Chasing My Forever

by Heidi McLaughlin

  The woman Zeke is speaking with now looks scared. I’m willing to bet her eyes are wide open as she listens to him just by the way her hands are wringing together. I stand here and watch her for a minute, with her long brown and blonde highlighted hair pulled high into a ponytail. Thanks to my sisters, I know everything about high and lowlights. This new waitress is somewhat of average height and if I had to wager a guess, a bit taller than the twins. That’s not saying much when I stand well over six feet, thanks to my dad.

  She looks over here, almost as if she knew I was staring. We make eye contact from across the busy kitchen before I turn and walk down the small hallway and into the green room, which is painted what Zeke calls a calming yellow.

  Inside the room is our usual Friday night crew. Aside from me, we have a piano player, who once tried to play with me, but completely threw me off rhythm so I had to ask him to stop. Honestly, that didn’t go over very well. Also, there’s a poet who’s going to tell us about her week. Most of the time, she has it rough. She lives on the street, panhandling her way to a living. I’ve offered to help, but she refuses, says she’s going to make it on her own someday. That doesn’t mean I don’t have one of the waitresses slip her something extra in her bucket. Another performer is a one-man band. He has one of those contraptions where he plays a drum, strums his guitar, blows into his harmonica and sings. The dude has some serious talent. I’m not sure I could manage the multi-tasking it takes to pull that off. There are a few others in here, newbies, all pacing the floor or tuning their devices.

  “Hey,” I say to the normal crew. Only Larry, the piano man, acknowledges me.

  The little poet, who won’t tell us her name, makes eye contact quickly but turns away. It’s cool, we have a silent understanding. I don’t ask if she’s okay and she doesn’t bother me. I just hope she knows that if she were to ever need anything, I’d be there to help her out.

  One of the newbies vomits their dinner in the trashcan, making the room smell horribly. We scramble to open the door and the window, but it’s hot outside and the air is stifling.

  “Sorry, I’m nervous.”

  “Bathroom’s down the hall,” I say, pointing toward the wall. “We’ve all been there. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

  “But for the love of all things holy, puke someplace else.” That’s another newbie talking, but by the looks of her get-up, this isn’t her first open mic night. She likely considers herself a professional. My guess is she moonlights in a band, does the occasional wedding and has probably played at the county fair. Way ahead of me, if in fact, I’m right about her. I usually am. I’ve been around the scene long enough to spot the veterans.

  “Here’s the line-up for tonight.” Zeke tacks it to the wall. Most of the time I end up last. Not a problem, except it makes for a long wait, especially when I’ve been here for a few hours.

  It’s like an audition sheet, everyone in the room is clamoring to get a look, all except the poet and me. We hang back, waiting. The diva, well she doesn’t much like her spot and is going on and on about how her fans expect her to take the stage at ten tonight. She pulls out her phone and starts typing. Between her nails and the sound of her keyboard, the noise is grating.

  The poet won’t look as long as there’s a bunch of people in the room, so I look for her. We’re on back to back. She’s at ten and I follow her forty-five minutes later. It’ll be a nice set-up. I won’t be rushed because she never takes her fully allotted time.

  Zeke returns with a plate of sandwiches. The newbies waste no time picking through what they want. It’s almost as if someone should teach them a lesson, let seniority go first, but I’m willing to bet they’ve never even been to open mic here, probably heard about it from a friend, so they have no idea who’s who. It’s fine. I pick my sandwich and grab one for the poet.

  She smiles softly when I hand it to her. As tempted as I am to sit next to her, I don’t. She’ll only get up and move, deeper into the recesses of the room.

  The new waitress comes into the room, she looks around and our eyes meet. She’s a bit closer now and her shorts show off her pale legs, a sure indication that she’s not from here, which just means in a few weeks, she’ll be gone, and that also means there’s no point in getting to know her, not that I would. Dating seems so… troublesome. I saw what Elle went through with Ben and I don’t want the headache.

