Something To Dream On

by Rinella, Diane

  “My brother owns an electroplating shop up in Red Bluff,” Paul says. “They specialize in auto parts.”

  “Man, you sure got the right model. The other two years can’t compare to the tail of the fifty-seven. The grill is better too. The grill on the fifty-six looks like it ate something bad.”

  Paul smacks his hand on my shoulder. “You’re all right, kid. If you keep up like this, I’ll let Lizzie keep you.” Then he leans in and whispers his joke. “Remember those words. The part about me letting her is important, but not as important as her thinking she’s doing the dictating. Women like to think they are gracing us with their presence. You know what? They are. Remember that and you’ll be fine.” My shoulder then gets a squeeze to punctuate the life-lesson. I’m uncertain as to if I now feel like I have a dad again or a new best friend. All I know is this is someone I can appreciate. He’s just that warm and welcoming, much like the family I was once a part of.

  The Bel Air isn’t the only thing in the barn that draws me toward it. In the corner, next to a sofa that looks like a pack of cats tried to drag a fish out of it, is a drum kit and a couple of Fender amps. What really grabs me are an old Stratocaster and a Gretsch White Falcon, known as “The Dream Guitar”. This one may be a little beat, but its gold trim and pick guard make up for the scratches. Seriously, the baby makes my heart go all a flutter like a twelve-year-old girl at a Beiber concert. “Whose Falcon?”

  “Mine,” Jimmy and Paul answer in stereo. “Give her a shot,” comes out of Paul as Jimmy’s “Don’t touch her!” overlays him. “Nah, go for it,” Jimmy says with a chuckle. “Lizetta said you play. You any good?”

  Am I any good? Well, I am no Steve Howe, but I hope Eddie Van Halen wouldn’t embarrass me too much. I pick up the Falcon. Paul and Jimmy cross their arms and the pressure is on. I give her a whirl with a complex riff I wrote before I almost burned my brain out.

  Paul and Jimmy give a synchronized pause, glance to each other, and then shrug. Jimmy chimes in, “Yeah, he’s way better than we are.”

  “Yeah, we suck.” Paul hangs his head in mock shame. “You playing with anyone now?”

  That phrasing was odd. Maybe I am paranoid from drug damage, but the pang in my gut screams that I’ve been outed. I watch my words, just in case. “No, I’m between bands. I’m trying to live a drama-free life.”

  “Jim, why don’t you see what is keeping that sister of yours?”

  Why do I feel that was more his exit cue than a suggestion? It makes my lungs freeze up. If Paul knows about me, I may be screwed. I don’t want to lose Lizetta before I even get her. She’s a nice woman who seems respectable. My past may not make me worthy, but Lord knows I am trying to be. I’ve learned my lesson, and I’m ready to prove it.

  Paul watches Jimmy dash to the house. Meanwhile, I try not to turn blue from holding my breath.

  “You used to play in the clubs around here, didn’t you?”

  Shit. Paul’s a biker and we played all the bars, clubs, and rallies from San Jose to Sacramento. That riff may have been familiar and tipped him off. “Yeah.”

  He gives me the biker stance, the one with the crossed arms and firmly planted legs. Worse, I get a sideways glance that practically growls not to fuck with him. “You suddenly disappeared from the scene. What made you quit? And I’m not talking about the band.”

  Crap! I’m an idiot, but I’m not stupid enough to play dumb. “I woke up in a tub wearing only condiments and remembering nothing.” I leave out the part about the naked guys in bed together. I just can’t consider what that may mean; even though there was no indication that anything had happened. I would have been sore, or crusty, or something, right?

  Right, God?

  As much as I want this conversation to end, Paul’s scrutinizing eyes scream that he is not going to let me off easily. I lean against the Bel Air and voluntarily spill the rest of my guts while hoping that the more honest I am with him, the more slack he will cut me. Plus, there is an alarm going off in my head. It’s not a warning klaxon; it’s more of a nudge telling me that we have something in common. Someone who doesn’t understand that a person can right his wrongs would have tossed me out already. “You would have thought that the time I was in the back seat when a friend hit a pole and died would have done it, or when I almost ran over a kid on a bike, but no. It came down to it being all about me. It just goes to show all the more how pathetic I was and, by extension, still am.”

