by Jeff Gomez
Despite being tucked away in the corner, the parking lot around DISContent is crowded. Mark gets nervous, thinking that all the cars belong to people who are there to see him. He’d been afraid earlier in the day that no one would show up—that DISContent would be deserted—but now he’s afraid of the opposite. He parks the car, lets out a huge breath, and realizes he’s going to play music in front of people for the first time in decades.
Going through the double doors, Mark can’t believe what he sees. The place is huge. It’s at least four times the size it used to be when it was around the corner. Back then, they had a wall of vinyl and maybe three aisles of CDs. Now they’re selling what looks like an acre of vinyl, CDs and DVDs, along with T-shirts, posters, headphones, and assorted knick-knacks (some related to music and some not).
In the back, along the far wall, sandwiched between a small section of musical gear and a wall of kids’ toys, there’s a stage. Two speakers sit on either side, while four microphones on stands and a pair of barstools sit in front of a white cinder block wall. About two-dozen people are lined up around the stage, while another dozen or so are scattered throughout the store, browsing.
“You’re Mark Pellion, right?”
Mark looks and sees a young guy standing next to him. He’s wearing a DISContent nametag that says BILLY.
“Yeah. I’m here for the—thing.”
“Cool. I’m the manager. Your friend’s already back there, getting set up.”
Mark looks and sees Gary stand up from behind a blue sign that says WATER BOTTLES 2 FOR $10.
“Thanks,” Mark says. “I’ll go and, uh, get set up, too.”
“Great.” Billy turns to the store. “This is quite a crowd. I’ll tell you, we never get this many people in here on a weekday.”
Mark grins.
I’ve still got it.
Walking away, Billy says under his breath, “Let’s just hope they buy something.”
Gary approaches Mark.
“Hey, listen. Before we get started, I just want to say sorry for the other day.”
Mark waves his hands.
“Don’t worry about it. Obviously there’s still some stuff between us.”
“Yeah, but—I shouldn’t have let it get to me like that. Normally I’m okay. It’s just—I don’t know. You being back in town has brought out a lot of stuff.”
Mark laughs nervously. “I’d hate to think you’d been feeling like that for the past twenty years.”
They spot Dave coming in through the double doors. Gary waves at him.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Gary says. “I have been feeling like that for the past twenty years. It’s just worse now that you’re here.”
Before Mark can respond, Dave approaches.
“Fellas, I have good news. The show is sold out.”
“Holy shit,” Gary says.
Mark doesn’t know how to react. He’s simultaneously happy and terrified.
“Found out last night, just in time to add it to this.” Dave unfolds a copy of the Kitty Courier, opens it to a page and shows it to Mark and Gary. It’s an ad for Saturday’s show, featuring a picture of them from 1993. The top says THE ORIGINAL LINEUP, FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY and below that KITTY’S VERY OWN BOTTLECAP. Above the picture a starburst declares SOLD OUT.
“That’s fucking amazing,” Gary says.
Before Dave can answer, Billy comes up and taps each of them on the shoulder.
“Five minutes, guys, okay?”
Mark sees that the crowd in front of the stage has grown larger. There’s no more space, so people trail down the various aisles. Near the entrance Mark spots a TV camera on a tripod, next to a well-dressed woman holding a microphone.
Dave says, “No problem, Billy. We’re all set to go. Thanks.”
In a daze, Mark climbs onto the stage, gets out the guitar, and makes sure it’s in tune. Gary joins him.
“Quite a crowd, eh?”
Mark tries not to get nervous. He swallows hard and does his best to push away the stage fright.
“Yeah, quite a crowd.”
Mark and Gary climb onto their barstools. Mark leans forward and says into the microphone, “One—two, one—two.”
He hears his voice reverberate through the store. He strums a few chords while Gary does the same. The notes linger in the air. It sounds good. From the front of the store, Billy gives them the thumbs up. Mark looks to Gary. Gary nods. Mark looks at the crowd. Most of them are old, men in their forties or fifties. A few of them look even older than that. Mark spots gray hair, glasses, bald heads.
“Hi, uh, we’re Bottlecap.”
There’s a bit of feedback and then silence until Gary leans forward and adds, “Well, we’re two thirds of Bottlecap.”
This gets a laugh. The ice is broken.
Gary counts off. They play “Parisian Broke.” It sounds really good, the audience clapping when they’re done. Gary grins, and even Mark begins to have fun. The woman Gary was talking to before is writing in a notebook and Mark can see a glowing red light on top of the camera. People in the crowd are filming them, too; everyone holds up their phones.
Heads are nodding. People are singing along. It’s just like it used to be. There’s applause. There’s an energy in the air. It feels like the gigs used to feel way back in the day.
But, slowly, a sadness begins to creep into the growing sense of triumph.
Should I have been doing this all these years? What did I lose when I turned off this part of me? What did I gain?
Before Mark knows it, they’ve played the four songs and he’s saying “thank you” over and over while the crowd cheers.
As Gary and Mark step off stage, Dave is the first one to approach them.
