Playing for Julia

by Annie Carroll

  “You know, you are full of surprises,” I say. “You’re not like the image of the typical rock musician.”

  “And what is that?” He smiles, amused.

  “Rowdy. Obnoxious. Drunk half the time. Jumping in and out of bed with a series of airhead groupies.”

  “Sounds like Tommy,” he laughs, then adds: “You’re not quite what I expected either, Julia. Surprises for both of us, I guess.”

  I look up at the big round clock on the bakery’s wall.

  “Austen, I think we better leave. I don’t want to be late.”

  He pulls the Mustang to the curb in front of the Voices office. He seems to find parking right where we are going. It must be some sort of rock star good parking karma.

  “Thank you for breakfast. That was fun.”

  He reaches over and pulls my face toward him and kisses me on the lips, softly.

  “Enjoy your day, Julia.”

  * * *

  No mention of ‘truth or dare’ this morning at breakfast. That’s a relief, but I can’t allow myself to think about it, about him, about that kiss. It was so soft and gentle. I have also given up trying to explain to myself why I am so attracted to him. I simply am. Maybe it was written in the stars or something.

  Right now I have too much work to do. I am bent over the drawing board when Dan calls me over. He, David and a guy from display advertising have been looking at something. Dan hands me a cartoon. It appears very roughly drawn and, most striking of all, the woman has enormous breasts.

  “You’re our test Market. Females 18-30,” says Dale, the ad sales guy.

  “I thought it was 18-49?”

  “Oh, we don’t trust anyone over 30,” he chortles.

  I roll my eyes at him and shake my head.

  “What do you think about it?” Dan asks with a slight smile on his face. David is watching me, too.

  “It sure isn’t Blondie and Dagwood. Who does it?”

  “A guy named Robert Crumb. Zap Comix.”

  “Well…if you want my Test Market reaction—I think I’m going to join the National Organization of Women, buy a T-shirt that reads ‘Women Rule” and start wearing it to the office.” I smile at them. “But it is funny.”

  “Then I guess we’re going to help the National Organization of Women increase their membership.” Dan says. “It’s going to run on the first inside right hand page.”

  Dale sniggers: “That t-shirt would be better if it read ‘Women on Top.’

  “Oh, puleeze,” I shake my head and frown at him, then ask David: “I don’t think I’ve seen anything in Voices about women’s topics. Do we cover them?”

  “There are new magazines about women’s lib springing up from coast to coast. If there is a demonstration or a boycott here we will cover it as local news. Arts, culture and local news—that’s our beat.”

  * * *

  “Would you like to go to the Fillmore on Saturday? The Grateful Dead are playing. We can have dinner before.” Austen calls, again on Monday. Most guys call on Wednesday or Thursday, but Monday seems to be his choice. For a moment I wonder why, but it doesn’t really seem important enough to think about.

  On Saturday, Ali decides she is going to choose my clothes. Since we moved here she is becoming more California golden girl than Seattle Swedish lass and, on top of that, even more of a fashion fiend than she was before.

  “If you’re going to date a rock musician, you might as well look the part. Although why you are going out with him…” She shakes her head. “What you really need is someone else more normal.”

  “Ali, I like him. He’s interesting. And you know I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Okay. I won’t talk about it. So let’s get started. This should be fun.”

  She pulls the long black skirt from India out of my closet. The one with the tiny bells. Then she hands me a black knit top of hers that is really low cut and tells me to put it on.

  “I can’t wear this,” I say, looking in the mirror. “My boobs show. I’m practically falling out of it.”

  “Wait. Wait. I’m not finished. Here,” she says drawing a long scarf from the closet. “Wear this scarf around your neck but don’t tie it. Just let it flow down your front. It will cover you and give you a romantic middle-ages look. Like Guinevere or some other woman from Camelot.”

  The scarf is dark green silk and whisper thin. She adds two thin silver bracelets and a pair of dangling silver earrings. Next comes a luxurious dark forest green sweater coat from her closet—another treasure with a famous label inside she found at our favorite thrift store. It only cost three dollars.

