Alligators in the Trees

by Cynthia Hamilton

  “No, just wasn’t hungry after all,” Martin said, as he reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet.

  “Let me get this, Martin,” Philip said, as he reached for his own.

  “No,” Martin replied, arm outstretched to ward him off. “This one’s on me. You can leave the tip.” He laid down a ten and a five, and stood up to slip his jacket on. “I’ve got to run, so I’ll speak with you later. Hopefully that Cro-Magnon Michelson will return my calls and we can start getting this behind us.”

  “Thanks, Martin.”

  “No problem.” In his haste to leave the depressing confines of the coffee shop, Martin nearly collided head-on with Priscilla. The two backed away like wary adversaries, all pretense of politeness dropped now that they were out of Philip’s line of sight. They executed a half-circle around each other, and with one last contemptuous sneer, both turned and proceeded on their separate ways.

  “How’s everything?” Priscilla asked, as she poured a splash of hot coffee into Tobias’ nearly full cup. Absorbed in his writing, Tobias only nodded as she flitted off.

  “Like a fresh cup, Phil?” she asked, as she laid down the check.

  “No, thank you.” He turned the bill over and laid Martin’s money on it.

  “Sorry your friend didn’t like his breakfast,” she said as she counted out fifty-seven cents in change and placed in on the table along with the check stub.

  “Don’t worry, he’s just a finicky guy,” Philip said, his eyes smiling with inordinate pleasure.

  Priscilla smiled back uncertainly and turned to heed Frank’s insistent commands.

  “Why I tell you over an’ over—we running restaurant, no time chit-chat with customer,” he admonished her as she approached the window.

  “You need to relax, Frank. Don’t you know that stress is the greatest contributor to premature deaths in men your age?” she said, leaving him to ponder his own mortality as she placed eggs, bacon, sausage, buttered grits, cottage fries and cinnamon rolls in front of two corpulent regulars.

  “Enjoy it, boys—the cardiologist is on his way,” Priscilla said, as she swooped back by their table with ketchup and hot sauce. She was searching through her pad for Tobias’ ticket, edging up on the backside of his booth as she leafed through her pad. She stopped just behind him, in a spot that afforded her a view of the writing on his placemat. She cocked her head as she worked out the words Tobias had labored over the better part of an hour. In his oddly large and shaky hand, he had written:

  I walk the streets

  Sunlight pouring over me

  I seek the shadows,

  but the sun won’t let me be

  It mocks my callous features

  So everyone can see

  My life is just a mockery

  Mean ol’ sunlight washing over me

  Stalking, chasing, hounding me

  Cruel and sadistic, it follows me

  Illuminating images all too clearly

  Pointless to deny what they mean to me

  Mean ol’ sunlight washing over me

  Priscilla read the words silently, then read them aloud. “Mean ol’ sunlight washing over me,” she sang softly as she came along side Tobias and set the check on his table. Stunned by her intrusion, he reflexively wadded the paper to hide his work.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to plagiarize you,” she said archly. “I’ve got enough of that stuff to last me a lifetime.”

  She pivoted around and bused the remaining dishes off Phil’s table, collecting as she did his latest artistic offerings. As she reached for the placemat he had folded in half and addressed with the words ‘For Priscilla,’ a twenty-dollar bill slid out and floated gracefully to the table.

  She studied the authoritative penmanship, wondering for the umpteenth time how a man as meek and mild mannered as Philip could wield such a powerful pen. Reading her name the way he had written it actually gave her shivers, for it seemed to carry both an intimacy and a forwardness she wasn’t entirely comfortable with.

  She seized the tip with one hand as she flipped open the paper placemat with the other. There she found a remarkably accurate and flattering portrait of herself. She sighed and refolded it and took both drawings back to where her purse was stashed. Folding them into quarters, she stuffed them in the side pocket. Two more love letters to add to her already abundant collection. As pathetic, unrealistic and unsettling as she found Philip’s attentions toward her, she couldn’t bring herself to toss his daily mementos away.

