Alligators in the Trees

by Cynthia Hamilton

  Philip turned away from her, ostensibly preoccupied by the basketball game on the TV screen across the room.

  “I guess it’s a fair question,” he said at last. “Are you a mindless escape from my troubles? Hmm. I suppose if you define the pleasure I derive from thinking about you when I’m overwhelmed with all the crap on my plate right now as ‘mindless escape,’ then you’ve got me dead to rights.

  “But, on the other hand, if you believe it’s possible for someone to have strong feelings for you for no other reason than because of the person you are, then you should consider my overtures by the sincerity in which I’ve made them.” He finished this last sentence while looking her straight in the eyes.

  Priscilla felt the tables turn once again. Well, this was certainly a night for surprises. She exhaled loudly, a sound somewhere between a wheeze and a sigh. She couldn’t think of any way to respond.

  It definitely gave her a new perspective on a man she had initially written off as a dandified blue blood, momentarily fascinated by the plebeian side of life. There was substance to this man, much more than just an ivy-league education or the uptown address. He had eloquently put her accusation to bed, but had he really told her what he saw in her?

  “Can I see you again?” he asked, breaking into her internal debate. “We can go bowling, catch a movie, eat pizza with pitchers of beer—it’s entirely up to you. I don’t care what we do, as long as I can spend time getting to know you.”

  Priscilla felt a peculiar constriction in her chest. It confounded her that she couldn’t get a handle on this guy. Ordinarily, someone she didn’t have a mutual crush on wouldn’t get to the first date stage; yet here she sat, unable to say no to Philip when he asked to see her again. All she had to do was tell him she was moving to Florida the next day and he’d be blown out of the water. But she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. Instead, she nodded.

  “Great. How about tomorrow?” Priscilla stifled a laugh. “Okay, fine. Here’s my card again—in fact, here are three of them. You call me. I don’t care when, as long as it’s in the next twenty-four hours. No, seriously—call me whenever you’re ready. I’ll wait as long as it takes.” Priscilla took the three business cards with Philip’s cell phone and temporary home number written on the backside and tucked them into her bag.

  “I think we’ve had enough excitement for one evening, don’t you?” he said.

  “Yeah, I sort of feel like I’ve played ten rounds of spin the bottle,” she replied, scooting out of the booth. Philip placed his arm protectively around her as he escorted her through the now crowded bar, his face radiating a smile of pure contentment.

  Fourteen

  Tobias tipped the bellman who assisted him with all the tatty parcels. He tossed his jacket, cap and shades on one of the living room sofas and kicked off his shoes. He arranged the boxes and bags by the other sofa, where he sat and contemplated his latest compulsive act.

  Now that he had this collection of another person’s life’s work in front of him, he wondered what possible use it could have. Sure, it was intriguing to be able to read through someone’s private musings; but it was also a bit embarrassing, when he got right down to it.

  Priscilla told him she had been writing these lyrics, as she called them, since she was ten, and though he imagined the older material might be quaint and even amusing, he feared a lot of it was bound to be painfully amateurish. Still, with all his reservations, he couldn’t help but be tempted by the prospect of exploring another person’s mind.

  He reached for a shopping bag filled with shoeboxes, each containing a dozen or more mid-size spiral note pads. He set the box on his knee while he flipped through the contents. Every page had its own song, some written in pencil, some in colored inks or marking pens.

  As he scanned through a selection of notebooks from the various shoeboxes, he could discern changes in penmanship and sentiment as the writer had gradually matured. He read a few verses out loud, occasionally irked by the young writer’s predictable sentiments. But every now and then he found verses that struck him as remarkably perceptive.

  After a quick perusal of the first bag, he endeavored to make a rough estimate of the number of works this collection contained. It boggled his mind to try to put a figure on it. In all his years of composing lyrics for a living, he hadn’t amassed even one tenth as many works as this waitress had.

