by Joe Schwartz
Spooked by the unexpected poke, Vincent turned around. He held a stack of CDs without cases by both hands. For a brief second, Jeannie’s mind flashed to a portrait she loved in a coffee-table book titled, “Masterpieces of the Renaissance Age.” In this light, with his hood standing at a crisp peak, he looked similar to the picture of a priest contemplating a skull.
Before she could offer him the drinks, he said, “You have to write the song down, then put it in the basket.”
“The song?”
Vincent set the silver discs down and showed her a glued three by three-inch notepad. They were request slips on which a person would write down the artist, the song, and their name to be called when it was their turn.
“Here,” she said. “You looked thirsty.”
Dismayed, he stood still. He had made it a point to remain as invisible as he possibly could. Even though his line of work was dependent on the public, interaction with them was not.
“Okay,” he said, “Thanks, I guess.”
Vincent set the drinks on a small, separate table void any electronics. He felt awkward as she remained before him. By any man’s standards she was beautiful.
“Do you want to sing?”
“Me?” she asked herself. “Aw, hell no. There ain’t enough liquor in this bar to do that crazy shit.”
“You and me both. I don’t know what the hell it is about this stuff that gets these people so excited, but I’m glad it does.”
“That’s funny,” she said, “every time I’ve been to one of these things the host warms up the crowd.”
“I don’t do that.”
“So why did you buy all this shit,” she said panning her drink over the enormous speakers, the black boxes with blinking green and red lights, and a set of four microphones.
“I used to be in a band.”
“That’s cool,” Jeannie said. “What band?”
“Trust me, you never heard of us.”
“You doing this until you can get in another band?”
“No,” he said. “No more bands. I’m too old for that shit anymore.”
“You’re never too old to rock-n-roll,” Jeannie said. When Vincent didn’t respond, she nervously occupied herself by drinking her beer. Undaunted by his lack of enthusiasm towards her she asked, “So this is it now? You just sit back sipping free drinks from Karaoke groupies?” It was meant to be a joke, but Vincent didn’t laugh.
“Mostly. Except for the groupies part.”
She knew it wasn’t meant as a joke. Notwithstanding, she found his self-deprecation amusing.
Her honest laughter was a refreshing change. Vincent’s normal defenses fell and before he realized it, he admitted to her something that he had told no one else.
“I write now,” he said. A flush of embarrassment struck him. He had suddenly began to sweat underneath the hoodie he used to disguise his unsightly figure and face. “It’s weird stuff. Probably nothing anybody will ever read. I’ve submitted a few short stories to magazines on-line, but whatever. Who gives a shit about art anyway?” Vincent reached for his beer and greedily consumed its cool contents. He knew he needed to shut-up.
The basket that had been littered with a few lone scraps now overflowed with hand written, barely legible requests.
The clock above the bar, set fifteen minutes fast regardless of what bar in America you stood in, signaled Karaoke was about to begin.
“I think I better get started before there’s a riot.”
“I’m Jeannie,” she said with her hand extended, expecting him to be polite and take it.
“What?” he said. It wasn’t that he hadn’t heard what she said. It was that she had bothered to go this far.
“My- name- is- Jean-nie,” she said slowly, as if speaking with a dummy. “What- is- yours?”
This time he laughed.
Her hand was a smaller, but as exceedingly bony as his own. Her palm was smooth yet he could distinguish the raise of calluses against his fingertips. He hoped he was doing this right. It wasn’t often beautiful, strange women offered any part of their body to him.
“Me llamo Vincent,” he said.
“Como estas, Senior Vincent.”
They both laughed.
“Besides good morning, good night, and where’s the bathroom, that’s all I know,” she said.
“Me, too.”
“Have a good show.”
“Thanks.”
Vincent had to force himself to concentrate on his work. Randomly reaching into the basket, he called the first name over the PA and played the music for the requested Conway Twitty tune. While a young, black kid sang pitch perfect to the recording, Vincent scanned the room but could no longer see her.
***
Jeannie sat on a toilet in the ladies room. Her panties around her ankles, two squares of tissues held limply in her hand, she still hadn’t peed. The bass thump from the speakers could be heard through the wall, but it was impossible to discern the song that played. Out of habit, she wiped herself, flushing the clean water away.
She stood at a distance from the mirror. Her appearance was fine, perfect as when she had left home. Still, she teased her hair a bit before she washed her hands. Her cell phone twittered to life in her pocket while she dried. She knew who it was before she reached into her skintight denims to answer it.
“Hey, baby,” Steve said, “How’s it going?”
The background noise of music and other women using the bathroom forced her to put a finger in her open ear to hear him. The normally blunt Steve sounded happy. Not like when he was drunk but more equivalent to having heard a good joke and still amused by it.
Without thinking she answered honestly. “Things are going good. I met Vincent and we talked. He seems nice enough.”
Steve’s humorous tone vanished. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” she rhetorically accused him. “I did exactly what you said to do. I met the guy, introduced myself, and made damn sure I got his attention.”
