago, I've got butterflies in my stomach.
I've had a history of picking bad guys to date. Chad might be the most extreme example, but some of the guys I've dated before Chad weren't good guys either, all smiles until things turn against them. Then they become bullies who yell, talk over you, or start throwing tantrums. All of them were cute at first, all of them charming... and all of them turned into assholes.
Is Joey the same thing? Am I just running from a bad relationship to another after Chad's pissed me off and Joey has a cute smile? Was that magnetic pull I felt nothing more than just my mind wanting to get back at the world's worst boyfriend?
My phone rings, and I see that it's Dad. I sigh and check the time, I've got a few minutes before Joey's supposed to be here, I might as well answer. “Good morning Dad. Or actually, good afternoon in a few minutes.”
“How's your day off going, baby?” Dad asks, setting my teeth on edge. He says baby the way a guy says it to his girlfriend, not his daughter. Seriously, Dad?
“Uh, not too bad Dad. I was just going to take off for a bit, enjoy a day out to relax and unwind. You know, ten straight days of work tends to wind you up.”
Dad laughs, and I can imagine him now in his office, leaning back in his Corinthian leather executive chair in his five-thousand-dollar suit and thousand dollar shoes, glancing out the window towards the plebeians slaving away hundreds of feet below on the streets of Los Angeles. We live in earthquake country. So why the hell does Dad need a high-rise office anyway?
“You know Andrea, as soon as you get over your phase of trying to fit in with people who will never accept you, you can actually work a regular time schedule,” Dad says. “Get out, have some fun sometimes, have a social life?”
“Dad, my social life is just fine,” I reply, trying to not get upset. I don't want to get into a fight and get my mood broken, not right before a date. “I'm just enjoying a day off.”
“Well, I guess even people like us deserve a little bit of time to go do normal things,” Dad says, making me take another deep breath and count to ten. I am a normal girl, or at least I don't think the word normal is right up there with shit in terms of foulness. “If you're not busy tonight then, stop by the house and have dinner with me?”
“What about Elise?” I ask, referring to Dad's current girlfriend, a twenty-four-year-old model from Lithuania, or Estonia, or one of those Baltic countries. I've lost count, she doesn't speak a lot of English. “Shouldn't you be taking her out for dinner?”
“Elise went to Miami for a shoot,” Dad says easily. “Besides, I can always make time for my favorite girl.”
I shake my head, trying to think an excuse. Finally, I just decide to go with an old standby. “Sorry Dad, I've got a story that I'm working on, something personal. I know you'd like it but with work tomorrow, I really don't have a lot of time to do my own stuff.”
Dad hums, and I can hear him put his feet down on the floor. He'
s clingy, but he gives me at least a little bit of my own space, and he understands the driving motivation. If he thinks I'm working on something personal, he backs off. “Okay, honey. If you change your mind, I'll be here. Maybe we can go out even, I know some people who'd love to hear your opinion on things. You know, make those connections you keep looking for.”
Right. Connections to turn me into the next Los Angeles celebutante, not a legit journalist. No thanks, Dad. But I can't piss him off too much. He does pay the bills as much as I don't like it. “Dad, maybe another time. I'll text you later.”
I hang up with Dad, my nerves jumping up a little. I hate that Dad calls me daily, I feel like he's keeping tabs on me even though I've insisted on trying to live my own life. Still, my cell phone feels like an electronic smart leash as much as it does a communications tool.
My phone rings again, and I snatch it up, ready to tell Dad I'm really not able to go to lunch with him when I see that it's Joey. It's eleven fifty, he's ten minutes early. “Joey?”
“Hi,” Joey says, again sounding bashful, it's so cute. It's perfect, just what I need right now, and I feel my mood lift immediately. “Uh, I know we said noon, but traffic was light and I got here early. The security guy just rolled by and is giving me the hairy eyeball, so I was thinking...”
“I'll be down in one minute!” I laugh, hanging up on him.
I get down to the parking lot just as the security guys come around again, waving to one of them who I've seen before, they know most of the residents by sight. He and his partner give me a nod and pull out, just as Joey gets out of an older model Buick. I come around and give him a quick hug, and it feels... great. He's strong but gentle, and his hands stay exactly where they're supposed to be, north of my waistline to be respectful, but low enough to tell me that he's not hugging his grandmother. Joey grins as I let go and go around to his passenger side. “That's the best start to a date I've had in a long time.”
“Thanks, you give good hugs too. I was... what's that in the back?” I ask, spying the cooler. “What did you pick up?”
“It's a surprise,” Joey says with a smile. “And I didn't pick it up. So, where are we heading? I checked out the area, but I don't know which are the good parks and which aren't. I can tell you all about little dive bars that play decent music though.”
“Maybe another day we can check out the dive bars. For today though, there's a park about a mile from here. It overlooks the ocean and has good grass and picnic tables too,” I reply, chuckling. Joey might drink, I drink too, but he doesn't look like it. In fact, right now, except for the tattoos on his arm, he looks more like a choir boy than a rock guitarist. “Just turn right out of the parking lot, go down to Ocean and hang a left. The park's not far after that.”
“I can follow those directions,” Joey smirks, backing up and turning around. “So, what's with the security guys?”
“They're suspicious of every visitor. I think they even follow the FedEx guy around when he makes deliveries. How long were you waiting before you called?”
Joey turns out onto the street, his eyes fixed on the road. “Just about ten minutes. I guess a Latino in an old Buick does look out of place there.”
“Yeah... sorry about that,” I reply, and Joey shakes his head. “What?”
“Andrea, let's be straight on this. You're a white girl. I'm a Puerto Rican guy. It doesn't matter to me though. Unless you want to do a remix on West Side Story,” Joey says with an ironic chuckle. “Although we'd have to switch sides then. I’d make a terrible Natalie Wood.”