  “Be sure to put tights on under that skirt or you will freeze” she orders. “It’s always so cold here. Now—a little black eyeliner and pale lipstick. Not too much.”

  She stands back, looks at me and smiles: “The perfect rock ‘n’ roll girlfriend.”

  Austen seems to think so, too. He is in full rock star regalia: a black suede leather jacket with fringes on the sleeves, black leather pants—very sexy—and dark red cowboy boots. As we walk to his car he puts his arm around my shoulders and murmurs: “You look good enough to eat, but I think we’ll have steaks for dinner.”

  The restaurant is on a narrow street near Coit Tower above North Beach. Some of the customers—stuffy businessmen in suits and their wives in cocktail dresses—gawk at us when we enter. The Maitre‘d doesn’t blink an eye, but immediately seats Mr. Raneley and his guest at one of the best tables. A heavy white linen tablecloth and napkins are on the table, the silverware gleams, the wine glasses sparkle in the muted light. From the bar at the back I hear soft jazz music.

  “The view from here is great,” he says. We can see Oakland and the Bay Bridge through the window next to our table. “No fog tonight either. God, I am really tired of the fog here. It closes in on that house on Lake by 4 o’clock every day.”

  He orders steaks for us and red wine. This restaurant has the best steaks in the city he tells me.

  “So how did you and your roommate end up living on a houseboat?”

  The waiter comes with the bottle of wine and pours a small amount in the wine glass. Austen tastes it and nods his head. The waiter pours wine for both of us and leaves the opened bottle on the table.

  “It was our first break from the expected. That sounds weird. It’s a little complicated to explain.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Ali and I met in a coffeehouse in Seattle. We were both sitting there, reading Kerouac’s On the Road. We introduced ourselves and when we began to talk about it, we realized we both had the same reaction: life could be more than what our parents and everyone else expected our lives to be. We wanted lives that were different. Nothing as crazy as running off and becoming a drugged-out hippie. Those people never bathe—repulsive. And begging on street corners…” I shake my head. “Anyway, what we decided to do was to rent a houseboat. Both our parents were shocked. The houseboats have reputations as kind of rough, down-and-out communities, but we lived in one along Fairview and the people were very nice. It was a lot of fun.”

  “And the canoe came with the place?”

  “No, we borrowed the canoe from a neighbor who didn’t use it often. We went canoeing almost every weekend the weather was nice and met a lot of people in the sailing and boating world. I miss it sometimes. Then back in January Ali and I decided we just had to move to California. So we did.”

  “And moved into that cottage?”

  “Yeah, I guess it is like the houseboat in a way—a little green cottage afloat in a sea of cream color apartment buildings. It’s definitely not the kind of place where most people would like to live. Especially with that wild interior. But I’m so glad we decided to leave Seattle. So much more to do here, so much that’s new. And people here have a different outlook on life.”

  “Like me?” He smiles that honey smile.

  “Yes. You…and other people. Although I met you in Seattle…”

  During dinner
he tells me that he and John have almost finished all the songs for their new album. They will start rehearsing and recording soon. Then we talk about other things. The steak is delicious.

  * * *

  Good rock star parking karma, again, outside the Fillmore. He takes my hand and grins: “Ready to rock and roll, baby?”

  We walk past the line waiting outside. The guy at the door opens it for us. “Hi, Austen.”

  “Hi. Is Bill here?”

  The guy nods his head.

  Then we walk in like he owns the place.

  The noise is deafening. The Grateful Dead is going full blast on the stage. Strobe lights flash and glare in a light show that bounces across the crowd and around the walls and ceiling. People are dancing, swaying to the music. Smoke fills the air and it doesn’t smell like tobacco.

  We stand and watch for a minute. His arm is around my shoulder. Some people nearby notice him and start whispering to each other.

  “Do you like the Grateful Dead?”

  “They’re good, but I think I have a new favorite band, these days,” I answer, looking up at him.

  “I wonder who that could be.” He smiles.