“Guys, that was fucking awesome.” He leans over and whispers in Mark’s ear. “There’s a newscaster here. She’d like to do an interview. You up for it?”
Mark swallows.
“Sure.”
“Great, let me go get her.”
Gary leans over, gives Mark a hug.
“That was fucking awesome, man. It really felt like old times. I tell you, I cannot wait for Saturday night.”
“Yeah.” Mark smiles, shyly. “Me too.”
Down on all fours, scrubbing the toilet, Craig tries to remember the last woman he had over. No one comes to mind. He recalls a few dinners, and meeting one or two women for a drink, but he never brought any of them home. He dated a bit after he and Gemma split up, once he’d looked up all the women he’d met or been attracted to during his marriage. But none of that went anywhere. Each of the women he contacted told him it was too soon, that he was just rebounding. They all said to “take some time” in order to find out who he “really is.”
There was a girl he liked at his last job. They flirted occasionally and, a few weeks after he got the job at Seatr, he gave her a call. She was young but not too young, attractive but not too attractive. Craig thought he had a shot. When he suggested getting together sometime for a bite, she just laughed. “Craig, I don’t think of you like that.” The way she said it made him feel like a fool.
He runs out of Ajax, so Craig just sprays a bunch of Windex into the toilet bowl. Then he takes a shower. Getting out, he pauses to look at his reflection in the mirror. He sees the extra pounds on his hips and gut, the various flabby pouches scattered around his chest and back. When he started at Seatr, he meant to start jogging again. Maybe join a gym. Lose ten pounds. He wanted it to be a fresh start. But none of that happened. He dries off and gets dressed, puts on a pair of new boxers, his designer jeans, and a gingham shirt he ironed that morning.
As he’s doing one more round of tidying up in the living room—trying to track down cases for all the loose DVDs scattered on the entertainment center—there’s a knock on the door. Craig’s heart begins to beat fast. He takes three shallow breaths, runs across the room, and slowly opens the door.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Ashley walks in. Craig takes her p
urse, only to put it down on the ground right next to where she’s standing. She’s wearing a knee-length skirt, patterned blouse. Flats. He was hoping for something a bit sexier.
“Did you find the place okay?”
“Yeah.” Ashley sits down on the couch. “My gynecologist is right around the corner.”
Craig doesn’t quite know how to respond to this, so he just shakes his head and offers her something to drink.
“Sure,” Ashley says. “Wine?”
“I think I might have something along those lines.” Craig tries to sound suave, but even he finds it unconvincing.
When he goes to his small kitchen and gets the two glasses out of the cabinet, all he hears is the sound of glass knocking together. He forgot to put on music. To set the mood.
“Don’t tell me,” Ashley calls out from the other room. “Your ex-wife took all the furniture.”
Craig reenters the room. He hands Ashley her wine. When he does she pops something into her mouth, takes a sip, and swallows.
“What makes you say that?” he says.
“Probably because I’m the only thing in the room not from Ikea.”
“I just wanted to start over, you know? Not have a bunch of stuff that had a bunch of emotional attachments to it.”
Craig doesn’t know where to sit. Right next to her on the couch seems too close, too presumptuous. But in the chair across the room is too far away and awkward. So he just stands there, sipping his wine.
“Yeah, but this stuff looks just like your dorm room at college.” She takes another sip. “And for God’s sake, will you sit down?”
Craig takes a quick sip and then sits down next to her.
“Listen, Ashley. Thanks for coming over. It’s great and I—it means a lot to me. To see you again. You’re all I’ve been thinking about since Saturday.”
Ashley nods, sips her wine.
“And, well, it’s just great. To see you again. And I just—well, I want you to know that.”
“That’s great, Craig.” When Ashley speaks, her voice sounds almost robotic. Craig thinks back to the lightness she used to have, how she would almost glow. Now she seems different. Dulled. “So, have you lived here a long time?”
“Yeah,” Craig says. “Few years now. I moved in here right after the divorce.”
“Must have been hard.”
“It was. I felt like a failure for a long time. Like I’d let down not just Gemma and my parents, but myself, too. But, you know, you have to pick up the pieces of your life and move on.”
“No, I meant the move. That must have been hard.” Ashley motions to the door with her wineglass. “Lots of steps. Skinny hallways.”
Craig finishes his drink in one big gulp. It instantly goes to his head. He meant to have lunch, but didn’t.
“So, do I get a tour, or what?”
“Sure. Well, this is the living room/dining room combination.”
Craig points to his entertainment center, on top of which sits the cheapest flat screen TV you can buy on the American market. There are cabinets below for stereo components and CDs, but all of that stuff is in storage. All he has is the cable box and a DVD player. The dining room table only has two chairs, which he never thought was depressing until that very second.
“Wow, Craig. You’ve done really well for yourself.”
“Ash, please.”
“Don’t call me Ash.”
“I’m getting my life back together, Ash. It wasn’t easy, you know.”
Craig starts to panic.
This isn’t going the way I wanted.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to snap.”
She drains the last of her wine and sets the glass on the floor.
“Why don’t you show me the rest of the place?”