  She smiles and breaks eye contact. “Zeke says it’s time.” She turns and walks out, but not before she glances over her shoulder, taking one last look into the room. Who knows if she’s looking at me, checking to see if I’m watching her or not. I was, but that’s all I’m doing.

  Piano Man is up first. He’s not Zeke’s favorite but has a fairly solid fan base who shows up every Friday night so Zeke won’t turn him away. Standing in the doorway between the stage and the back hall, I survey the crowd. Right now, it’s an older bunch, mostly women. Some stand and sway to the melody coming from the piano, while a few others throw roses up onto the stage, turning Piano Man into a true Romeo.

  The acts continue until it’s time for the Poet. I make sure she knows she’s on next and head out into the crowd while she performs. Tonight, she details, with such fluidity, the struggles she’s faced this week: the rain, followed by excessively rising temperatures, her starvation, and how someone tried to steal her belongings. She ended up cut in the melee but held onto what little possessions she has.

  When she’s finished, she gets a standing ovation and people flock to her bucket, dropping money in there. I too, add money, when she’s not looking. She’s always nervous to pick up her bucket, so I slide it toward her after the last person comes up. It’s funny how she can completely express herself to strangers but can’t talk to me.

  Once she’s off stage, I start my set-up. I sit on a stool, tuning my guitar, while people move around.

  The lights dim, and I lean into the microphone, “Good evening, I’m Quinn.” I never tell anyone my last name. It’s not that I want to be a single-named artist, it’s because I want to be respected for my music, not because of who my father is. James is a common name, but all it takes is for one person in the crowd to type my name into the search bar and bam – my entire family history – right there at your fingertips. Elle on the other hand, has no qualms. Peyton is more on my level.

  I have a couple of faithful fans in the crowd who hoot and holler, but it’s the one that goes on and on that grabs my attention. When I look up, it’s my mom and sister. Great. Any hope of having a peaceful set is long gone.

  “Tonight, I’m going to do a few covers for ya. Lately, I haven’t been writing much because of some family events.”

  “I love you, Quinn.”

  I smile and thank whoever said it. I learned long ago from my uncle Liam to never tell fans that you love them. He says it sends them the wrong message, gives them hope, and while most understand you don’t necessarily mean it, not everyone does.

  I begin to play, covering “Imagine” by John Lennon. For some reason, this song feels appropriate after the Poet told her story tonight. I look out into the crowd, spot my mom swaying, and imagine a smile plastered on her face. The perma-grin she has for the three of us is unrelenting. It never stops. The next song I give them is my version of “9 to 5” by Dolly Parton. I’ve changed up the beat, made it acoustic and slowed it down. Now if you listen, the song has a different meaning and is more of a love song than anything.

  “Play Creep,” someone yells. I normally don’t take requests, but tonight I make an exception and start the riff to Radiohead’s song. It’s actually one of my favorites to play and am happy someone asked for it.

  As my set continues, I find myself watching the waitress. She intrigues me. She doesn’t look flustered, but I can see that she’s struggling. This crowd is a bit rowdier than Piano Man or Poet’s, the people a little more demanding and probably a bit drunker. Yet, she looks determined to hold her own.

  I sing three more songs before I take my bo
w and Zeke comes on to remind everyone that we’re all struggling artists, blah blah blah, and people rush to the stage. A few ask for my autograph, but I pretend not to hear them. Zeke doesn’t encourage fraternization among the talent and patrons. I sort of like his rule.

  I’m storing my guitar when the waitress comes up to me. I was right, she’s frazzled and has beads of sweat resting on her forehead.

  She hands me a beer. “Zeke said you’d want this.”

  “Thanks.” I set the beer down on the floor and continue putting my stuff in my carrying case.

  “I think I know your sister,” she says with a slight southern drawl.

  “Doubtful and he’s not interested.” Elle butts her way in front of the waitress, effectively pushing her out of the way. She stumbles but rights herself quickly.