I laugh, nodding. “Okay. We can acknowledge that, but not get hung up on it. I'm cool with that. Don't worry, I like the car too.”
“Even though you're of the Coates?” Joey asks with a little nervous smile. “Sorry, when I mentioned it to James our publicist, he nearly fell out of his chair. I'm not sure if it was fear or envy. I honestly didn't know, but I'm not into things like that. I let James handle that sort of stuff.”
“Yes, I'm one of those Coates,” I acknowledge. “Ocean's the next block.”
“Gotcha,” Joey says, moving over into the left lane so we can make the turn. “If you're from a family like that, what led you to work at the paper as a reporter? I mean, from what James said, you don't need to do anything but sit back and collect interest on your trust fund accounts if you don't want to.”
I nod, leaning back as Joey takes the turn. “I could, but I choose not to. You told me a lot in your interview, so I know your family struggled, but Joey... let me ask you, just between us, would you keep playing guitar even if you made stupid levels of cash from the next album and tours and could retire rich for life?”
Joey nods. “Of course. I love playing guitar, I'd do it for free at birthday parties if I had to.”
The image of Joey playing guitar and singing 'Happy Birthday' makes me smile, but at the same time, I nod. “So, you get my drift. I've always wanted to write, especially about entertainment. Yeah, I kinda grew up surrounded by all these people who either were in the entertainment world or had family in that world. My high school class looked more like the Disney Channel than the actual shows. But what I saw... well, you know how publicists want to present this image of you?”
“A little,” Joey says with a chuckle. “Like how I'm this mysterious, dangerous rock guitarist instead of just a guy who likes cameras and... well, you'll see in a minute, we're here.”
Joey finds a parking spot and we get out, Joey grabbing the cooler out of the back. As he's bent over a car goes rolling by, and I swear for some reason that the driver's looking at me and that I've seen them before. It's weird, I seem to get that a lot, and maybe it's just that everyone in Los Angeles sorta looks the same, but I don't think so. Joey pulls the cooler out, holding it up like a trophy until he sees my face. “What's wrong?”
“Sorry... just one of those weird things where you think you've seen someone before. Anyway, I was saying, about public image. A lot of those people, you could tell there was a real person underneath there, behind all the front that they put up. Some of them, they wanted to really let people know about that side of them, like this one girl. I'm not going to name names, but she hated the fact that her contract wanted her to act all slutty all the time when in real life she just wanted to be a normal girl. On the other hand, there was the clean-cut image guy who was a total manslut. He would use his public image to pick up girls and then...”
I see Joey trembling in anger, and I nod, changing the subject. Joey must have a history with guys like that, maybe he lost a girl he liked to one of the manslut types. “Yeah. Anyway, I've always wanted to tell those stories, both to help the people who want to get their real image out there, to let people know about the awesome stuff that isn't always backed by the big conglomerates like my Dad's, and maybe cut down a few idols who exploit the people.”
“Hopefully only those that deserve it,” Joey says. We go over to a picnic table and he sets his cooler down, opening it for me to an exquisite bouquet of aromas. Spicy, sweet, grilled vegetables... “What do you think?”
“It smells amazing. Where'd you get this?” I ask as Joey takes out plastic wrapped things that look like sandwiches, some grilled vegetables, and I don't even know what else. “This looks homemade.”
“That's because it is,” Joey admits with a little bit of pride. “Growing up, Mama worked long hours, so I learned how to cook, starting with boxed mac and cheese. But I wanted to do more to take care of Maria, so I started picking up some more skills. As our financial situation's improved, I made sure to give my family the best that we could afford. I can't lay claim to the jibaritos, though.”
It's my turn to blush, embarrassed. “Okay... I'll bite. What's a jibarito?”
Joey picks up what I thought was a sandwich, but looking closer I see that the bread is actually a smashed, fried banana. “Back in the day, wheat to make bread was expensive in Puerto Rico, especially outside San Juan. So, the country farmers, the jibaros, would take two plan
tains and turn them into a bread substitute. They'd fill the space in between with meat, cheese, mayo, just like a regular sandwich. Mama made these, I'm not good with green plantains yet.”
I unwrap one, inhaling the heavenly scent. It's not sweet like I thought it would be, but more mellow, meaty, cheesy mayo smell and with a good dose of starch from the plantain itself. I've been to the Michelin starred restaurants here in Los Angeles, but right now I can't think of anything that's smelled better than this sandwich. “Wow, I may have a new favorite food.”
The sun's nice as we start eating, and every bite is amazing. “You seriously cooked this all? Except for the sandwiches?”
Joey nods, blushing. “I know, it's not the tough guy image, is it?”
“I... I'm not looking for a tough guy,” I admit, taking another bite of my sandwich. “I've had my fill of blowhard tough guys.”
Joey gives me a relieved smile, setting his bottle of Coke aside. “Phew. I mean, I'm no scrub, you can't be a total scrub and get through the high school I went to, but that's a relief to me.”
“You said you and high school didn't get along. What was it like?”
Joey laughs, looking up for a moment as he chooses his words. “Well, you know how you said your high school looked like a Disney Channel show? Okay, now take that idea and change it. Imagine a show set in a high school, but make it on... oh, let's say HBO. Not quite The Wire, but pretty close. Got it?”
I nod, an image in my mind. “Morgan Freeman anywhere nearby?”
Joey shakes his head, smirking. “No... but he could have been. Now, make everything about ten percent worse than the show. That was my high school. Metal detectors, gangs in the courtyard, all of it. Part of the reason the teachers didn't bug me about my grades and sleeping in class sometimes was that at least I was showing up, wasn't dealing or starting crap. Actually, my worst fight was because of that.”
“What happened?” I ask. “A fight in class?”