Punk and Zen

by JD Glass

  Carlos was funny. He had them walk outside instead of go through the club—I guess so that they knew the stairs were there or it was his way of introducing long-term guests to the place. The three of them waited: Samantha with her bass slung over her shoulder and holding her bag, Fran with her bags in front of her, and Carlos, a smug expression curving his too-pretty mouth.

  I swam over to their end and climbed out, vaulting over the ledge the way I liked to. Besides, it showed off my arms, and for once in my life, I was aware that not only was I more than half naked, but that I looked good that way, and I knew that both of them would notice.

  And notice they did. Fran’s eyes cut across me before she focused on Carlos, while Samantha chewed the corner of her lip, then stared at the sky. Bad idea—it was way too bright out.

  I ran my fingers through my hair, then pulled my sunglasses free from my top and slipped them on.

  “How long will this unexpected…visit last?” I asked Carlos.

  “Well, Nina,” Fran broke in with a Spanish pronunciation that sounded slightly Italian, “we’re both here at the label’s request. The studio I worked for bought Rude, and I’m doing their contract fieldwork. Samantha’s the musician they’re lending you, and Enzo suggested four weeks to do the demo and review the contracts.”

  I stared at her in shock. “When did that happen?” I asked. This put a whole new twist on my life. It meant potential politics that I might have to steer far and clear from, if I had to work with both of them. It meant I might want to find a new label if my current contract was about to change. I was going to have to call Mrs. J—Jerkster’s mom—sooner than I thought, then.

  The sun beat on my head, and the slate tiles of the roof began to burn under my feet, which forced me to remember my manners. It really was hot out there, and Samantha and Francesca had just traveled quite a long way. That, and Carlos had made them take the outside stairs.

  “You know what? Never mind, it’s hot and I’m sorry. This way, ladies,” I said politely and led them to my apartment—I guess our apartment, seeing as they would be staying more than a day or two.

  “So,” I said brightly as I opened the door and they followed me in, “this is it.”

  Samantha promptly selected the ideal corner for her bass guitar, and I gave them the nickel tour.

  While they unpacked and settled in, each using one of the travel trunks that served as end tables, I decided I wasn’t hanging around—I was going out before work tonight. I quickly showered to get rid of the chlorine and dressed. On the way out of my room, I grabbed some towels from the linen closet and made coffee.

  Yeah, okay, I was pissed and confused and just generally off track, but still, they were staying in what was essentially my home, and I knew when I finally calmed down, I’d be happy to see them. In fact, part of me was; I just wasn’t ready to deal with either one of them yet.

  “Hey, go change, swim, relax,” I said, and put the towels on the sofa. I’d already told them it was a pullout; they’d have to figure it out for themselves from there. “I started coffee,” I told Fran with a weak grin. I’d learned to make it when we were, whatever we were, because she enjoyed it so much.

  Samantha took a towel and nodded, silent, that heavy emotion she carried darkening her eyes.

  Fran looked up from her bag. “Thanks, Nina,” she said, her voice as gentle as always. “I know this must be quite a, a shock for you. Can we take you out to dinner and talk?”

  I couldn’t. I needed time to calm down, to wrap my head ABC around their presence in my space—every aspect of it, including work. And I had questions, probably more than two.

  I shook my head and asked, “Um, let me rain check you on that, okay? I, uh, I’ve got a few things to take care of.” Yeah, lame, maybe, but what was I supposed to say, um, you guys are really freaking me out? I don’t think that would have gone over very well. No, that’s a lie. It probably would have been completely fine, but I just wasn’t up for it at the moment.

  As I walked to the door, it occurred to me—by the time the night ended, I would forget what I was mad about, since I’d be tired because their combined presence was making my brain swim. And I was hyperaware of my skin—the water that had barely dried, the heat from outside, the slight hiss from the air-conditioning.

  And in the end? I knew it wouldn’t matter why I hadn’t heard from either one of them for so long—because deep down at the heart of it, I missed them both too much to care.