Craig gets up. He leads Ashley back toward the door, and then down the hallway.
“There’s the bathroom. And here …” He steps aside and lets Ashley walk in front of him. “Here’s the bedroom.”
Ashley stops at the doorway. There’s nothing in the room except a bed and a nightstand. Above the bed, centered on the wall, is a nail with nothing hanging on it. Ashley steps into the room. Craig follows her. When she turns to face him, he takes her in his arms and kisses her. Her mouth is so dry his tongue gets stuck on her teeth. But he keeps going, kissing and inching her closer and closer to the bed.
Opening one eye, he notices that the blinds are up. Sunlight streams into the room. Craig kicks himself for not lowering them earlier. The room is bathed in light, which only serves to remind them that it’s the middle of the afternoon and they really shouldn’t be doing this. But they don’t stop. As she unbuttons his shirt, he looks down and watches her hands. He didn’t notice this the other day, at lunch, but they look old. Each hand has wrinkles and dots he suspects are age spots.
“Kiss me.” Ashley says this with no trace of romance. Her eyes are closed and, between the paleness of her skin and the sun on her body, she looks like a cadaver. Craig lowers her to the bed and unbuttons her blouse. Her bra clasps in the front, with a little bow in between the cups. He takes off the bra and unzips her skirt, pulling it down inch by inch. He rolls down her stockings and then slides off her panties. Her eyes still closed, the light still harsh, and now fully naked, she looks even more like a corpse. She repeats, “Kiss me.”
“Get off me.”
Craig rolls over, sinking into the mattress. Ashley pulls up the sheet, covering herself. The light’s barely changed. Ashley feels a wet spot on her thigh, already drying.
Craig says, “Sorry I was so quick.”
Ashley shrugs. The whole thing lasted less than ten minutes.
She looks over and sees him smiling. That stupid grin. The one that got her into this mess. She says, “What’s so funny?”
“I’m just—I don’t know.”
“What? Spill it.”
She kicks him under the covers. Hard.
“It’s just—I’m glad we’re back together again. Well, not together, together, but we’re in each other’s lives. We have, you know,” Craig points to the bed, “this.”
“Craig, I don’t know what you think this is. I don’t really know what it is, either. But we are not back together.”
“I know, I know. But I want to see you again. I want to spend time with you. I want you to be mine. Again.”
Ashley pulls away from him slowly.
“Why?”
“Because I still love you.”
She closes her eyes, tight. She wishes she could do the same thing with her ears.
“Ash?”
“For fuck’s sake, stop calling me that.”
“I love you, Ash.”
Ashley stares out the door, into the hallway, her back to Craig.
“I’m sorry, Ash. To have said that. It’s too soon, I know. I’m just happy to see you again. I don’t have a lot in my life so this—you—mean a lot to me.”
“Craig, I can’t—I’m not going to lead a double life. I barely have energy for the one I have now.”
He leans in, kisses her neck and then her shoulder, planting kisses up and down her back. She pulls away.
“Fine, you don’t want to do the part-time thing,” he says. “I get that. So why don’t we make it more permanent?”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying—I don’t know. Let’s give it a shot. You know, try again.”
“What about Andrew?”
Craig shrugs.
“I don’t know. He leaves. Or you leave.”
Ashley thinks of their mortgage. The joint bank account. Life insurance. All of the paperwork that’d be involved. She doesn’t think she could handle it.
“Craig, I don’t think you’ve really thought this through.”
“No, Ash, I haven’t. But is that such a bad thing? My god, look at us. Look at the lives we’re leading. Why not try for something else?”
“What? With each other?”
“Yes.” Crai
g’s voice rises. He’s getting excited. He was like that a lot in his twenties. She wonders how often he’s like that now. “What’s stopping us?”
“You can’t be with me right now. You just—can’t.”
“Look, I know Andrew’s still in the picture. I’m fine with that. For a little while, anyway.”
“That’s not just it. There’s—other stuff.”
“Like what?”
“Like lots of stuff.” She pulls the sheet up to her chin. “For example, my job. I hate my job.”
“That’s—it?”
“For starters, yes.”
“Ash, that’s not bad.”
“I told you, don’t call me Ash.”
“Ash, that’s great.”
“How is that great?”
“It means we can both make a clean start.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You think I like my job? Working inside a never-ending Ping-Pong tournament with people half my age? Besides, we just got sold, or merged, or something.”
“What are you saying?”
“I don’t know, I’m saying—I don’t like my job. You don’t like your job.” He looks around the room. “This place means nothing to me. My lease is month to month. So why don’t we—”
“What? Why don’t we what?”
“Try to get it right.”
“And what does that mean, exactly?”
He rubs his chin.
“I guess you’re right. I haven’t thought it through that far. But we could go away. We could leave Kitty at the very least. Find a new place to live. Get new jobs. Get new lives. Be new people.”
Her body tightens.
“Craig, this is only the second time I’ve seen you in decades, and we didn’t exactly end things back then on a high note.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right. How about—maybe we just meet up on Saturday night, and see how it goes. Okay? My work’s having a party.”