  Tobias, still in a state of high agitation, tossed the crumbled placemat under the booth, grabbed his wallet, and without even looking at the total, laid down a twenty-dollar bill on top of the check and departed quickly. Priscilla watched him go as she absently wiped down Philip’s table.

  After he had vanished from sight, she moved to his table and collected his coffee cup, wiping down the table and the seat with her rag. She was handing menus to a new table of four when Tobias slunk back in a few minutes later and, as discreetly as possible, extracted his lyrics from the dark, grungy recess underneath the booth.

  Two

  Tobias left the seedy coffee shop for the second time in a hurry, as if he were mindful of being spotted in such a neighborhood. He zigzagged his way to Washington Square then on to Chelsea. It would have made more sense to hail a cab, but he was far too irritated to sit still. For the first fifteen minutes, he silently cursed the nosy waitress for breaking his first productive writing stint in years.

  He berated himself once again for agreeing to this wildly optimistic notion of mounting a comeback. So far, the five or six studio sessions with his former partner had amounted to little more than a stroll down memory lane, accompanied by the sad realization that the time away from the business had dulled their abilities. Only in their last two attempts did they earnestly try to revive the odd snippets of songs they had once dismissed as lacking real potential.

  It had gotten to the point Tobias couldn’t even bring himself to these scheduled sessions anymore. He couldn’t face the fact that the old Absent Among Us, which had produced four gold and two platinum albums, really was dead, and should not be resuscitated.

  By the time he reached Midtown, he had calmed down enough to pull the wadded placemat out of his pocket and analyze the words he had written. To his relief, the lyrics weren’t as dreadful as he had feared. They were far from good, but they weren’t horrible. He found a bench and sat down to study them closer.

  When he had written the first line, he had heard a melody. He closed his eyes and put his head back, trying to summon the faint beginnings of a song. After several attempts, he recalled the notes that inspired the lyrics. Quickly, he read the words, applying the soft, lilting tune to line after line. Gradually, a smile began to spread across his face. He read through the lines again. Before he could finish, he was on his feet, headed for home, breaking into a run as he crossed the larger intersections on changing lights.

  The buoyancy of his mood carried him all the way to his Central Park West apartment, past the doorman, up the elevator, down his corridor and through his front door, where it died the instant he caught sight of his wife and a minor entourage of three playmates du jour.

  “Tobias, how ya doing, man? Fantastic news! Monique was just telling us you’ve got a new album coming out. That’s outstanding, man,” Clarence enthused, as he gripped Tobias’ hand heartily. Tobias nodded and murmured something unintelligible, all that was really required of a celebrity of his stature.

  Jackson Smythie stood and offered his salutations. “Tobias, so good,” he said, smiling in a way that made Tobias’ skin crawl.

  “Smythie, it’s not that I don’t enjoy seeing you,” Tobias said, as he eyed the stacks of fabric swatches piled up on the sofa, “but it seems like we just dispensed with your services a few months ago.”

  “It’s been almost a year,” Monique corrected him, as she handed her designer a martini glass filled to the rim. “You can consider yourself lucky.
You’re getting off with just the dining room, this room and the entry this time.” She took another glass from Lila and handed it to Clarence. “And maybe the powder room.”

  Tobias looked around at his spacious entertaining room, with its dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows and their killer views of the city skyline and Central Park. “I like this room the way it is,” he said to his wife.

  “You’ve never liked this room. You’ve always said it was sterile and cold.”

  “It took me awhile to get used to it, but I like it now.” For some reason, this made everyone laugh.

  “See what I told you,” Monique said to the others. “It’s like this every time. If I didn’t initiate every change, we’d still be living with the atrocious décor of the previous owners—hunting scenes and decoy ducks.”

  Monique’s friends tittered again, this time a little self-consciously. Tobias didn’t bother to tell them he actually liked the way the apartment looked when they bought it. At least then it felt like a home, not a transient party house.

  “We’re having citron martinis. Want one?” Lila asked as she passed one to their hostess.

  Tobias shook his head.