  I stopped with my hand on the knob. “Since you guys just got here, why I don’t I take both of you out tomorrow, then. Let’s say brunch, since I get out of work late?”

  Samantha and Fran exchanged a surprised look, then Samantha gave me that smile that made me want to—well, it made me want, anyway.

  “Sure, that sounds really good.” She nodded lightly, and Fran smiled in agreement.

  Okay, then. Cool.

  “I’ll see you in the morning, then.” Okay, so I was fucked up, but at least I felt a little better as I walked down the steps and out into the parts of the city that would bring me a little distraction before I had to deal with the combined presence of my lion and the diamond edge of Sammy Blade.

  ∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

  If I hadn’t got so, so, I don’t know, adrenalized is probably the best way to describe it, that I shook every time I saw either one of them, I’d say it all went very well. It hurt to see Fran, to be near her, to remember anything, everything, while Samantha left me raw, shaken, and confused—I didn’t know anything at all about where we stood with each other, and the fact that they were together, in my face and in my space…

  Once I got downstairs and into the “studio,” things were fine. Working with Ann R Key was quite easy. I played her the pieces I’d written, and we would develop them, adding bass lines and occasional harmonies and trying to sketch out where percussion should go, while Fran worked in Carlos and Enrique’s office during the day, reviewing the tons of paperwork the label sent her. Apparently, it sucks to be low man on the totem pole when you’re working in the legal department.

  The evenings weren’t too hard because I worked, but on the nights and days I didn’t, I started spending time with them, sometimes together, sometimes individually, depending on what was going on. I was the one with the scheduled time off, while Fran’s job was ABC really every day and sometimes late into the evening, and Samantha’s revolved around me, with “other things” that she occasionally had to do. They weren’t any of my business, so I didn’t ask.

  It started with them both coming to the club when I was spinning and grabbing a bite with me afterward. Then one night when I didn’t have to spin, but Fran had to “review clauses,” I took Samantha to one of my favorite places.

  It was a hot-ticket restaurant where they served things like roast tuna with mango chutney in a white-on-white dining room. Mostly I tried not to spill anything while attempting to maintain a conversation, which is not something I usually had a problem with—I suspect it was either company-or subject-dependent.

  “I met Trace…” Samantha said nonchalantly as she cut into whatever it was on her plate.

  I almost choked and was afraid the chutney would come out my nose. Instead I hefted my glass of sangria and took a healthy swallow. Once I could see again, I said as calmly as I could, “Oh, that’s, uh…you went to Staten Island, then?”

  “Uh-huh.” She nodded and sipped sedately. “She was…more than you said she was.”

  I stared at her, remembering quite well the “full confession” I had made to her before I’d left and sincerely hoping she didn’t mean that I’d either omitted or changed the facts, such as I knew them, anyway. I put my fork down as safely as I could to prevent injury to myself or anything else in that white, white dining room.

  “What do you mean?” I asked very carefully.

  Samantha set her glass on the table and gazed at me, studying me seriously.

  “Do the words…unholy, unclean, and undead mean anything to you?
” She gave me a half-smile.

  I thought about it. What was it Candace had said? “That one has fangs.” Unholy, unclean, and undead. I grinned at Samantha.

  “Uh, that sounds about right to me, yeah,” I said. “I wish I’d thought of that.”

  Samantha laughed lightly. “Eeyeah…but you’re okay, right?”

  I didn’t know what she meant by that at all. “Um, I’m fine,” I told her, arching my brow, “although there might be a scar or two somewhere. Why?”

  Samantha raised her glass and gestured. “Just making sure. People like that, they’re…they’re just vampires, you know?” She quirked her lips when she said it, and the half-smile reached everything but her eyes.

  Now that bit, about the vampires? I did understand. The thought of Trace didn’t hurt anymore, not the way it used to, but it still left me feeling, I dunno, dirty or something, and it still had this sense of “my fault” about it. Still, it was way over, and the best part of that was it was two oceans and more than two time zones away.