  “That was rude,” I tell her as soon as we’re backstage. Zeke meets me there and hands me my bucket, which I almost forgot.

  “She doesn’t know me or Peyton. She’s just saying it, so you’ll give her attention.”

  “Hi, Mom.” I lean forward and kiss my mom on the cheek.

  “You were the best.”

  “Thanks, but you’re biased.”

  “No, I’m not. Oh, but I do feel sorry for the young girl who did the poetry. I want to help her.”

  I run my hand over my beanie while looking around for her, finally shaking my head. “She won’t take your help. I’ve tried, but she says she’ll make it on her own. In fact, those are the only words she’s really ever spoken to me.”

  “But—”

  I hold my hand up. “I put a Ben in there. I do it every week.”

  My mom gives me another kiss on the cheek and tells me how proud she is of me, while Elle puts her arm around my waist. I glance over her shoulder and spot the waitress, who is watching everything unfold, looking dejected, which just adds to my earlier thoughts that, like the others, she won’t be sticking around for long.

  8

  Eleanora

  The money I earned in tips tonight is piled by denomination on my bed. If I were a cartoon character, my eyes would bug out right about now. It’s no surprise the ones have the most in their pile. Actually, it’s a huge surprise. I had never waited on a table before and tonight was trial by fire.

  Sitting on the edge of my bed, I pull my earnings together in a stack and start counting. The bigger bills are from the credit card transactions, and I noticed rather quickly that people tip more when they’re using a card, or they’ve had three or more drinks.

  It’s two in the morning and I’m wide awake. I hear Kellie come in, trying to be as quiet as possible. She knocks on my door. “Eleanora, are you awake?”

  “I am.”

  She enters, and her mouth drops open. “What did you do?” she asks. I wave the wad of cash and smile. “Don’t tell me you were so desperate you decided to Pretty Woman yourself?”

  I gasp and it’s not the good kind, the one that comes with the perfect kiss or most amazing present. The one comes with utter shock and disbelief that my friend thinks I’d sell my body after being here for a few days.

  “Um, no. I worked a night at this place called the Bean Song. They’re hiring and gave me a test run.”

  Kellie rushes toward me, tackling me in a sumo hug. “You scared the daylights out of me,” she says as she rights herself. I look at my hand, still clutching my tips and laugh. Not even an assault like that would make me let go. I worked hard for this.

  “I would never,” I tell her. “I’m here on vacation. I didn’t come here to find a dream or make a life, ya know. I have to go home eventually.”

  She pulls the desk chair out and sits down. “Do you ever want to say ‘f’ it and run away?”

  “From my parents?” She nods. “All the time. But life is different there with their unwritten expectations. Disappointing my parents and going against their wishes isn’t high on my priority list.”

  “Do you love Roy?”

  I shrug and set my cash down beside me. You’d think that I’ve never held money before by the way I’m acting with it. “At one point, yes. I was madly in love with him, but then came college… see that’s why I have to do what my parents want. It was the tradeoff of going to Idaho. Get my degree, become a teacher and marry Roy.”

  “Your family is odd.”

  I’m nodding right along with her. “My family has deep southern roots. They’re like weeds, they never go away.”

  “Right, change of subject. Let’s go out.”

  “Tonight? Where?”

  “There’s a local hot spot down the street. Be ready in five.” She gets up and goes to the door.

  “Wait, what?” I call out. Kellie pauses at the door and looks back at me.

  “What?”

  “Five minutes? It’s like half past two in the morning.”

  “And the nightlife is just coming alive. Get dressed.” She doesn’t give me a chance to say anything and really leaves me no choice but to do as she suggests. I change quickly and put some of my tip money into my pocket along with my driver’s license. I learned early, there’s no need to take a purse with you when you’re clubbing because you can never set it down.

  My roommate is waiting for me in the living room when I come out. She tells me she’s called for a ride share and it should be here any second. We walk down to the front of our building, which is deep within the complex, to wait.

  “Tell me about the job.”