  He cast the shoeboxes aside and stood up. It was beyond his ability to imagine what she could’ve felt compelled to commit to paper. His head begin to throb at the mere thought of so many words. What lay before him was almost obscene in its magnitude.

  He helped himself to a whiskey and soda and took a seat at the piano. It was just a comfortable resting place for him; his mind was far too befuddled for creative expression. He straddled the bench, leaning against the piano for support, while he sipped his drink and watched the world outside his window.

  He rubbed his neck and shook his head in wonder. He couldn’t decide which was more baffling: a waitress throwing her life’s written works into the incinerator or him purchasing the whole mess for fifteen thousand dollars.

  The money wasn’t such a big deal; he could find many ways of disposing that sum in the blink of an eye. At least this time it would go to a good cause. The girl was obviously a heartbeat away from being homeless. He cringed at the thought of the slovenly dump he had tracked her to. And she was jobless. What would’ve happened to her if he hadn’t come along? He shuddered to think.

  One thing was for certain—he couldn’t take all this crap back to her and tell her the deal’s off. Even he wouldn’t be able to do that to someone so down and out, although he wished he hadn’t been so cavalier in offering to buy every last page from her. If she had been inclined to burn this burdensome anthology, that was her business and he had no right butting. But more puzzling than this rash act of misplaced chivalry was his manic compulsion to find her in the first place.

  As he sat there, the reason for his desperation came back to him. Now that he had gone to such ridiculous lengths to find her, he seriously questioned the feverish notion that she was his muse. Could a coffee shop waitress really be credited with pulling him through his creative impasse? How exactly had she contributed to his recovery? Wasn’t it just as likely he snapped out of his slump on his own accord?

  And even if she had been instrumental in rousing his talents, did it necessarily follow that her unwitting good turn should be rewarded in such an extravagant manner? It was a hard scenario to sell, and even he wasn’t buying it. No, he sincerely doubted his deeds had anything at all to do with helping the unemployed waitress. As usual, he acted solely to fill some unnamed inner void.

  Tobias rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he took stock of his current situation. Living at the Amsterdam Hotel suited him ideally at this juncture, though he knew he was accumulating some seriously bad karma by avoiding wife, lover and partner in the bargain. He dismissed this minor detail with a breathy snort. They’d just have to get over it.

  The composing was starting to take a significant swing in the right direction, finally, after several false starts. What he now realized about the fledgling songs that once seemed so promising, was how truly lacking in proper inspiration they were. He knew he was in for a battle with Brody trying to convince him the material they had spent a good deal of time and energy on wasn’t worth calling their own, despite his earlier enthusiasm.

  Those sorry excuses for songs now seemed laughable in their feeble attempt at musical worthiness. He might as well have taken a few pages out of Priscilla’s notebooks, for that matter. Writing songs was easy enough; writing exceptional words and music that could stand the test of time and stir others to profound reflection was something altogether different.

  Well, well, well, he thought to himself: it always comes back to the music. Even when he tried to take a hard look at his life, music was the aspect that rose to the top like the foamy head on a beer. Music was what had defined him for years,
yet music—the act of creating it—had been absent for the better part of a decade.

  If he was back to his old self, if he had managed to awaken from his paralyzing dream-world, then he needed to be very vigilant about protecting his metamorphosis. This might involve drastic changes; shedding the people and things that had anesthetized him into a life of inertia. If it were the only way to hang on to his second chance, he was going to have to do it. Whatever it takes was his new motto.

  Full to bursting with resolution and self-discovery, and feeling claustrophobic with Priscilla’s clutter vying for his attention, Tobias grabbed his rudimentary disguise and headed out into the city, for the refreshing anonymity it could provide.

  As soon as he hit the pavement, he became revitalized. The air was fresh with the coolness of an early springtime afternoon, and the four o’clock sun cast a pleasing glow on the shapely legs that darted in and out of taxicabs as the rush hour frenzy commenced.