  I don’t really remember what I said, and the rest of the conversation returned to more mundane things, well, mundane for us anyway—like the studio and the work we were doing.

  I asked Samantha when she’d switched from guitar to bass, about the band Loose Dogs and the work she did with them, and where she’d played. Samantha had never performed in the States; instead, she’d spent about half her professional life doing studio gigs, but she’d performed all over Europe, even in some of the places I’d gone with the Microwaves and Adam’s Rib. We compared notes about venues and sound, bands we liked, and the things we totally hated—and we made lots of jokes about train food.

  Samantha had “stuff to do” the next night, and Fran happened to be free, so I took her to a very traditional restaurant known for serving some of the finest Italian food in the city. It was great to hear Fran rattle off her order in Italian; she spoke it beautifully. My pronunciation wasn’t bad, but really, I cheated, because I spoke Spanish anyway.

  When I told her in Spanish that I admired her Italian, she blushed and looked at her plate a moment. I smiled but was a little embarrassed, too, because I hadn’t meant to say that, and it crossed all the boundaries we’d been so very careful to maintain.

  “Well, Nina, you’ve a beautiful accent yourself,” she returned with one of her trademark smiles. I tried very hard not to stare at that gorgeous mouth and was grateful when the waiter came back with our food.

  We joked and laughed with much of our old closeness as we ate, then spent the rest of the night hopping around from place to place, Spanish style. I really enjoyed seeing the delight on Fran’s face as she observed the local social culture, the mix of people, the sense of friendly playfulness that seemed to be a part of the very sidewalks and buildings.

  And we sort of fell into this habit, I guess, of Fran and me or Samantha and me going out and wandering around Madrid on nights when I was free. Or they went out and did stuff or came to hang out in the club, and we became, as weird as it sounds, friends, friends like we hadn’t been in years.

  I can’t say there wasn’t some tension, because in all honesty, either one of them near me made me vibrate like a live wire, and any time I was with both of them for more than a few seconds I had to keep myself at least three feet away from whoever was nearest because it felt like… Truth to tell, there really wasn’t a single moment, not even in the studio, when I could forget what it was like to love Samantha, the primal intensity of her, or to be loved by Fran and her controlled fierceness.

  Whenever I saw Carlos and I was with ABC one or both of them, he’d give me an evil smirk and pretend all innocence if either one of them glanced over. I scowled at him a lot—then tried not to, because I didn’t want my eyebrows to stay like that.

  Enrique constantly asked me for updates. “Y qué?” almost every day, and he got some arched eyebrows and a lot of “And nothing, busybody,” in response. He laughed at me every time.

  Finally, everyone had two days off—it was a holiday—and in their respective travels around Madrid, Samantha and Fran had each happened upon a spot that everyone talked about as the place. I’d never been to it because it was famous for two things: the food and the very specific atmosphere. People went there for important dates: to propose to their intendeds, to celebrate twenty-five-year anniversaries, and to begin or consummate secret, undying trysts.

  So, of course, that’s where we went—and it was perfectly nice and perfectly weird, because it was a really romantic, candlelit spot where we had duck breast with something and way too much spiced red wine, and ordered some to take home. What the fuck, right?

  After dinner, we took a walk in El Parque de Retiro or the Park of Retreat (and for the smallest bit of history, because, hey, it’s Spain, not some mundane part of Staten Island’s dump or something), which is what Felipe IV had built it for—retreat.

  This park came alive at dusk and rocked through the night. Artists and vendors lined the walkways, selling everything from “authentic” bullfighting ad posters to castanets and a variety of foods. Scattered here and there were the occasional games of chance, such as darts and balloons, the shell game, cards. Gypsies offered to read your palm and your cards and solve your problems—all of them—for the right price. There were also street performers, individuals playing their guitars and singing their hearts out or groups doing complex flamenco patterns. This was Madrid at its most fun, and I was glad to be able to share it.