Jesus Christ, Steve thought. He could remember mostly what he had told her last night, despite his disabled state of mind. This, however, was not the reaction expected. He was anticipating a litany of verbal abuse. Something more along the lines of ‘How could you do this to me?’ or ‘Why didn’t you tell me this guy was uglier than a gorilla’s asshole?’
“What did he think about you?” Steve asked.
“I don’t know. He’s a weird guy.”
“No shit.”
“I don’t mean weird like creepy, more like it’s strange for a smart guy like him to be doing some stupid shit like this for a living. He’d make a better librarian.”
Steve couldn’t speak. His mind was in overdrive with what she had told him. He had never heard anyone expect for his wife say anything similar about Vincent. He had hoped she would be repulsed, that she would dump this whole idea, and go on happy about the good thing they had leaving behind all this ‘wanting more’ crap.
“Hello? Hello?” Jeannine asked. Afraid the call might have dropped, she checked the phone’s display. Five incremental bars clearly showed the connection held strong. Jeannie placed the phone back to her ear. “Are you still there? I can’t hear you nod, Steve.”
“Yeah,” he said, “Sorry about that. I was thinking.”
“I can barely hear you,” Jeannie lied. Nothing pissed her off more than when Steve became distant.
“I’ll see ya tomorrow then.”
“What?” she yelled, pretending she couldn’t hear him.
“I said I’ll see---”
Jeannie closed the phone and turned off the power. What the fuck his problem was, it was his alone. This was all his idea. If she could get Vincent’s virgin ass interested, she would be in like Flint. Birthday parties, Fourth of July’s, Thanksgivings, and Christmases could be theirs to share. So what if it was all a game. She had no problem with fucking one guy while using another.
She laughed as she
walked back into the dimly lit barroom. An obese, young woman was grinding out Alanis Morrisette’s ‘You Oughta Know’ complete with lyrical pantomime. She was drunk, and there was no doubt that somebody had recently broken her heart. If one of these derelicts played his cards right tonight, there was no doubt she would let him fuck her fat brains out.
Jeannie saw Vincent behind her. He sat as sullen as Poe’s raven upon his bust, ready for her to finish. A white slip in his hand, prepared to call out the next in line, he saw Jeannie at the bar. With a shrug, he smiled at her. She smiled back, pretending to gag herself with her finger in reference to the singer. Once again, they both laughed.
***
The Waffle House at two-thirty in the morning was a funhouse without mirrors. After the Seven-Ten Split closed, Jeannie had waited for Vincent. It didn’t take much to put away the mics and tarp the PA speakers. The restaurant was busy, but they were quickly seated. A hostess, adorned in a brown head kerchief, presumed them a couple and escorted them to a booth. The table was hardly able to accommodate one meal, much less two. Without a moment’s hesitation, they ordered coffee and pancakes.
In the meantime, though still surrounded by drunks, the noise became senseless. Occasionally spikes of other people’s conversations made it impossible to hear the jukebox.
The light inside was a drastic change from the bar. It was bright, dispelling all shadows. Vincent was sure whatever illusion had been upheld in the bar’s dimness by this woman would certainly be eradicated by the restaurant’s unforgiving illumination. Jeannie ironically felt the same way of herself.
Where Vincent was self-conscious of his unkempt hair and red scarred cheeks, Jeannie wished she could reapply her make-up. With no recourse for their individual appearances, they drank their coffee slowly to avoid talking.
The waitress brought their order, then hurried to the next. It was the bar rush and most of the customers were fairly intoxicated. The best thing to keep the retches satisfied was hot food and lots of coffee served with lightning efficiency. There was nothing worse than a hungry, drunken asshole.
Jeannie chose the strawberry-flavored syrup. It had been hours since she had last eaten and each bite seemed to make her hungrier for the next.
Vincent smiled as the red sap dribbled down the sides of her chin.
Jeannie looked up at him. Through a mouthful of pancakes, she asked, “What?”
“Nothing,” he said.
***
The car would not start. Vincent had connected the jumper cables, revved his engine, but an hour and a quarter tank of gas later it was simple. The battery was dead.
Jeannie sat in the van’s passenger seat. Except for the two front seats there was nothing inside. The floor in the rear was covered by a piece of misshapen carpet that was obviously recycled from the dumpsters. With its tinted black windows and all steel sides, it was the kind of vehicle she had spent her whole life avoiding.
She had cracked her window and was smoking after having asked Vincent’s permission. He said he could care. Jeannie could clearly hear the car’s uncooperative click, click, click. She knew it was a lost cause before he told her.
Back inside the van, Vincent held his hands over the vents like a campfire. His pale skin had reddened from the cold.
“I guess I should call a cab,” Jeannie said.
“That’s stupid,” Vincent said. It instantaneously struck him how asinine his comment sounded. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean you were stupid. I meant---”
“I know what you meant, but I don’t exactly live around here.”
“That’s cool. I don’t mind, but on the other hand…”
Jeannie closely eyed him. She didn’t need a picture drawn for her to know what he was thinking.
“How far is your place?”
“Maybe ten minutes down the road. It’s not the Taj Mahal, but it’s decent.”