  “Like I said, it was a trial run. He’s going to call me later to let me know if I’m hired. Want to hear something odd?”

  “Odd in Cali, you don’t say.” She laughs as soon as she looks over at me. “Shoot.”

  “I think I met, well sort of met, Sofia’s brother.”

  Now Kellie is really laughing. Not sure what’s so funny though. Did I miss a joke? A car comes around the corner, she pulls her phone out to verify the plate number and we get in. The driver, clearly in a hurry, speeds down our road, hitting each speed bump like it’s in his way, before pulling out in front of traffic. I’m going to freaking die.

  “I know you and Sofia are close, but I’ve never bought the brother story.”

  “Why not?”

  Kellie shrugs. “It’s odd. She has a brother who never visits. Like ever. He doesn’t even call.” She turns in her seat, facing me. “We all have siblings. We’ve met each other’s siblings and cousins, yet not her brother and when her mom came to visit, she never mentioned them.”

  “They have different dads.”

  “So, does Kizzy and her sister, but her mom talks non-stop about both of them. Any mother would, but Sofia’s mom…” Kellie pauses and shakes her head. “I don’t know. He seems made up.”

  “But he exists. I mean, I’m pretty sure I met him. He did the open mic night. His name is Quinn, right? Even though she always called him Q, she said his name’s Quinn.”

  The driver pulls up in front of the club, effectively ending our conversation. I see the line and groan. It’s around the block. We’ll be lucky to get in before the sun rises. I follow Kellie right to the door. She says something to the bouncer and we’re let in.

  “What? How?” I yell over the music.

  “My brother is the bartender. Come on.” She drags me to the bar. As soon as her brother spots her, he leaves the customer he’s with and comes to us.

  “Ladies, glad you could make it out. How’s California treating you, Eleanora?” Carson Macauley, one of the hottest guys I’ve ever met, asks as he winks at me. My knees knock together as I try to form a coherent sentence. However, it’s too late. He does this grin combined with laughter, making everything about him scream ‘take me in the back room,’ as he places two glasses on the bar. I’m not even paying attention to whatever drink he made when Kellie is thrusting it into my hand.

  “Get over it,” she says, knowing full well that I’m thinking about her brother.

  “How do you stand it?

  “What, my friends fawning over my brothe
r? Eh, I know he’ll never date one, so it doesn’t really matter.”

  “Really, because we could be like sisters,” I tell her, taking a sip of the concoction. It’s strong, fruity and right up my alley.

  “Ain’t gonna happen. Besides, he’s in love with his girlfriend. It’s sickening, yet sweet.”

  Figures.

  As soon as we finish our drinks, we hit the dance floor. It’s where we stay until about five in the morning when the club starts to shut down. Instead of going home, Kellie and I decide to go to breakfast. Nothing like greasy hash browns to soak up the liquor.

  “I’m going to have a hangover.”

  “Yeah, we probably shouldn’t have drunk so much,” she says, laying her head down on the table. “Do you think they’d care if we slept here.”

  “Yes, and I would care. First, you asked me if I decided to make Pretty Woman a reality and now you want me to sleep in a grease infested diner? Get up and let’s go home where we have a shower and bed.”

  “Ugh, fine.”

  Back in school, our suite partied. We hosted, attended, and crashed our fair share. Hangovers are nothing. The problem is, the sun’s up and we’re just now finishing up our night. I should’ve seen this coming, but I was blinded by the idea of going out. Tomorrow… I mean today is going to suck rotten eggs.

  No sooner do we open the door and head to our respective rooms, does my phone ring. It’s an unknown number and I’m tempted to send it to voicemail. “Hello?”

  “This Nola?”

  “Yeah.” My heart jumps. Only one person calls me this. “Zeke?”

  “Yeah. You’re on. Start tonight at five.” He hangs up before I can thank him or even ask him what my rate of pay is, although with the tips I made last night, I don’t really care because it’s enough to last me through the week.