by Daisy Allen
“Being a bean scooper.”
“You mean counter.”
“No, I literally I scoop beans. Well, lentils. From the bag into the pot. From the pot onto the pan. The pan into the bucket. The bucket into th-…”
“I think I get it. So, what do you wish you could have achieved at the ripe old age of two and a half decades?”
“Well, I haven’t even been to Europe. I would have loved to have been to France and Belgium in particular.”
“Why there?”
“I… love the music from there. It’s just so…”
“Musical.” I say, although it sounds ridiculous. Music being musical. But I know she knows what I mean.
“Yes!”
“I assume you don’t mean the lyrical genius of their prominent electronic music scene.”
“No, I mean, like…Edith Piaf and Jacquel Brel and Christophe. Vocals charged with emotion and heartbreak.”
I just nod. Who is this girl? What woman in their 20’s living in downtown L.A. listens to that kind of music? The kind of woman who cradles scotch like it’s her first born and feels completely comfortable forcing strange men to go fishing for her iPhone out of urinals, that’s what kind. The irresistible kind. The kind I wish I could bury myself in, in every way possible.
“I love that kind of music too.” I hum a few bars of Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien. The last few notes fading away.
“Wow,” she whispers. “I might not know a lot about you, but I know you are definitely …not a professional singer.”
“Hey! You don’t know that,” I shout, offended.
“Oh, I know. I know that like I know this freckle on my left hand.” She waves her hand up to show me, and I catch it, bringing it to my face, pretending to peer at it closely. I flick my finger at it and pretend to gasp.
“Oh no! I flicked your freckle off! It must mean I AM a singer after all.”
She rips her hand back and inspects it. “You did not. And even if you did, I would still be right about the singer thing. You are monumentally terrible. Like probably the worst thing I’ve ever heard ever. My poor ears.”
“You haven’t heard anything yet.”
“Surprise me,” she challenges me, one eye brow cocking. Her eyes lighting up the night. Her skin pale and translucent, like the surface of a milk bath. Smooth. Silken. Begging to be touched.
I take a breath.
Now or never.
I lean in, so close only moonlight fits through the gap between our noses.
“I want to kiss you more than I’ve wanted anything in a very long time. I’ve wanted to kiss you, ever since I saw you at the bar. I bumped into you on purpose, because I wanted to touch you, be near you. You’ve entranced me from the very first second I saw you. So, please, just fucking let me kiss you.”
Her breath stops in her throat, and her pupils grow large and perfectly round. Drinking in the world around it. And me. I can see myself in them.
I feel, rather than see, her move. Closer.
She touches my chest with her hand, and her eyes start to close as she leans in.
My body grows hard in some places and soft in others in the anticipation of her lips on mine.
My cheek feels a warm breeze as she parts her lips, as our mouths almost touch.
So close…
“HEY! THERE YOU ARE!” A loud, brash voice clangs into the night and we jump apart.
She looks up at the woman at the door, “Oh, Paige. Um….”
“We have to go, NOW. James’ girlfriend just showed up! Can you believe it?! What a cheating tool! Let’s GO!” She storms down the alley, stopping only to yell at her friend to hurry up.
Toilet Girl just looks at me, and I know the moment has passed.
I get up, dusting the back of my jeans off and hold my hand out to her.
She hesitates for a moment, and slides her hand into mine, and lets me help her to her feet. She stumbles, and presses a hand against my chest to steady herself. My blood and breath cleaves to the skin where she’s touching and I can’t help but slide one hand up her back, pulling her closer to me.
She might’ve been working in a steamy kitchen for sixteen hours, but I can smell talcum powder on her skin. I take a deep breath, the scent anchoring itself in my brain.
I don’t want to be the first one to pull away, and it’s a while before she finally pushes on my chest, and we peel apart.
She gives me a soft smile, and shakes the water bottle. “Thanks for this.”
“No problem. I hope you’re feeling better.”