  We passed the Crystal Palace and the San Jeronimo Church (which happens to be where the monarchs who’d financed Christopher Columbus got married)—imposing structures that looked a heck of a lot different in real life than they did in a small two-by-two picture in a textbook, and finally, we came to the lake path.

  I was feeling pretty expansive and just generally good about everything, because we all felt just so very comfortable with each other that I could occasionally hold Samantha’s hand or Fran’s as we walked along.

  I linked my arm through Samantha’s on one side, then Fran’s on the other. “So…” I started as we strolled along the edge of the lake, moving from patch of light to patch of light and watching as the rowboats slid by with their lantern-lit bows, “what are you guys really doing here? I mean, okay, we’re all working for the label, in effect, but why both of you? Not that I mind, of course,” I added, giving them each a smile.

  We stopped walking.

  Fran stuck a hand in her pocket and looked at the water. Samantha closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “Well, Graham asked for Ann R Key specifically, and he told the new head that I know you both…so they thought it would be better all around if—”

  “Um, would you believe me if I said we’re courting you?” Samantha interrupted Fran, looking at me directly, her face inscrutable in the half-light.

  What? Was she serious? I shrugged myself free of both of them and took a step forward so I could see them a bit better.

  “You’re not serious?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she grinned crookedly, “pick one.”

  “Jesus, Sam…” Fran breathed out, giving her an annoyed look. She shook her head.

  Jesus was right. And Mary, and Joseph, and anyone else you could name. What the hell was I supposed to do with that? How in the hell was I supposed to do that? It’s not like I was trying to decide between two new pairs of boots. And besides, if I was? I usually got both anyway. Eesh.

  “Well, what if I don’t want to?” I asked. I mean, hey, ask an easy question, you get an easy answer, right?

  They exchanged a glance, and Fran returned her gaze to the water.

  “You could have us both,” Samantha said softly, and shrugged.

  Fran’s eyes met mine. “If you wanted,” she added quietly.

  I picked a rock up off the ground and tried to skip it across the water. What the hell? Pick one, the other, or both? How was that supposed to work, anyway? One hop, two, three, and the rock sank in with a splunk. Besides,
in a way, like Candace had said back in Ibiza, didn’t I carry them with me all the time?

  I touched the charms that hung from my neck and faced them again after I knew that rock was on its way down. “What do you mean?” I asked, looking from one still face to the other. “I already have you both.”

  Nobody said much of anything on the way back to the apartment, although there was this kinda loose agreement, or at least an understanding, that this was something we should probably discuss a bit more, and probably more than a bit.

  My head was spinning with the weight of what Samantha and Fran had offered because it wasn’t even remotely close to anything I had even—well, okay, that wasn’t entirely true. There had been those few encounters, but…that was just sex, you know? I hadn’t cared about those girls, or even myself if I was honest; it was still something I felt so disconnected from.

  But Fran…if I really took time to let myself feel it, I adored. I couldn’t get around it, past it, through it, or over it. The best I could do was ignore it, and I did that badly.

  And Samantha? Samantha was under my skin in ways that I still can’t describe, the beacon that called me like the sound the ferries made through the fog at night—constant, low, and wistfully mournful for a home that might never be reached again and remains forever missed.

  I didn’t know what to think as I sat between them on the sofa with a movie playing on the TV that none of us was really watching while we finished first one, then another, pitcher of the sangria we’d made from the wine we’d brought back from dinner—those bottles went pretty fast.

  Somewhere in the back of my head, this one thought persisted. Maybe, just maybe, still, even now, this had nothing to do with me—it was between Francesca and Samantha, a dance of approach and avoidance that they couldn’t resolve and in some ways used me to translate between them.

  Ironically, that didn’t bother me, at least, not in the way you might think, because in a very real way, I truly thought Sammy and Fran were good for each other. They’d been friends for such a long time, had remained close even with all the things they’d been through—and once they’d actively admitted to being attracted to one another. Maybe they still were and just couldn’t deal with it, which is kinda silly, but, hey, people are, right?