Once Upon A Midnight

by Stephanie Rowe

  “More stories?”

  “Yeah. You know, for all the wacky stuff that has happened, these things always get to me.”

  “What kind of wacky stuff is that?” I ask while pouring varying amounts of vodka into the glasses.

  Darla shakes her head with her lips pressed together in thought. Her words seem more aimed at herself than they do me. “Odd as it seems, my GranGran not only still looks out for me and my family, she looks out for my friends, too.”

  GranGran?

  Wait a second …

  An icy finger just scratched my back—an old, boney one. This has to be a coincidence. She and Jennifer could not be talking about the same person. “How is it odd someone cares about you? You uh … you did say GranGran, right?”

  “Yeah, my great grandmother Dorothy.”

  Oh, crap. Jennifer said the name Dorothy as well. “And that is weird because …”

  Darla plays with the strap of her purse, appearing like she doesn’t want to face me during her confession. “She’s dead.”

  What the?

  That name is supposed to be important to me so …

  Oh no.

  No, not Darla! Not Peacock Woman! She is not the woman of my dreams. No way, no how! That’s it. I’m taking that job and moving to Chicago.

  No, Chicago is not far enough away. I’m on the next flight to Antarctica.

  Darla smacks the bar and bursts out in laughter. “Oh man! You should see how freaked you look. Damn, getting to you is easy.”

  I huff out air, not knowing what else to do than fake relief over her little joke; however, the name GranGran has iced my blood.

  Darla points to the display I made in front of her, five glasses forming a rainbow of shots. “Wow. You made all of these out of those few ingredients? Where did you learn that?”

  I am surprised my lips can move, let alone release words. I lean on the bar in need of all of the support I can get. “You learn a few tricks on the road. I guess I thought of you when I saw it done and stored the info.” A ghost of a smile slips across her face, and her cheeks redden. Dear God, what did I just say?

  “You know, Dale, you can be a really great guy when you want to. I like this version of you. Please keep showing it.”

  I point behind her, relieved her friends are taking seats. “I’ll have Zira bring these over so you don’t have to carry them.”

  Darla leans over and gives me a peck on the cheek. “You know, all messing with your head aside, I rarely share how I still feel connected to GranGran. Seriously though, you should get used to my madness. It’ll make your life easier.” Her eyes go back to the rainbow. “In more ways than one, you make a great bartender. Thanks.”

  She heads off to her friends. As much as the idea of her freaks me out, suddenly I’ve come to see the bright-haired woman is one of the people who brings color to my life.

  Wait. She’s got a boyfriend, not to mention they seem pretty happy.

  Well, I have been unscrupulous before …

  No way. I’ve turned over a new leaf. I’m gonna have to wait this one out and pray for the best. And pray I shall!

  “Really, Lord? Peacock Woman? I am begging you to have mercy on me!”

  #

  Though I lie surrounded in cushy warmth, I feel strapped onto a bed of smoldering coals. Flipping onto my side brings a moment of comfort, confirming it is not the bed’s fault. But just as lying here has been all night, I can’t get settled for more than a minute before I am flopping again.

  Even if my body toughs it out, my mind keeps flipping between getting quitting over with and trying to understand if Darla is really the woman of my dreams, why I have never been able to see her as more than a friend.

  Red light glares from my alarm clock as another minute of life passes by. For the first time, I don’t see time spent waiting as moments wasted. My head is using this downtime to adjust to its new mission: listening to my heart so it can guide me to happiness. I wanted to be like Brandon, and it’s happening—right here, right now—and it’s annoying as hell.

  Another minute ticks past, and I get the last, self-imposed signal of my career as a salesman—the cue to quit. Five here means it is seven in Chicago, the time when Walter is always open for business. Come tomorrow, for the first time in years, I can sleep in and greet the day on the schedule my body dictates. And sleep I shall. This night has been murder.

  Without giving myself a chance to backpedal, I enter my home office, plop down in the chair I have spent so many nights nodding off in, loft my feet onto the desk, and set Logan in my lap. He’s in this as much as I am.