  Then an older man dressed in casual slacks and shirt walks up to him.

  “Hey, Austen. Who is this pretty lady with you tonight?”

  “Julia, this is Bill Graham. He produces the shows here. The Master Maestro of rock ‘n’ roll.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  Then he and Austen start talking about dates and schedules. It’s about business so I turn it off. I don’t know why, but I put my arm around his waist and lean closer to him. He tightens his fingers on my shoulder. I realize I like being the rock ‘n’ roll girlfriend.

  “Have Joe call me next week. I’ll see what we can do,” Bill says.

  “Will do,” Austen answers.

  We stand and watch the show for a few more minutes. My eyes are beginning to water from the smoke and glare. The noise is almost painful. Suddenly he says: “Let’s get out of here.”

  A flash greets us as we walk out the door. Someone has taken a photo of us. Another flash. He heads right to the Mustang and opens the door for me.

  “Where are we going?” I ask as he pulls the car into traffic.

  “Somewhere quiet.”

  He doesn’t say another word as we head out toward the Richmond District. Oh, I wonder, is he going to take me home? Or to that house on Lake? Instead he parks near a neighborhood bar. Two Tiffany-style lamps hang over the bar. The few customers seated at the bar and at tables talk in muted voices. We slip into a booth with leather seats near the back.

  “Austen, what’s wrong? You seem upset.”

  A white-shirted waiter comes and he orders white wine.

  “I was looking at that crowd at the Fillmore. Drunk, stoned, flying on acid—I’ve seen more than enough of that when we’re on tour. It’s like Tommy and the people he hangs out with, too. He’s worse at 22 than I was at 17—but the whole scene was too much for me tonight.” Then he adds in his honey voice: “It doesn’t have anything to do with you, baby.”

  The waiter brings the wine, two glasses, pours and leaves.

  He takes my face in his hands and kisses me on the forehead.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because if I kissed you on your mouth I don’t think I could stop and I don’t want to be arrested for making love to you in public.” He has a smile on his face and I realize it is a joke—sort of. Then he adds in his honey voice. “When we make love for the first time, Julia, I want it to be someplace quiet and beautiful.”

  He runs his fingers gently across my lips.

  “You know we’re going to make love, don’t you?”

  I start to turn my head away. It’s truth or dare again—times 10. His hand grasps my chin and he gently pulls my face back toward him.

  “Don’t do that, baby. Don’t turn away from me. It won’t do you any good. It’s going to happen and you know it.”

  I feel panicky. My heart is pounding. Part of me wants to say: ‘Yes. Yes.’ But part of me is afraid. What if I do say ‘Yes’ and he decides the next day that he is done with me and drops me like some disposable groupie. It couldn’t handle that. I don’t want to get hurt. But I want it to happen. I want him. I am afraid. I don’t know.

  He laughs softly. “I’m not going to drag you off by your hair, Julia. Come on. Smile at me.”

  I smile. And then we talk of other things. But my doubts, my longings linger, distracting me.

  It must be close to midnight when he says: “I think we’d better call it a night. I’m driving down to L.A. tomorrow and we want to get an early start. We’re going to begin rehearsals and recording this week. And I want to talk to Joe about Tommy. Tommy was his big idea.”

  Oh, this is it. He’s leaving San Francisco. I guess it’s better that I didn’t say ‘Yes’. Now I won’t be hurt too much. In time it will just be a brief adventure as the rock ‘n’ roll girlfriend I can look back on. In time.

  The front gate squeaks as he opens it and we walk to the front door. He puts one arm around me and with his other hand lifts my face up to his and kisses me. At first softly, then more intensely. I put my arms around him and melt into him. It feels so good. He feels so good. I want this to go on and on.

  Then he pulls me away from him and kisses my forehead. “Sweet Dreams.” Then kisses it again: “Dream of me. I’ll call you, Julia.”

  Chapter Eight

  Ali is talking about the antiwar demonstration she and Drew attended yesterday downtown. She is seeing him often. I don’t know whether it’s because she really likes him or she likes the politics of the antiwar effort or simply likes going out a lot. They were disappointed in the turnout. Maybe Sunday at a downtown location was not a good idea.