  Feeling in need of an antidote to the morning’s excursion through the lower end of the island, Tobias walked up Madison to Fiftieth and cut across to Fifth Avenue, heading up to Central Park. If he required proof of the season, he found ample evidence on the pathways that snaked their way through the park.

  The foliage ranged in color from delicate to eye-popping green, and all around him people of every age and background were peeling off unnecessary garments as the sun warmed them. Even Tobias was coaxed into removing his leather jacket, baring arms that seldom saw the light of day. Children frolicked and squealed, while mothers and nannies strolled obliviously down the sun-dappled walks.

  Tobias found a vacant bench in full sun and luxuriated in the happy sights and sounds around him. He had to admit he loved all the seasons for different reasons, but spring had to be the sexiest time of the year, especially in the city. Everyone spent all winter in woolen cocoons, and as soon as the mercury edged above sixty, curvaceous body parts began to emerge.

  He watched contentedly as young women recently released from their desk jobs walked by in twos or threes, their suit jackets draped over an arm or suspended from a bare shoulder, sporting not-so-business-like footwear in shades that rivaled anything nature could dish up.

  He took a long, deep breath, a grin spreading across his face as large and self-satisfied as the Cheshire Cat’s. He wouldn’t have traded his ringside seat in this springtime parade for anything.

  It was only natural that watching such a delightful procession would turn his mind to thoughts of Simone. If there was any downside to his self-imposed asylum, it was being out of touch with his model of the moment.

  There is a reason why lovely young ladies are employed to advertise everything from toothpaste to automobiles: they embody, albeit for a limited length of time, all the ingredients society simply can’t resist. They are the custodians of creamy, unblemished skin; clear, unlined eyes; flawless smiles that promise everything from fidelity to untamed sexual desires,; and the picture-perfect bodies that only a tiny fraction of mere mortals possess. So was it any mystery why he had an almost unquenchable thirst for them?

  As much as Tobias wanted to see his young mistress, he couldn’t bring himself to forfeit his newfound liberty. He might spend half a day basking in the glow of her affections, but what happened when he wanted to slip back to his life incognito? Simone was sweet and pliable, but she could be demanding in her own way.

  Besides, he would have to endure a number of reproaches for having vanished without a word before he could have access to her pleasures. Just imagining her grievances got Tobias up and walking, for her voice would be only one in a chorus of three once he decided to come out of hiding. But then again, why would he want to do that?

  The traffic on the street had doubled since he had taken refuge in the park. He made a quick dash across Central Park South, risking life and limb as he bobbed through the alternating lurch/creep of the vehicles as they pulsed down the choked avenues. Taking his cue from the assortment of folks pushing through the portals of the Plaza Hotel, Tobias stepped through the door and headed for the Oyster Bar, where he indulged in two dozen oysters.

  After a couple of beers and fair amount of eavesdropping, he decided to up his ante. He paid his tab and took his patronage to the other side of the Hotel, taking one of the last available tables in the Oak Room, where he ordered a cognac and a Hoyo de Monterrey.

  This elegant refuge suited his mood as long as the cigar lasted, but he became restless again. Since the early days of his success, he had never lacked for companionship, always having either a partner, girlfriend or spouse by his side, and often a crowd of some dimension, usually of Monique’s choosing.

  Now, because of his decision to go solo for a while, he alone was responsible for his comings and goings, his next move and the one after that. And though he enjoyed the freedom, he also keenly felt the loneliness of autonomy. He was aware of the way he moved through crowds and buildings, always seeming in more of a hurry than he really was. His independence spurred him into a more purposeful mode.

  And though, in reality, he had an abundance of time on his hands, he did not feel comfortable lingering in any one spot for very long. It was one thing to blend into a crowd and feed off the conversations of those around him, but to wander museums or galleries or take in a movie day after day would make him despise the sound of his own inner voice.

  As Tobias pushed through the revolving doors and out onto the front steps of the Plaza, he was looking forward to the single item on his immediate itinerary: his appointment with Priscilla the following day. It made him feel rather pathetic to admit his life had shrunk to such a small scale, but it had been his call.