  Walter is quick to answer, “Let me save us time. I got you the extra vacation and another one and a quarter percent commission off your team. I told the board I would offer only one, but I also told them you would counter. Let’s say you did.”

  I am not the least bit fazed by how a better offer is ready, nor how Walter assumes it is a slam dunk. Suddenly, the hardest part about this moment is not what I need to say; it’s hating myself for not saying it sooner. I thought I was the player, but if this situation arose a week ago, Walter would have gotten a resounding yes. Now I see he is the one who knows how to play me.

  At least he did.

  He sets up the shot, ready to score. “I’m sending the updated offer now. Congrat—”

  “I quit.”

  Walter laughs. There is no pause. No moment for him to even consider I am not kidding. Just normal, non-awkward laughter. “Okay, you got me. I can do one and a half percent, but really—”

  “My laptop is already packed, and I’m taking it to the UPS Store this morning. I never had opportunity to decorate my office, because I was always too busy for the things that are really important. Once you deposit everything I am owed, we are closed out. I’ve kept records of all the sales my team and I have done this quarter, so I can sign a statement saying I have turned over all other documents and company materials. Thank you for the opportunity, and please thank the board on my behalf.”

  I’m uncertain if Walter’s stammer is what makes his words indiscernible, or if I just don’t care what he has to say. Regardless, I’m not listening, because my heart is telling me to get off of the phone and start rebuilding. “Goodbye, Walter. Again, thank you.”

  The phone gets shut off and tossed on my desk. Today, I will get a new one with a new number. I’m walking away from every reminder of my former life, except two.

  Mr. Miller’s pick stays on my desk. When this room is revamped, he will be the only part of my old life that remains here.

  Imposter Glenn Miller tricked others into believing who he was, and light tricked me into thinking that pick told me wrong was right. However, it deserves a place of honor, because a man should be remembered for the lives he touched, and Mr. Miller certainly affected mine.

  Logan accompanies me as I grab the box containing my laptop.

  I thought I had control over my life, and that I was allowed to run free in a land of pleasure without a care. In the end, others controlled my fate, determining if my career lived or died. Some people stick reminders of the glory days they long to return into frames. I’m keeping tattered, old Logan as free from barriers as possible so he can remind me of the days I hope to never see again. Like the real Logan did inside these pages, I found life outside of the trap.

  Together we close the door behind us and head into a new world.

  #

  In the weeks since breaking corporate chains I have come to understand two things about myself; I don’t want to be someone’s puppet, and try as I might to break free, I really do love wearing suits. I used to think they kept me in work mode, ready to strike at the next opportunity. The truth is, my affection for a classic look is part of who I am.

  Since my romp in the fountain, I’ve also found I enjoy walking. Transportation used to mean planes, cars, and the occasional sprint to lunch. Walking the LA streets I once drove on takes me places I’ve never been.

  Humming sli
ps into my ears from behind. I turn to face no one, and “Moonlight Serenade” goes silent. Once I start up again, the more I walk, the louder the humming gets. Fedora Guy zips in front of me. I chase behind and watch him cut a sharp left before slipping through the crack between two doors on a long-abandoned theatre.

  I look to the terrazzo floor in search of a teal feather, but all I see are inlayed stars and dried leaves scampering in the breeze.

  Peering into the old movie theatre, beams of setting sunlight slip in, revealing a sizable lobby, a water fountain with a glass back splash, and a snack bar with neon signage above its secondary ceiling reading, Candi-Bar. Light reflects off of metallic swirls painted onto the far right wall, highlighting hints of a mural. Though my mind fills the room with ladies wearing gloves and men in ties, the place would hold as much charm if it were inhabited by patrons in shorts while sipping coffee out of paper cups.

  Fedora Guy rounds the corner into the lobby and leans against the concession stand. Without question, his pointing finger is aimed directly at me. That hand then twists, and the finger curls, motioning me inside. I toss my hands out, asking both him and myself how I can get into this closed building. His shaking head downturns, as if asking us both why I am so stupid. With a gentle push the door opens.