  “Julia, did you hear a word I said?” Ali asks. Her voice sounds concerned.

  “Yes. You said downtown on Sunday wasn’t a good idea.”

  “Well, you’re at least partly here. Why don’t you just go to bed with him? You know that’s what you want to do.” She smiles.

  “He’s in L.A.”

  “When did he go to Los Angeles?”

  “Yesterday morning.”

  “And how long is he going to be there?”

  “A week or two. He said they’re starting to record their next album. He said he’d call.”

  “Oh Julia, I hope that’s true. But maybe it’s…” Her voice fades then she goes on: “Let’s fix something for dinner. Would you like linguine with walnuts and ham? The recipe for it sounds quick and delicious. You can make the salad tonight.” She walks into the kitchen and opens the door to our avocado green refrigerator.

  We are watching the 10 o’clock news when the phone rings. I answer it.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, baby.”

  I whisper to Ali: “Austen.”

  Then I carry the phone into the orange bathroom. We bought an extra-long phone cord and now use the orange bathroom as a phone booth.

  “How was the trip down there?”

  “Not bad. This Mustang can really haul. We made good time and all the cops must have been at home eating Sunday dinner. We didn’t see one.”

  “That’s good.”

  The phone line is silent for a few seconds.

  “I miss you, Julia. I wish you were here in my bed right now,” he says in his honey voice. “No, not in my bed yet. You’re standing in the doorway to my bedroom dressed the way you were on Saturday night. Baby, you look really beautiful.”

  I gasp and sink down to the floor, my back against the bright orange tiles.

  “Do you want to know what I’m going to do with you now that you’re in my bedroom?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, barely breathing. It’s only a phone call, only words, I say to myself—but it feels like truth or dare times a million.

  “First I am going walk across the room and hold you so close and we’re going to feel like it is the first time this ever happene
d. This is how it is supposed to be. Just you and me, Julia. Then I’m going to kiss your pretty eyes and your sweet mouth. You feel so good, baby.”

  He pauses. I can hear him breathing.

  “And then I’m going to take that scarf off and kiss your soft skin on your throat and then down to the tops of those beautiful breasts. You smell so good. They feel so good. Do you want me to do that, Julia?”

  I can barely breathe. “Yes.” Only words. Only words.

  “Babygirl, your breasts are so beautiful and I want to peel off that shirt and kiss them all over. Then run my tongue around and around your nipples until they get hard. But I can’t do that because you still have your clothes on.” I can hear the grin on his face.

  “Take them off, Austen. Take them off,” I whisper.

  “Oh, I will. But not tonight.” He pauses again.

  “Well, maybe there is something I can do even though you’re still wearing that tight black top with those beautiful breasts showing. Do you want me to do it, Julia?”

  I hesitate for just a second then sigh: “Yes.”

  “You have to turn around, first, baby. I want to start in back. Are you turned around?”

  “Yes.” I murmur.

  “I’m going to pull your beautiful hair aside. Oh, it smells so good. And then kiss you from your neck to your shoulders and then turn you around and kiss you, slowly, slowly, down to the tops of your breasts. And kiss them some more. Do you like this? Does it feel good?

  “Yes.” I whisper.

  “You want me to do this, don’t you, babygirl?”

  “Yes.” My voice is aching for him.

  He laughs softly. “We both do, but I think I’d better stop here or neither one of us is going to be able to sleep tonight. Sweet Dreams, baby. Dream of me.”

  “Dream of me.” I say softly.

  I hear him hang up the phone. It must be five minutes before I realize I am still hugging the phone against myself. I hang up.

  * * *

  Focus, Julia. Focus. Don’t make any mistakes. Do your job right. Pay attention. Focus. But that phone call. I feel weak when I think about it. No errors. Focus. It was only a phone call. Only words. Focus. You need to keep this job. You have to do it right. Don’t be distracted. Focus, Julia. Focus.