Then Again

by Rick Boling

  “Hey,” I said, “I do not think you’re an ignorant slut. I wasn’t suggesting anything of the kind, I was only worried that—”

  “I know. I know,” she said, looking down and pulling the shirt together. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m being a little oversensitive. So please just forget it and go on with the story.”

  Fascinating, I thought. Not your typical one-night stand. I was staring at her face, thinking what a nice tan she had, when I realized from her indignant expression that I was supposed to be talking. “Uh, right. Okay. So we’re at the Skyway and we start jamming, and it’s like we’ve been playing together for years. I mean, you cannot imagine the chemistry, the silent communication, the perfect synchronization of thought and rhythm and vocal harmonies. We even took requests from some older folks for songs no other rock group could hope to know, and between Billy and me, we were able to pull them off.

  “At one point, because it was approaching the holidays, someone asked us to play The Christmas Song. You know, ‘Chestnuts roasting on an open fire?’ That’s not a simple arrangement by a long shot, nor is it an easy song to sing. But when I looked at Billy and shrugged to let him know I had no idea what the chord arrangement was, he said, ‘If you can sing it, I can play it.’ So we switched places and he took over on the organ, while I stood up and sang. And man, did we nail it. Even the younger folks in the crowd applauded, and applause from an audience of drunks and other musicians is pretty hard to come by.

  “Anyway, we agreed to get together at Jimmy’s and talk about forming a group. That meeting turned into a four-hour jam session, and by the time we split up, Kenny and Billy had decided to give up the security of their current gigs and take a chance with us. We considered adding a bass player, but Billy said we wouldn’t need one if I could get a Kruger Bass Unit for the organ pedals and add a second Leslie. So—”

  “Whoa,” she said, interrupting me. “You lost me there. “What’s a Kruger Bass Unit, and who are these two Leslies? I didn’t see any girls on the stage last night.”

  “The Leslies aren’t girls,” I said. “They’re those big wooden speaker cabinets on either side of the stage. They’re one of the things that give the Hammond organ its unique sound and strong bass projection. The Kruger is an electronic gadget that enhances the punch of the bass pedals, making them sound almost exactly like a bass guitar. Billy taught me how to run bass lines on the pedals, and he also showed me all kinds of new ways to use the stops on the organ to emulate horns and other instruments.”

  She started to interrupt me again, but I held up a hand. “Stops are adjustable slides on the organ that change the tone and pitch of the keys. And if you know how to use them, you can reproduce just about any sound, including those of other instruments and even the human voice. Remember I said earlier the Hammond was one of the main reasons we can create the sound we do with only four pieces?” She nodded. “Well, that’s what I meant. With the Kruger and the extra Leslie, and with Billy’s knowledge of how to use them, we eliminated the need for a bass player and added everything from simulated horn and string sections to virtual choirs for backup vocals, and even solos mimicking everything from flutes and trumpets to violas and oboes.”

  By then she had gone glassy-eyed, and I figured I’d finally managed to bore her with all the details. But when I stopped talking, she perked up. “You know,” she said, “that’s a great story, and I do love your music, but I’m wondering why you would want to make a career out of playing other people’s songs. Seems to me with your talent you should be writing your own. I mean, being able to mimic hit records is cool, but it won’t make you a star. And in my estimation, you deserve to be one.”

  Maybe she was a mind reader after all. Without my even hinting at it, she’d climbed into my head and discovered the one thing I’d been craving ever since the Nashville fiasco with Skip School Flu. It wasn’t that I didn’t love being a part of The Madisons; I did. After all, we were making great money and were one of the most popular bands in Florida. But I didn’t want to do this for the rest of my life. I’d seen too many musicians who had, and most of them ended up wasting away in some hotel piano bar, taking requests and hoping people would fill their jars with tips so they could pay the rent and keep themselves in booze.

  “Hello?” she said. “Are you still in there, or have you left on the Cannabis Express?”

  “Uh, sorry. Lost my train of thought there for a minute.”

  “So, about what I said? Don’t you have any interest in writing your own material?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said. “But I’ve had a couple of bad experiences with that already, and I’m not real good at handling rejection. Besides, the market is starting to be dominated by all this cheesy bubblegum stuff, what with The Beatles and the so-called British Invasion. And I have no desire to write that kind of crap.”

  “That so-called crap is making a lot of people rich and famous, you know. And most of them couldn’t hold a candle to you when it comes to singing.” She retrieved the half-smoked joint, lighting it and taking a hit. She handed it to me and I put it out again.

  “No shit?” I said. “I’m not saying I couldn’t write that stuff. In fact, if you were to set me down in a state-of-the-art studio like Lennon and those guys, give me a ton of drugs and leave me alone for a while, I could probably write a hundred silly, hook-line songs. The problem is, that’s not what I want.”

  “What do you want, Rix?” she said, touching my hand. “Do you even know?”