  Voices carry from the auditorium, drawing me inside. Two men stand at the end of an aisle leading to the stage where deep blue, silver-starred curtains, featuring geometric trim, hangs. The man of grandfatherly age emits tension as he eyes a stack of papers. How he rubs his hung head while rubbing and pressing into his temples screams he feels he has no choice but to sign them. I’ve got a few years on the guy with him who is wearing a department store suit and practically waving a pen.

  This feels intrusive, but before I can leave, humming comes from my far right. I turn towards it, but instead of finding Fedora Guy, I am distracted by hints of silver and bronze blended into paintings of Greek temples and dancing women, reminding me of the places I’ve never been and the joys I’ve never experienced. The volume of “Moonlight Serenade” increases and floats behind me, causing me to spin and take in the balcony. My eyes rise, and I find myself below a starry night surrounded by a recessed neon glow.

  The younger man says, “Don’t worry. It is the smart thing to do. Besides, think of how many people will benefit from this.”

  My chuckle is hard to conceal. When I was starting out, was my desperation to make a sale as transparent?

  The way the old man replies, “I don’t seem to have much choice” hits my gut. I know that tone too well. It’s the same one Abby’s sister had when her attorney said it was best to accept a twenty-year plea bargain and not push her luck. That tone weighs my every cell with loss.

  The old man takes the pen and lays the paper on the arm of a chair to use as a hard surface. I turn to make my exit. I don’t know what Fedora Guy has in mind, but I have to get out of here. I can’t witness another person’s loss, even if I don’t know what it is.

  “Well, no place was meant to last forever.” The younger man’s words shoot to my head. The heavy feeling the old man put into my stomach turns into fluttering.

  I spin to see the old man lift the pen just shy of hitting the paper and wave it at the guy. “Junior, you may know a lot about redevelopment, but you know nothing about old theaters. Just the opposite is true.” He inches the pen back down. “I can’t believe the Starbrite has seen its final day.”

  The sight of murals turned to rubble fills my mind as I imagine standing in this spot after a wrecking ball tangos with concrete walls, sending stars plummeting. Before he makes the first swish, my hand juts out, and I start running toward the old man. “Stop! Do not sign that paper!”

  The Man With A Horn

  BAILEY

  The events of the weeks since leaving Carlos have put me on a bullet train ride to happiness. Though a part of me wishes I had kept access to the email account I used to rat him out, focusing only on my goals was the smartest thing I ever did.

  With a few keystrokes, Body and Soul Vintage begins its life as an online store. Someday, the store will have retail space attached to my future studio. Finding your style is one thing, but a girl can’t embrace it without the proper accessories. Body and Soul will feature vintage goods along side chic designs made by local artists, ranging in styles from the elegant jazz era to wild punk. No trend is off limits, because any look can be classy if done right.

  Thanks to Brandon’s marketing wisdom, I already have a logo designed and business cards on the way. His thought of placing a display at the dating service where Darla will greet new faces daily makes perfect sense. “People don’t just join dating services to find a companion,” he said, “they do it to improve their lives. What better way to find those desiring self-revolution?”

  I’d be stupid not to listen. If he can successfully market the worse candy in existence, he can market me.

  After dodging past a stack of books for my night classes and boxes of vintage lipstick tubes that are ready to be cleaned, refilled with new product, and sold, I touch a kiss to GranGran’s picture before heading off to Mulligan’s. Not only is Katherine in town visiting her new boyfriend, Darla and her friends will open the doors of their new business, Cupid’s Stardust, in just a few days. Even if we didn’t all deserve a celebration of rebirth, we need to take time to embrace each other. Ambition and focus are wonderful things, but life is only complete when you share it with those you love.

  #

  DALE

  Warped Records greets me with Mariachi horns blowing a jazz melody, threatening to bring about emotional turbulence as they build and cave to a Flamingo guitar. There is truly no other place on earth like this one.