She smiles, and hugs her arms around her body, goosebumps appearing on the back of her neck.
“Oh, hey, You’re cold. Here, take my jacket.” I pull my leather jacket off and drape it around her shoulders. It’s my favorite jacket, but there’s something about seeing her in it that makes my heart flip flop in my rib cage.
“No…I can’t….”
“No, please. You kept me company out here, think of it as a birthday present.”
She smiles and slides her arms into the sleeves and make it looks like the jacket was tailor made for her.
“I guess I’ll see you around,” I say, not sure how to end this strange and wonderful interaction. She just nods and stares at her feet for a moment. She has a boyfriend, I remind myself. I’m not sure what I thought I was doing, declaring that I wanted to kiss her. And now I’ve made it awkward. Time to let her go.
“Happy Birthday, Toilet Girl,” I say, pressing a kiss to her cheek, lingering longer than I need to. But not nearly long enough. I pull away, and now it’s my turn to have goosebumps rising all over my skin.
“Happy You’re Not A Fraud Day, Sir Elbow Jerk,” she replies, and gives me one last dazzling smile before she takes off on a run to catch up with her friend.
It’s quiet in the alley again. With just me. All the noise of a city reluctant to go to bed after a wild night out blends into the background. I think about the things I told her. Things I’d never really thought about myself. How I feel like a fraud.
Maybe she’s right. A few hours ago, all I wanted was to win the Grammy. Then we held it in our hands – and now I feel empty.
Maybe it’s time. It’s time to focus on something else, something that’s been missing.
Shit.
Why did I let her just walk away? When I have ever felt like that before?
I push myself up off the ground and make my way to the street. I’ve got to find her. How? I don’t have her name, her number.
But you know where she works, you idiot. That logo on her shirt, what did it say? Think, idiot, think[R3].
It said “Federico’s”, of course.
I grab my phone and type the name into Google Maps. Bing. I’ve found it. It’s just around the corner, and three blocks down. I’ll go, I’ll find out her name, her phone number.
What if they don’t give it to you? Then I’ll camp out there until the next time she’s working.
I run down to the end of the alley, filled with energy. For the first time in forever, I have a new purpose.
Welcome to this new phase in your life, Jez. It’s the new age.
I check the direction on my phone and step off the sidewalk onto the empty street, a smile on my face.
And I hear a car horn.
There’s a bright light.
I hear tires screeching
Then everything fades to black.
CHAPTER FOUR
Jez
3 months later
I open my eyes. I’m greeted by the same damn sight that’s been greeting me for the last three months. White. Sterile white. Pops of random color from wilting flower bouquets and shit my bandmates leave every time they come and visit. But the rest, is white.
Like germs can’t stick to white fucking paint.
Just paint it white. Microscopic bacteria and viruses are only attracted to dark colors.
Apparently, that’s a thing.
White.
White walls, white shad
es on the windows, white bed linens, white floor.
White and white and more fucking white.
“I need to get out of here,” I say to the white room. And the white doesn’t respond.
Three months. I’ve been here for three whole months, ever since that car wiped me out on the night of the Grammys.
A broken arm, a shattered wrist, a fractured elbow, three splintered fingers, two broken ribs, a punctured lung, some random blood floating where it shouldn’t inside me and a concussion that went on for what felt like a decade.
I was in bad shape.
I was a comatose list of your body is broken as all out fuck.
Not that I remember much of the first month of it. That part is still kind of hazy. There was a lot of machines beeping and worried faces and people in blue and pink scrubs talking like I wasn’t in the room.
But then the fog lifted, and for the last two months, it’s been me, holed up in this room, while my bones weld back together and my mind is so bored it feels like it’s fracturing.
This room, in this supposedly exclusive hospital, which just means the chairs are padded, the TVs have cable and the nurse don’t give a fuck that you’re a celebrity. And I get seconds of the dessert jello if I ask nicely.
The only thing I can say is, thank god for my boys.
My rowdy, vulgar, bull shitting, annoying as hell, there for me every second of the way bandmates.