  All he had to do was show up at home and he could reenter his real life without skipping a beat. That was his trump card, and because of it he realized his loneliness was only situational.

  All the same, he wouldn’t have minded sitting down and chatting to some simpatico soul over a nice, tongue-loosening cocktail. He changed his course and headed down toward the West Village, where there were plenty of drinking establishments devoted to freeing inhibitions and sparking new alliances.

  Though it was still early in the evening, Tobias found a welcoming bar deep in the throes of happy hour high-jinx. The mood was convivial bordering on delirious, so it took very little effort to assimilate into a nearby conversation.

  Things were bobbing along on an amiable cloud of similar likes and opinions, until it eventually occurred to someone that Tobias bore a remarkable resemblance to the lead singer in Absent Among Us. Several others had to be persuaded, while Tobias kept his head low, saying nothing. The spell had been broken.

  Without any protest from him, it became obvious they had a mega celebrity in their midst. After that, everything changed. He was no longer looked upon as a regular Joe, but as the big star. A hushed reverence gradually gave way to solemn confessions of adoration, followed by cocktail napkins and ballpoint pens.

  If he ever reached the day when there was no one alive who knew his music, he might wish for this experience. But raising him up to the status of idol had effectively isolated him once again. He wasn’t just a normal person, he was Tobias Jordan. He excused himself on the pretext of needing to visit the loo, slipped the waitress a hundred dollar bill to apply to the group’s tab, and exited out the backdoor into the alley.

  The incident in the bar left Tobias feeling vaguely disturbed. Paranoia was searching for a foothold in the back of his mind, and he did his best to play it down. He wasn’t afraid of the public, nor was he afraid of being forced into a solitary existence. That was just a fluke, being recognized like that, he told himself as he hailed a cab. The great majority of the time he went completely unnoticed, thanks to his concealing mode of dress.

  He ignored the fact he almost always frequented places where he was known and his celebrity was proudly guarded, or in the attendance of others who knew how to properly chaperon a star of his magnitude. Though he liked to believe his band had enjoyed only an a
bove-average success, thereby giving him fame that had no more shelf life than an ordinary battery, the royalties he received on a continuous basis clearly disputed that self-deprecating notion.

  Tobias checked his watch once safely ensconced in the back of a cab. It was almost eight o’clock. He had the driver drop him at P. J. Clark’s, as he had a sudden hankering for a burger. As if to prove his anonymity, he had chosen a place that was boisterous and busy, and not quite as conducive to striking up new acquaintances than the last place.

  He ate his burger at an inconspicuous table positioned on the periphery of the dining room, allowing him a good view of all the comings and goings around him. He sat alone, declining to remove any part of his inadequate disguise, as he absorbed tidbits of conversations from nearby tables.

  Eventually, Tobias’s mind wandered back to the inconvenient heap of words strewn across the floor of his rented living room. The sheer volume was the thing he found so hard to comprehend. How did that girl find so much inspiration from everyday life? Taken in total, it was far too much everyday life, so much so that it became monotonous.

  Tobias had become so distracted by these thoughts, he left his check untouched until the waitress made a point of telling him she’d be happy to take care of it when he was ready. Embarrassed, he immediately paid his bill, leaving a larger tip than necessary. But he wasn’t in any hurry to dash out into the night. He needed a plan, and to that end he relocated to the bar where he ordered a beer and assimilated into the crowd.

  He soon became aware of a marked interest coming from some of the female patrons. At first he was too genuinely distracted to recognize the potential of their overtures, but his natural instincts kicked in when an absolutely stunning blonde sidled up next to him and offered him a warm hello.

  Their light, cordial conversation rapidly evolved into sharing the first table that became available. The blonde, whose name was Eva, allowed Tobias to buy her another martini. Tobias switched from beer to Bushmills, neat, and from that point on, things quickly heated up. After a mere hour in her company, it was plain she was leaving the next move up to him.