  Paul holds the tough-guy pose. “How long ago did you stop?”

  I look at him dead on. “I hit the ninety-day mark just over two weeks ago, the day before I met Lizetta, so not long at all.”

  “Yeah, that’s about what the whites of your eyes say. I take it Lizzie doesn’t know.”

  Geez, even now he can see the damage. Of course he can. He doesn’t have to say any more for me to know we are birds of a feather. I’m catching a hint of gravel in his voice, so he’s a former smoker. I’m betting he’s kicked several addictions. If anyone is going to get me, it’s him. “No. I can’t bring myself to admit it to her, but I’m determined to live right, so soon I’ll have to. It’s just nice that she’s getting to know the real me before she learns of the demon that I once was.”

  Paul seems to get the full picture. Still, he won’t give me a clue as to whether or not my ass is getting booted out to Bertha for a lonely ride home. “What triggered it?”

  Now that is an odd question. A reasonable one, but an odd one. “Stupidity and thinking that was the way musicians live. I was on the verge of getting help when I saw my brother get hit by a car and die. He had just gotten clean. Instead of that being a wake up call, I let it send an excuse that living clean is pointless, because you just die anyway. Part of me wanted to die so I would never have to worry about watching someone suffer again.”

  Paul sets his hand on my shoulder. On the rise of my eyes to meet his, I catch rivers of scars on his arms. The track marks are just about faded to nothing, but I sure see them. “Been there. Done that,” he says. “You got a sponsor?”

  Here is where I am going to lose the battle. This will sound crazy to him, but I keep my eyes on his anyway. “As stupid as this may sound to some, I’ve found my best success on my own. For some reason, whenever I get around people, even those with the best intentions, I make excuses. When there is no one to face other than me, I’m stronger. There is also the fact that I lost every good friend I had when I became an addict. The ones I made after that wanted me to stay wasted, so I’m going it alone. I don’t want to risk trusting the wrong people and failing.”

  “Well, you’re doing a pretty good job at talking to me now.”

  My eyes stay locked, and I don’t even blink when I say, “Maybe it’s because you understand that banishing the scum in your life and then getting and staying sober for yourself is one thing. Once you start meeting good people, it’s even more crucial that you don’t fall from grace. Second chances are important, but I’m not so sure that people deserve a third.”

  Paul sucks in his lips, and I can sense the pondering. I may have overstepped, because how many chances did he need? His nod is subtle, but it drives home the point before his words do. “If you need help, you call me. You and I, we’re cool, but if you fuck up, even if my little girl is nowhere around when it happens, you will wish I only ripped your balls off. Got it?”

  I make certain to not let the eye contact waver. “Loud and clear.”

  “Don’t take too long. You make sure she knows before she gets attached, and you certainly don’t make any moves until she’s got the full story. Agreed?”

  “Most definitely.” Shit, my voice didn’t crack, did it? It felt like it cracked that time.

  He double pats my back. It seems to be his signature thing. From the neck of the Stratocaster, he grabs a pick, writes on it, and then hands it to me. His eyes square in on mine again, and I nod in acknowledgement of being given my ninety-day sobriety chip. As soon as I do, he heads back to the car like the case is c
losed and we can move on, but I’m not ready. “Hey, Paul. Thank you. I needed someone to know and to not have him treat me like scum. It helps.”

  “I get that, too. Any time, kid.”

  Lizetta comes out wearing a Sharks jersey, and as much as Paul says we are cool, I also feel she has saved the day because I am so done with my past and don’t want to think about it for another second. The sparkle in Lizetta’s smile reminds me that she is one of the many reasons why I am staying clean. I have missed out on so much.