“What the hell,” Jeannie said, “let’s go.”
***
Vincent’s apartment was a typical one-bedroom bachelor’s place. Jeannie stood in the middle of the front room from which if she took two steps to her right she would be the kitchen. A small square area a blind man wouldn’t call a hallway was divided by two doors. Both doors wide open revealed an extremely sparse bedroom and a fairly clean bathroom.
The walls of the apartment were decorated thoroughly in posters for metal bands, gore movies, and occasionally a photo of Vincent. The latter being was what she found interesting. While he busied himself, trying to pick up empty beer cans and dirty clothes, she compared the guy he was then with who he was now. In the pictures he wore white face paint with red streaks meant to look like dripping blood. His strawberry blonde hair had been dyed coal black. In every picture he looked so serious, but so did the three other guys she presumed to be the remainder of the band. Despite the make-up and the sourpuss expressions, she could tell they were young kids then, having the time of their lives. Jeannie wished she had something like this as a watermark to her life. Since leaving home at seventeen, she had done nothing to speak of unless you counted having two abortions as something to be proud.
Vincent came into the front room with a pillow, a sheet, and a blanket. She was mildly ashamed of the assumption she had made in the van. It was refreshing that there were still some men in this world who didn’t expect what she had grown accustomed to giving in trade. She had never felt safer alone with a man.
Finished with the couch, Jeannie was blown away by his skill. She thought even Nurse Dugan would approve of the tidy bed he had assembled.
Vincent, though, seemed edgy. Something was on his mind, something important enough that Jeannie figured he’d let the cat out of the bag soon enough. Relaxed, she sat on her freshly made bed, waiting on him to either speak his piece or bid her goodnight.
Out of habit, she set a cigarette to her lips, then paused with her lighter before her face. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Now, that’s funny,” Vincent said. He opened pair of doors below his meager television, pulled out a tray, and set it on the coffee table. A pipe obviously used to smoke marijuana and a sandwich baggie full of the stuff lay before them both. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“Vincent,” she said, “I never thought I would be so happy my car broke down in my whole life.”
After four bowls apiece, Jeannie couldn’t remember going to sleep.
***
The next afternoon she awoke with the start of awaking a foreign place. She stepped to the bathroom, took an enormous pee, swabbed her mouth out with toothpaste using her finger to brush, and came back to the couch.
She could see Vincent from where she sat sleeping face down on his bed. He was still fully clothed except for his bare feet. It was more a surprise to her she hadn’t woke up next him than on his comfortable couch.
Jeannie grabbed for her cigarettes that were lying next to the dope tray. She enjoyed as much as needed that first daily hit of nicotine as she deeply inhaled. The sun was full and bright, but did not enter against the turned blinds. Jeannie could hear the cars regularly pass on the nearby highway and she wondered what time it might be.
She found her pants under the blanket, theorizing she must have removed them while she slept. The phone was still lodged in her right front pocket. Jeannie held the power button for one second and waited for the digital display to appear. The phone’s clock read one-eighteen p.m., this however, she did not find disconcerting. What alarmed her was the icon for her voicemail blinking full.
Jeannie punched another button and held the phone to her ear. A feminized robot voice announced, “Message one,” followed by a short beep. It was Steve. Pushing the number three, the same robot voice told her, “Message erased. Message two.” It was Steve and again, she deleted without listening. By the time she had opened the thirtieth voicemail, she disconnected from her messages by pressing the red button marked ‘END.’ He had called every ten minutes since she had hung up on him in the ladies room. The few messages sh
e had actually listened to, he was drunk. Served him right she thought. Until there was a ring on her left hand, she was free to do what she pleased. She hoped he was in agony right now, the same kind she experienced every time she sat like a goddamn dog at her window waiting on him to come Sunday mornings.
The phone rang before she had thought to tun the power off. It’s ring-tone seemed loud in the still apartment. In an effort not to awaken Vincent, she quickly answered. It was no mystery to her who was calling.
“Hello,” she said.
“Where the fuck are you?” Steve demanded.
“None of your business.”
“You fucking whore!”
“Fuck you. Remember whose idea this shit was to begin with.”
She noticed Vincent had begun to stir. Jeannie had been trying to be quiet, but found it particularly difficult not to be led by her emotions with Steve.
Vincent was definitely awake. Propped up on his elbows, he smiled at the sight of her.
Jeannie pointed to the phone and mouthed ‘my mom’ to him. He shook his head, something between saying he understood and whatever. Out of his bed, he went to the bathroom. Even with the door closed, she could hear the strong sound of his urination. It took her a second re-focus on her phone conversation.
Steve hadn’t stopped talking. She heard him say, “trailer,” reclaiming her attention to his futile rant.
“Two hours I waited and called and waited before I fucking knew it. I had no choice, but to go back home. Now I’m fucking stuck at my kids’ basketball game.”
“So what,” she said.
“So what? I’ll tell you so what, bitch. This thing ends now. It was a stupid idea anyhow.”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “In fact, I think its probably one of the smartest things you’ve ever done.”