So, thank you, God. If you’re listening. Thank you.
Great. Now I’m talking to God. This is not a good sign.
Get me out of here, God. It’s time for me to go home.
There’s a commotion out in the hallway, and then a roar of laughter. I look at the clock, noon, on the dot. It’s time. They’re here.
“Oi, Twatmuffin! What do you call a woman who is paralyzed from the waist down?” Brad shouts at me even before he enters my room.
“What?”
“Married!” Brad cackles, holding his own stomach as he bends over in laughter.
“Why are you laughing? Don’t you have your own wedding coming up soon?” I ask him, and he freezes, mid laughter.
“Eh,” he shrugs, “Emily won’t be like that. She’s got something other women don’t,” he preens, flexing his chest.
“Her very own Pillsbury doughboy?” Sebastian asks, digging his fingers into Brad’s stomach, making him yelp.
“Shut up. She likes my little pouch,” Brad pouts, rubbing his flat stomach. Truth is, none of us have bodies any woman would have much to complain about. God gifted us looks and talent in place of brains and maturity, it seems.
Marius follows them into my room, his arms full of food and magazines and flowers. Just as they have been every single day since I’ve been here. Not a single day missed. Like I said, thank you, God.
“Thanks for helping, wrinkled ballbags!” Marius pants, dropping everything onto the couch while the other two wrestle on the floor by the foot of the bed.
“Uh, what’s for lunch, I’m starving,” I tell him, the room already filling with delicious smells.
“Crispy pork belly roast with creamed spinach and caramelized carrots.”
“Ugh, yes. Thank Emily for me, Brad,” I say, prodding his leg with my foot as Sebastian straddles over him, digging his fingers into his sides.
“Oi, gerroffmeassole,” he yells to Seb, who finally lets him up. “How’d you know it wasn’t me who cooked it?”
“’Cos it’s not frozen fries heated up in the bag in the microwave. With bonus still frozen crunchy bits,” I say, shuddering remembering some of his gourmet endeavors.
“Ah, yes. My signature dish,” he beams proudly, and picks off a carrot from the container and pops it into his mouth.
“The girls would be here but they’re doing some promo for us at the WKZ station,” Sebastian says, laying down on my bed, shoes propping up on the blankets and all, making himself at home.
“Oh? What kind of promo?”
He pauses and then continues, like he regrets having even brought it up. “Um, just for the… you know.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Well, because we had to cancel the tour, they’re just doing some of the interviews we had lined up. We pre-recorded some stuff, so they’re just going to do the intro and answer some questions.”
Ah. That’s why he hadn’t wanted to go into detail. They’ve done a lot to shield me from the PR shit storm of me first getting hurt, and then having to cancel concerts and public appearances. Right after winning the Grammy no less.
“You guys should’ve gone,” I tell them, not for the first time.
Marius waves my words away, “Nah, we had better things to do.”
“Like what?”
“Like have lunch with you, mushroomdick.” Brad grabs the remote and turns the TV on, flipping the channel to sports.
“Well, technically, they’re all kinda mushroomy,” I defend my own dick.
“Not mine, mine’s majestic…Wanna see?” Marius offers, moving his hand to his belt buckle.
“NO!” We three yell in unison, and he pouts, moving his hand away. Truth is, Marius is a bit of a nudist, and we’ve all had our fair share of run-ins with naked him in the decade of living on tour buses and hotel rooms in which we’ve been together.
Sebastian obviously is thinking the same thing, “I think we’ve all seen yours enough times to never need to see it again, and to know the only thing majestic about it is how it’s still attached considering how much you tug on that thing. So, use your hands for something useful for once, you’re on feeding duty today,” he says, handing Marius a fork.
I shake my head. “Er no, not him, thanks, you do it. I don’t want to think about where his hand has been.”
Sebastian rolls his eyes and grabs the fork, stabs a piece of pork and lifts it to my mouth. I take a mouthful and crunch down.