  Brandon and Shane man their usual spots at the counter, having what appears to be a comic book version of a lover’s spat. With his eyes half hooded, Brandon rattles his head. “What do you mean Syd Barrett wasn’t a mad genius? Are you nuts?”

  Shane sucks in his cheeks. While he looks serious, he may just be trying to wind Brandon up. “I’m sticking to my guns on this one. The guy was a loon who got lucky.”

  Brandon’s jaw slacks and his head goes off kilter.

  “Dude,” Shane minds him, “he fed LSD to his cat. Who does that?”

  Brandon tosses his hands up and “a total loon” comes out in unison.

  The guys each shoot a hand up in as much of a wave as your brothers need to give you. Having found common ground, the banter flows into a normal conversation. “There is no way I believe you don’t think the first Floyd album isn’t brilliant,” Brandon says.

  “No, it’s full on brilliant.” Shane sounds noncommittal. “Barrett put together some fantastic stuff while totally wasted out of his mind, but that does not define a genius. You need a dictionary.”

  Jokingly, I approach with caution. “Dare I ask what started this spat between love birds?” Brandon points up, implying the music I find uncharacteristic for this place. “Yeah, just what are you listening to? Sounds like rock and toll flamingo fronted by Johnny Mathis and Mick Jagger’s bastard love child.” I’m uncertain is Shane’s snarf is over the rock and toll comment or my horrific description of the singer. Brandon’s contorted face shows he is bewildered. “Hey, I understood what I meant.”

  Brandon’s love of music brings on a smile that conquers his previous look of confusion. “Seriously, you might like these guys. Arthur Lee and Love could rock out pretty much any genre while staying true to it.”

  The album he hands me has a drawing of what looks like a giant head, but is really five guys with their brains melded together, implying like-minded people. But I get another message from the foremost face, the one with a smile that can’t be missed. One person can have many sides, and when he finds a way to blend them, he becomes solid.

  The horns again build and strengthen my spirit. How the heads of the men on the album cover merge their minds reminds me of how I have been merging concepts. Since entering that old theatre weeks
ago, my mind has been reeling. Music needs to be heard live, and opulent spaces shouldn’t be wasted. I love jazz and old buildings, I’ve created wild cocktails, and I am, beyond a doubt, a businessman. Add in Mom’s guidance for the food, and I am on the verge of merging my passions into one bold smile.

  The cover continues to draw me in. The swirls connecting the minds remind me of the mural in the lobby of the Starbrite. My eyes slip to the bottom right corner of the album. The title Forever Changes solidifies the universe’s stamp of approval. Jennifer was pretty spot on when she said, “You will know you found everything once you have been guided through the right door.” Stepping into the Starbrite changed my life. Just shy of a month since I quit my job, I have already put myself on the right path. Eventually, my love life has to work out as well.

  I hand the album to Shane with a smile of pride in understanding what I need. “Hold that for me, please. I want to keep expanding my mind.”

  Behind the counter, my eyes catch sight of something that damn near makes my heart stop. I’ve barely caught my breath before I’m back there snatching up an album titled Moonlight Serenade. On the cover, a guy in a grey suit casually leans against a brick wall while gazing into the distance. Even if he wasn’t wearing his signature hat, his face is unmistakable. The name on the cover reads Frank Kane, yet “Who is this?” darts out of me.

  Totally deadpanned, Shane tells, “Some dead old fart who never had a hit.”

  Brandon’s snarf is so loud it nearly rivals the volume of the music. He rubs his eyes while still amused. “Oh God, don’t let Darla hear you say that.”

  The speedway my heart was on seems to have ended at a concrete wall. “Darla?” It comes out sounding as twisted as I feel. “Darla likes this kind of music?”

  The situation still has Brandon entertained. Good, maybe neither of them will notice I am freaking out. I’m pretty sure my permanent tan looks bleached.

  “Believe it or not,” Brandon says, “that is her grandfather. Shane found it in a pile from one of Rob’s epic estate sale scores. Darla’s gonna flip. She’s had us on alert for years.”