  “Hey, Paul,” she says. “You’d better hurry. Mom’s standing in front of her jewelry box, so she’s almost ready.”

  “That’s my cue! Funny how it takes men about as much time to shower, shave, and throw on a suit as it does women to pick out jewelry. Have fun kids! Catch a puck for me.”

  The bed feels unusually comfortable as I slip in. It’s much like I imagine a cloud in heaven would feel.

  Tonight I had a date with a guy who opened doors for me, carried my jacket, watched hockey with me, shared garlic fries with me (even if he did fib and say it was only so we could share garlic breath), and who gave me the sweetest kiss goodnight after walking me to my door. It was one of the most perfect evenings I could imagine.

  With a sigh of bliss, I drift off to sleep …

  I’m walking through a valley. Beneath me are patches of green among a desert of sand and dry grass.

  My bare feet trudge through the heat. Each step sizzles as I seek patch after patch of cool grass and pieces of shade. Every time a breeze brushes the hair from my face, I long to stop and enjoy the peace, yet my feet keep moving.

  In the distance, a rainbow sprouts from a field of grass and wild flowers. I run toward it, stop in the middle of the field, spread my arms, and then twirl in the glory of comfort and light. My eyes close off the world so I can savor the cool air as it whiffs up my nose, bringing in the scent of flowers. I smile, reveling in the glory of life.

  Suddenly I tense. I know what comes next, but this is all in my mind, so logically, I can control it. I just have to stay locked on the bliss.

  My body loses all weight as it floats heavenward. No! This can’t be happening!

  I try to return to Earth. As my will deepens, my body descends. The grass below tickles the tips of my toes. I can do this! I can stay!

  A force yanks me upward and into the heavens. My eyes open to find I’m among a cluster of stars. On the ground below, a figure races into the field where I just stood. She throws open her hands, twirls, and falls to the ground, spreading her arms like the wings of an angel, as if claiming the land as her own. A sense of injustice fills my heart. I want what is mine, yet a sense of peace keeps me tethered to the stars.

  My cell phone feels like a brick weighing down my hand, but it’s not as heavy as the burden I’ve been carrying. Mom told me to wait ninety days. That mark has long passed. Tonight I was given a sobriety chip to show for it.

  I bounce my leg wildly to release tension. Etta’s head rests on my other leg, while her eyes gaze intently on my hands. It only takes pressing one more button to take the first step in correcting the last of my horrible wrongs. I’m a heart-felt apology away from putting our relationship on the mend, yet I can’t bring myself to place the call.

  What if Mom comes unglued? What if she doesn’t believe me? Could I handle it? Would I slide backward?

  That’s ridiculous. Mom gave me chance after chance because she knew I could recover. She even said it in the note when she kicked me out. Her other son recovered, and she accepted him. No problems, no questions.

  And then he died anyway, which is why I turned into such a disaster.

  Calling Mom always seems like it should be such an easy thing, but once I start thinking about it, so many little things pop into my head that I want a drink to calm my nerves. Then I couldn’t call her because I wouldn’t be sober anymore. Instead I would be back on the road to self-destruction.

  Etta nuzzles my leg, grabbing my attention. She then nods to the coffee table. She’s right. If I am that worried about blowing it, I shouldn’t take the risk. I need to cut myself some slack and follow the path that I know will keep me clean.

  The phone is exchanged for my latest reading assignment. I’m sorry, Mom, but I can’t do this yet. I can’t face how much I let you down. You, the woman who raised two boys on her own while working two, and sometimes three jobs. The woman who let me stay with her because I kept promising to clean up. You held on to faith in me until I pushed you too far. I need to find the right words to apologize for that, but I don’t think they exist.

  Not only did I lose a father, a grandfather, and then a brother, I watched you lose your husband, your dad, and your first son. Then I forced you to lose me. What words start that apology?

  Maybe if I stop thinking about it, someday the words will come.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Monday, May 8

  Ambushed.