  I started to answer, but after I thought about it I realized I didn’t know. My career so far had been a whirlwind of ego and fun and booze and drugs, and I’d never stopped to think much about the future. Now that I’d been confronted head-on with the question, I couldn’t come up with an answer. I liked working with The Madisons, but not really in clubs where we had to play six or seven nights a week, repeating the popular songs of the day over and over. And lately the frat parties and other private gigs had started to dry up, probably because of our refusal to play stuff by the Beatles and other Top-40 bands we found musically laughable. Our mainstay was traditional rock and blues which we embellished with our own complex arrangements, plus a little light jazz and a few standards thrown in for the older crowds. We’d decided early on that Beatlemania was a passing fad, but we’d obviously been wrong. More and more it was looking like we were destined to become mainly a club group, and that was something I definitely did not want.

  “Boy, you are some thinker,” Carla said when I didn’t answer her. “I wasn’t trying to screw with your head, but maybe that’s not such an easy question for you to answer. How about if we drop the subject for now?”

  When I looked up, she leaned to kiss me, and the anxiety over my indecision evaporated. The kiss was tender, not overly suggestive, and the feeling of sincerity and caring it conveyed took me by surprise. I let her pull me to my feet, and she put her arms around me. Like the kiss, her embrace seemed intended to comfort rather than to suggest something sexual. Still, the longer we remained in each other’s arms, the harder it was to keep from responding. And when she felt my erection, she pushed me away.

  “You know,” she said, “I didn’t mean to propose anything by that. I could sense your confusion and was worried I’d ventured into forbidden territory. So the hug was more of an apology than an effort to seduce you. On the other hand ...” And this time the kiss left no question about what she wanted.

  I had no memory of what had happened the night before with Carla, so my initial criteria for judging what she was all about came solely from her ‘birthday gift.’ And waking up to find someone I had no recollection of talking to naked in my bed hadn’t, as she’d suggested, left me with a terribly high opinion of her as a person. Since then, however, I’d been forced to reevaluate my first impression. Not only was she intelligent and empathetic, but when we made love that afternoon, her demeanor was far from aggressive or slutty. She was quietly sensual in her responses, though once we got comfortable with each o
ther she became almost recklessly passionate. We fit together as if she were a mold into which I’d been poured, and our numerous orgasms were synchronized so perfectly we never had to say a word.

  After we’d worn each other out, we lay side-by-side for a long time without speaking, until she finally turned and snuggled into my neck. “I was going to ask if you enjoyed that as much as I did,” she said, “but I think it would be a somewhat rhetorical question, don’t you?”

  “God, yes,” I said. “I’m not sure what happened there, but it was amazing. By the way, I would like to know about last night. Because if it was anything like this, I might have to give up alcohol so I never miss—”

  “Nothing happened,” she said. “You were too drunk.”

  “You mean I couldn’t—”

  “I mean you passed out. Then this morning, when I woke up, you were staring at me, so I kissed you, hoping, I have to admit, that you might be willing at some point to make love to me. Thanks, by the way. I’m not terribly experienced, but I did my best. And it seemed to work out pretty good.”

  “You have a gift for understatement,” I said. “As for your supposed lack of experience, I find that hard to believe. In fact, if you were so inclined, you could probably teach a course in—” She clapped a hand over my mouth.

  “Look,” she said. “I told you this was a first for me. I’m not a whore, Rix, and I don’t make a habit of screwing guys I’ve never met before. Maybe trying to seduce you last night wasn’t the most sensible thing I’ve ever done, but I was pretty drunk myself. And I’m not lying about my sexual naïveté, so don’t go making insinuations about my supposed expertise. I—”

  “Hold on a minute,” I said, tearing her hand away from my mouth. “I was kidding, dammit! I believe you, okay? And I’m definitely glad you chose me to lose your good sense over. So don’t get all pissed off at me for making a little joke.”

  “Okay, then,” she said, nibbling on my ear. “Just so we’re clear. Hey, don’t you have to work tonight?”

  “Shit!” I said. “What time is it?”

  Unshaven and a little disheveled, I made it to the lounge at thirteen minutes after nine and took over for Kenny who was struggling with the high harmony to the Righteous Brothers’ You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’. This was a duet Billy and I usually sang together, and we slid into our version without the crowd knowing anything was amiss. Carla stood at the side of the dance floor near the stage, beaming up at me, and when we finished the song, I turned and smiled sheepishly at Jimmy. “Sorry, man,” I said. “I was—”

  “And here’s a little tune by The Temptations,” Jimmy announced over the mike, ignoring me. “It features our own David Ruffin impersonator, Rix Vaughn, just back from a tour of our newly remodeled men’s room here at Surfside.” Kenny was already playing the intro to My Girl, and as a collective chuckle rippled through the crowd, Jimmy stood and pointed a drumstick at Carla. “Rix would like to dedicate this to his new fiancée. So let’s all give the two of them a nice hand.”

  When I turned back to the audience, red in the face from embarrassment and anger, I noticed that, instead of shying away, Carla was bowing to the applauding audience. Great, I thought. Just what I needed. I got through the song without a hitch, and by the time it was over I had lost the anger and resigned myself to the fact that I deserved the humiliation for being late. The rest of the set went smoothly, and when I joined Carla during the break, I apologized for Jimmy’s little prank.

  “No problem,” she said. “Though I was wondering if you wanted a civil ceremony, or if we should go for a big church wedding.”