  “We’re going to Picardi’s for lunch,” Monique told her husband. “Why don’t you join us? We’re meeting up with Jimmy and Lulu and some of their friends from Cannes,” she added, as if this would be some sort of enticement.

  It actually gave Tobias a pain in the pit of his stomach to imagine such a scene. “No thanks. I’ve got to get into the studio while I’ve still got things fresh in my head,” he said, already making his departure.

  “Oh sure, man—we understand,” Clarence said, as if he personally knew the burdens of the artistic mind.

  “Just a minute, Tobias—I have to tell you something,” Monique said, as her Christian Louboutin’s clacked noisily across the polished slate floor. Tobias slowed down reluctantly and Monique caught up with him in the hallway.

  Once out of earshot, he stopped and faced her.

  “So, you had a productive day at the studio, then?”

  “Yeah, I think we’re finally making some headway,” Tobias confirmed.

  “Brody called around eleven, said you were a no-show for the third day this week,” she confronted him. Tobias smirked at her cool demeanor, her arms folded across her chest, her eyes narrowed to slits. “He’s this close to calling the whole thing off,” she said, holding thumb and forefinger in front of his face for emphasis. Tobias started to walk away, but Monique trailed him.

  “You may think it’s all a lark, but you need the adoring fans even more than you need the money. Your pool of groupies will dry up at the rate you’re going. Time to attract a younger audience, like the third grade set. Don’t let one little chippie sabotage your big chance, Tobias,” she said, as she hooked him by the elbow and swung him around to face her. “We both need this,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Tobias peeled her fingers off his leather bomber jacket, staring mutely at her all the while. He smiled cryptically and continued down the hall to his wing of the apartment. He passed through his office and his exercise room and entered his soundproof studio, locking the door behind him. He shed his jacket, sunglasses and Yankee’s cap, tossing them on the worn leather sofa as he passed. He plopped down at his keyboard and stared at it for a moment before slouching over it in defeat.

  Several minutes passed before he raised his head and cautiously tapped on a key. He played the note repeatedly, then ventured to another, then both in combination, then added a third. He stopped, replayed a sequence that had formed from the random notes, then repeated it, singing along with it experimentally.

  He shook his head. It just wasn’t right. Too much static in his brain, that’s what the problem was. First the waitress and then his wife. He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind.

  As he sat there, his gaze wandered over the gold and platinum albums that adorned his walls. Music used to be absolutely effortless for him. For almost two decades he had written songs as easily as he slept; now both were a monumental challenge to him.

  During all those years of uncomplicated success, it never occurred to him that some day he would call on his talent and find it wasn’t there. It made him feel hollow and frightened down to the soles of his feet. He wondered if Brody was experiencing the same doubts, but then again, his role was entirely different than Tobias’. Brody could take the simple bare bones of a tune and build it into the most complex and moving melody, with uncanny instrumentation and haunting phrasing.

  When Tobias had made his brief attempt of going it alone, it was evident his songs lacked Brody’s wizardry. But then again, Brody would have nothing to finesse without Tobias; every song they had ever recorded started with his lyrics and basic melody, all one hundred and sixteen of them.

  Tobias looked down at his keyboard. He played the same notes as earlier, but he changed them up. “Sunlight pouring over me,” he sang half-heartedly. Nothing: no spark, no hit song potential, zilch. Damn.

  Anger now replaced his feelings of insecurity. If that stupid waitress hadn’t broken his mood, he’d have this thing in the bag by now. He was so furious, he actually growled as he recalled her voice as she shattered his one concrete hope of pulling this off. “Mean ol’ sunlight washing over me.”

  He sat stock still, not even daring to breathe. “Mean ol’ sunlight wash-ing o-ver me”, he sang tentatively, pausing in the same places as Priscilla had. That was it! He sampled a few keys until he found the one she had sung in, and with that same slow, easy drawl, he mimicked her singing. It was perfect. He let out a peal of laughter and tried it again.