  The moment I get home from work and step inside my apartment there is company on my tail—company with sweet breath that tickles my ear and reminds my body that it is male. “There you are. I missed you.” Usually when Laura does this, it’s a seductive whisper. Now she sounds like the Grim Reaper who has come to stake claim.

  I sigh. “We've been through this already.”

  I knew by the tone of the text she sent this morning that she’d soon pop in for a romp. It ain’t gonna happen, which is why I responded with a firm, “No, we are done.”

  Laura strolls her way into my apartment as if I have rolled out the red carpet. Etta immediately comes to attention. Why can't I shove Laura out the door like an intelligent person would? There is a difference between being a gentleman and being a doormat. I don't mind becoming a bit of a wuss when it comes to Lizetta, but with this girl? No way.

  “You mean the same game you and I have played for the last year? Every time you stop taking my calls it’s only to build the tension. I don’t mind you toying with me, but this go around lasting two months is pretty ridiculous.”

  I never should have slept with her after I bailed out. The brain inside my dick that overrules my sanity needs to be lobotomized. It took forever for her to give me a break after that. It finally seemed to be working, too. The last time Laura called was the same day her brother, Larry, tried to get me to come back to the band, again. Coincidence? Probably not. A few hours later I reached my ninetieth day of sobriety. With the exception of the text I got when Lizetta and I were on our first date two weeks ago, I took the few weeks of quiet that followed as congratulations from God for making it. It’s been insanity ever since.

  Hey, God. Thanks for nothing.

  Laura also makes me bitchy as hell.

  “It’s not a game, Laura.” I was always serious when I said no. It's just that she can be rather persuasive in changing my mind.

  She leans back on the sofa with one boot resting on it. Combat boots? What happened to heels? Given what she had started experimenting with when I left, this is a bad sign. Her skirt exposes the fact that she's not wearing any underwear. I hate when she does that.

  Actually, I wouldn't exactly call it hate.

  Why does everything with this woman have to be so challenging? Can’t she just be normal?

  No, with the hell she has been through I suppose this is normal enough. I can’t think about it, or I’ll want to help her. She turns my compassion around and makes me defenseless. She doesn’t want sobriety; she wants love. She wants someone to swoop her up in a grand gesture of devotion. I can’t give her that. I won’t risk my sobriety for her, no matter how much she is hurting my heart.

  Etta snarls at Laura, reminding me that I’m not supposed to feel for the woman. The spitefulness Laura brings out in me nearly has me hoping that Etta’s raised ears and tail mean she will turn vicious. I don’t want Laura harmed, but she’s exasperating. My head feels like it is going to explode, so I rest it against the wall and point to the door. “Laura. Please.”

  She slides down farther,
thus sending her skirt up, just in case I missed the obvious. To ensure that her message is sent she tugs down her tank top. It’s not a display of modesty like it is with Lizetta, but more an act of exposure since the neckline stretches down past where her bra should be. Sweet Lord. She may not have any class, but memories of those boobs come rushing back. How I’d love to—

  Man, I know Lizetta and I have only had a few dates, but even if Laura weren’t such a skank, I couldn’t go there. I'm just trying to do something right in my life. It seems to be working, because not long ago I would already have been down to business.

  I toss my keys on the coffee table—despite knowing I should keep them at the ready to use as a weapon. I’m not getting my ass, or any other part of my body, near that sofa, so I squat beside her. Laura may have serious issues, but that doesn't mean she can't be reasonable and that I should not try to be decent to her.

  “Look. That reply I sent was serious. We are done. Please respect that and wish me happiness, just like I wish you.”

  She stands like she is going to leave. Instead, she tromps up to Etta and looks down on her. “Where did this come from?”

  Scratch what I thought about being a decent human. I’ve always known that Laura is more of a bitch than I want to admit. She's proving me right. “That’s Etta. I adopted her.”

  She stares straight at Etta and snickers. “You? You adopted a dog?”

  “Why are you so surprised?” Etta, honey, if you rip her a new one, I promise not to think ill of you.

  “What’s up with its leg?”

  Etta growls. I’m with her.