  “Very funny,” I said, finishing off my double bourbon and signaling the waitress for another.

  “You’d better slow down,” she whispered in my ear. “Didn’t you say something about not wanting to miss anything again?”

  I was trying to think of a clever retort, when the sound of firecrackers rang out from behind us. I turned around, but couldn’t see anything for the scramble of bodies running toward the exits. “Rix?” Carla said as I started to rise. I looked down to see her grasping her neck in an attempt to stop the blood squirting through her fingers. “I think I’ve been shot.”

  R & R

  The next several weeks were a nightmare. The surgeon said I probably saved Carla’s life by wrapping my shirt around her neck and applying constant pressure until the ambulance arrived. Fragments of the bullet—a .32-caliber hollow-point fired by some lunatic seeking revenge on his former girlfriend—had nicked Carla’s carotid artery, and the blood loss was substantial.

  For a while it looked like she might not survive, and when she came out of the medically-induced coma, there was a question about how much mental impairment there would be due to the loss of blood and reduced oxygen to her brain. Though everyone tried to convince me I was not in any way responsible for what happened, I still felt guilty. Not only that, but during the brief time we’d spent with each other something seemed to click between us. It was a lot like the feeling I had when The Madisons first played together at the Skyway lounge.

  I think the most compelling thing, the thing that grabbed me by the heart, was the look in her eyes when she first opened them. My initial impression of her eyes had been that they were large for her face, pale blue, and somewhat mysterious looking. But when she finally awoke from the coma, I saw they were almost colorless, the only blue being a watery hint of aquamarine. Staring into them, it seemed as if I could see into her soul, a lost and frightened soul, silently screaming for help. She would later tell me what I’d seen was real; that at that moment she had been overwhelmed with fear because she couldn’t make her mouth respond to the signals she was trying to send from her oxygen-deprived brain.

  After that initial breakthrough, her recovery was slow and arduous, beginning with fundamental things like learning to talk again, which she would later describe as “reestablishing the connection between my brain and my mouth.” Ironically, she’d been majoring in Communications, which probably helped her with the speech therapy and in regaining her ability to form coherent sentences. One thing I came to understand and admire was her innate intelligence, which she used along with her communication skills to develop alternate methods of expressing herself.

  People often see the inability to speak clearly as a sign of stupidity or even ignorance, and up until that point I had been guilty of the same kind of unreasoned prejudice. But even before Carla spoke her first words—a garbled version of “I want out of here”—I knew she was struggling to articulate her needs and desires. I soon learned to interpret her eye movements and facial expressions, so that long before she could speak clearly we were communicating in a way only the two of us could understand. These signals were eventually joined by hand gestures and body language as the physical therapy began to take hold, and I was often called upon by the doctors and therapists to help them understand her responses to their questions.

  Having no obligations during the daytime, other than an occasional band rehearsal, I spent hours at her bedside, ignoring the nurses who tried in vain to enforce the hospital’s arcane visitation rules. These breaches of hospital policy were ameliorated by the fact that I often brought my guitar and would serenade the staff with requests. Other members of the band would stop by from time to time, and Jimmy periodically reported on her progress to the crowd at Surfside. Even some of the bartenders and waitresses started visiting, and her room was always filled with flowers courtesy of the club’s owner.

  As I predicted, our private gigs continued to dry up, which resulted in The Madisons becoming Surfside’s de facto house band. Before long practically everyone in Clearwater knew who we were, including the nurses and other staff at the hospital; and our semi-celebrity status afforded us extra leeway when it came to bending the rules.

  At first, Carla’s mother—who turned out to be as attractive and feisty as her daughter—drove over from Sarasota every day. But after she saw the constant attention and bedside vigilance bein
g provided by me and the other band members, she realized her daily trips were not necessary. So she resumed her obligations as owner of a fancy clothing boutique on St. Armand’s Key, restricting her visits to the store’s slower days at the beginning of the week.

  As the weeks passed and Carla became more lucid and ambulatory, she returned to her earlier inquiries about my career. But I managed to sidestep them, while demanding that she tell me more about herself. At first she refused, citing her inability to speak clearly, but as her verbal skills began to return and I kept bugging her, she finally relented.

  “So,” she said one day, speaking slowly but with near-perfect clarity, “what would you like to know? And don’t say you want to know how I learned to fuck so expertly. God I hate that word.”

  “Really?” I said. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just one of those words that sound crass to me. Like pu ... pussy or cunt or cock.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you have a problem saying them,” I said, tickling her ribs.

  “Stop it,” she said. “I don’t have a problem referring to those words as parts of speech, but I never use them in con ... conversation because they make a person sound ignorant.”

  “Sounds like a typical English major. What are you majoring in anyway?’

  “Marketing and Communications,” she said, “with a minor in English Lit.”

  “I see. So what do you want to be when you grow up?”

  She jabbed me in the side. “I am gr ... grown up, thank you very much. And before this happened, I’d hoped to get into the movie business. Not as an actress or anything, but maybe as a publicity agent or with a big advertising firm that handles pro ... promotion for some of the major studios.”