  “Mean ol’ sunlight wash-ing ov-er me,” then, taking it back to the beginning,

  “I walk the streets

  Sunlight pouring over me

  I seek the shadow

  But the sun won’t let me be

  It mocks my callous features

  For everyone to see…”

  Tobias sat back, his fist to his mouth to keep his elation in check. He had it now, and it was no longer in danger of slipping away again. Finally he had something to take to Brody, something that had all the cryptic, moody flavor of their earlier work.

  Though he was beside himself with relief, the irony did not escape him that he may have never hit on the exact tone if it hadn’t been for the waitress. It was the only time he had ever received any help or inspiration with his writing, and it struck him as preposterously funny that it had come from such an unlikely source. A coffee shop waitress, of all people!

  A trace of gratitude crept through his mind, and he thought for a fleeting moment of honoring her in some way: a veiled footnote of thanks on the CD cover, or using her name in a song. But which one—Bobbi, Priscilla, Sammy? The likelihood of her knowing she had helped him, even if he tried to acknowledge it, was remote. She was but one obscure waitress in one dingy eatery out of hundreds like it.

  But oddly enough, the more he thought of her, the more fired up his imagination became. Bobbi, a waitress slinging hash, dispensing worn bits of wisdom in a caustic tone, and inadvertently breaking his creative block with her accidental phrasing. His mind starting spinning with renewed fervor.

  Somehow, the thought of her and her lowly circumstances kicked his mind into high gear, as if encountering her had given him a fresh pair of eyes from which he could observe the world. It was what all his meager efforts of the past few years had lacked: an entirely fresh perspective.

  Tobias glanced at his watch. He was itching to call Brody over for a true work session, but he had made a commitment to Simone that some twisted sense of loyalty propelled him to keep. But perhaps he could swing both; take Simone out for some speed shopping, a bite to eat and a quick but satisfying show of her appreciation, then call Brody as he was leaving her place and arrange for him to meet him back here when he got home. It wasn’t yet two-thirty; surely he had plenty of time.

  As soon as Simone let him into the fancy apartment in Chelsea, Tobias
sensed he’d have trouble keeping to his plan. The reek of marijuana was his first hint; catching sight of the languidly stoned bodies of her two brothers, Josh and Winston, was his second. He had experienced enough situations with this group to know that any outings with these supernaturally good-looking siblings were like babysitting a bunch of five-year-olds, especially when they were stoned. His only chance was to nip this potentially aggravating scenario in the bud.

  “Hey, babe,” he said as he causally bussed Simone’s proffered cheek. “Ready to hit it?” He looked at his watch to indicate his lack of spare time, but Simone failed to assign any real importance to his gesture.

  She giggled as she rejoined the others, taking pleasure in the antics of her long and lanky, pretty-faced brothers.

  Reluctantly, Tobias followed her. If he didn’t stay on her, he’d never get her out of there. Simone picked up the half-smoked joint from the table and took a hit, offering it to Tobias as she choked back her laughter. Tobias waved it away and sighed resignedly at the vision before him. Winston had slid to the floor and was mimicking the actions of the singer on the muted TV. Josh, lost in his own world, played a phantom guitar along with the blaring stereo. Neither seemed aware of Tobias’ presence.

  If he could move fast, this fact might work in his favor, Tobias thought as he snuggled up next to Simone and whispered the names of her favorite shoe designers in her ear. Like a potent aphrodisiac, his words had an instant effect. For a minute there, Tobias thought he could possibly get out of there without spending a cent, but Simone’s rapturous groans caught the attention of Winston, who bumped against Josh’s legs as he scrambled to his feet.

  “Dude!” Winston sang out cheerfully as his long legs carried him over the coffee table to embrace Tobias. All hopes of making a stealthy retreat anywhere vanished as Tobias accepted an affectionate bear hug from Winston, then Josh. If Simone was his irresistible foible of the moment, it was partly due to the broader package of having not one gorgeous face but three to stare at to his heart’s content. For Tobias it was as if he had stumbled on a parallel universe where all creatures were young, ridiculously good-looking, happy and sweet.