It really is delicious. At least there’s that. Even if I have to have it fed to me like a fussy toddler.
The room goes quiet for a few minutes as we tuck into our food. It won’t last long though; as soon as their stomachs are full, the loud fighting and banter will start up again, until one of the nurses will come in and kick them out.
And quiet will ensue.
And it’ll just be me again.
Me in my white room.
***
The nights are the hardest. I can't remember the last time before the accident that I slept for more than three hours at a time without waking up and checking my phone or getting up to pee or just to walk around the house. My body is not made to be in one spot for too long. Or maybe it's just my mind that needs the stimulation, and it orders my body to move.
Here, though, my broken body's been the boss these last few months, and it's a lazy, sit-on-its-ass-all-day fucker, and I feel like I'm trapped.
So, yeah, the nights are easily the hardest. It's dark and the hallways are empty, and the nurses station is creepy the way the lights from the computer monitors reflect back on the night nurses' face, giving them an unearthly bluish tinge.
So I just stay in my room, trying not to focus on the fact that no one has any idea how my fingers and wrist and arms are going to work once the casts come off. And how my life could be changed forever.
"Hey, Jez." Robbie, one of the night nurses, pokes his head in the next evening, seeing my TV on in the background, keeping me company. "You okay, man? Can't sleep?"
"Havin' a little trouble tonight, arms aching a bit," I admit, though I normally try not to. "Can you help?"
He comes in and takes a quick look at my chart and leaves, coming back with a small pill in a plastic cup.
"Few more days, huh? 'til the cast comes off."
"Yeah. Can't wait."
"You nervous?"
"What about?" I reply, as nonchalantly as I can.
He raises his eyebrows, "You might be famous, but I've been doin' this job a decade. Don't think I haven't heard it all. You can’t hide anything from me, man.”
&n
bsp; "Fine, a little nervous."
He takes the empty pill cup from me, and fusses with my pillows.
"Well, why don't you stop worrying about it, get some sleep, and enjoy the fact that you’ve only got a few more days left in here. And if it turns out there's actually something to be concerned about, man, you'll deal with it."
"Who's mind actually works like that? I mean, you've seen my friends, I’m no monk.”
He grins, flashing his rows of white teeth at me. "Yeah, them boys are really something. Okay, fine, why don't you just focus on something else then? Go to your…"
I cut him off. "If you say the words happy and place together in the next five minutes, I'm going to have to make you put a donation into the swear jar."
"Got it. Go to your... um, joyful location."
"Nice. Now it sounds like porn. Although, now it sounds like something I could get on board with,” I muse and he laughs.
"Seriously though, just for those times it gets a bit hard, maybe you should have a go-to thought. Now get some sleep. I've got a lot of very serious nursing work to do."
"Dodgers are playing?"
"I have no idea what you're talkin' about."
He leaves, pulling the door half shut.
Happy place. I think. Joyful location.
I can do that.
And as I finally fall asleep, I picture a side alley and a girl with ash blonde hair and laughing hazel eyes.
***
She's singing.
Well, not singing, but, humming, kinda.
Like her voice makes the sound of a guitar. No, not quite a guitar, guitar-like. A ukulele, maybe?
Either way, the girl with the blonde hair and hazel eyes is singing like a ukulele, and the ukulele is playing... What is that? I can't place it.
Oh. Wait no. It can't be, that makes no sense.
Is she… she singing, the Rainbow Connection?
Damn.
She is.
That’s weird.
Good pills, Robbie… good pills.
CHAPTER FIVE
Noémie
“And then the guy behind me is like, ‘Lady, twelve items is twelve items, all duplicates still count as an item.’ So, then I asked if the six cans in his six-pack each counted as an item as well, or if each grain of salt in his salt shaker counted as well, and well, long story short, he let me through and I have a date with a hot teacher tonight.” She stops and takes a long breath and sinks into the armchair, sipping from her water bottle. “Noémie, did you hear what I said?”