The People We Keep

by Allison Larkin

  I start with Waiting. It’s a song from my first CD, an EP I recorded in this guy Cole’s basement in Red Bank two years ago. When I play the opening chords, a few people applaud because they recognize it. These people in the audience listen to my songs while they live their normal lives, cooking dinner, driving to the grocery store, picking their kids up from football practice or cheerleading. They make my words mean what they need them to mean. To them, this song isn’t about Adam. It’s about someone they didn’t end up with.

  Even though I know it’s just a fairy tale,

  I keep waiting, waiting for you

  To rescue me from the pale.

  Even though I know it’s just a passing phase

  I keep waiting, waiting for you

  To save me from this choking haze.

  Even though I’m the one who said goodbye, it’s true

  I keep waiting, waiting, waiting…

  Waiting for you.

  And when I sing, before I close my eyes, I notice that the ones who applauded are singing along. I’ll sell them the new CD at least. Maybe a few of the new faces will buy both.

  Coffeehouse crowds are better about buying, but I like playing in bars more. Bar people are raucous and fun. They request bizarre songs. They whoop and holler and hold up lighters when you play something they know. Coffeehouse people are too polite. Seas of greying boomers with wire-rimmed glasses and expensive fleece vests, pretending they’re still hippies for as long as my set lasts. It’s all so self-conscious. They laugh in unison at my mid-set musings, a low, rumbling chuckle. They wait a beat before clapping at the end of a song, like they need a moment to absorb the entire experience. It drives me crazy.

  It’s not that I don’t love playing music. It’s just that it’s not the freedom it was supposed to be. It comes with its own chains. Leaves me pulled apart and spread too thin. People feel entitled to me. They ask questions they’d never ask another stranger, or even a close friend. They ask how much money I make. Where I sleep. Who my songs are about. What my childhood was like. And they tell me the things they felt when they heard my music. Stories about what they did. How my songs were a soundtrack to their breakup or their sex lives or their morning commute, like that’s the only reason I exist. Like none of my music is about me. They leave me holding their memories, as if I’m supposed to know what to do with them.

  It’s not what people imagine when they dream of being a singer. People don’t lay awake at night wistfully envisioning themselves being picked to bones and left in a dark parking lot, trying to coax warmth from a broken car heater. I’ve played with people who can do it and it feeds them. The kinds of people who play for an audience and it’s everything. I’m good, but they’re magic. Even though my hands feel right when I’m playing and my voice makes sense when I’m singing, it’s not the same thing. What I want the most is much more simple. What I want most is a life that’s all mine.

  * * *

  There’s a guy in this audience who doesn’t quite fit. Younger. More brown than grey. He wasn’t here the last time I played. His glasses are retro, black-framed, army issue. He has one of the flyers for the show in his hands. He rolls it tightly and lets it go, over and over through the whole first set.

  We are both waiting for the bathroom at the break. There’s only one room with Hommes et Filles painted in gold script on the door. The door is thin and the knob hangs loosely in its hole. We could look in if we wanted to. The person we are waiting for pees and we can hear. It’s uncomfortable.

  Flyer Guy smiles at me and squeezes his paper tube. He looks through it like it’s a telescope and he wants to see his shoes better. We listen to the woman in the bathroom wash her hands. She coughs before she opens the door. She squeezes past us, giving me a forced smile.

  “Go ahead,” Flyer Guy says, pointing the paper tube at the bathroom.

  “You go,” I say. “My seat is safe. You’ve got competition for yours.”

  He asks if I’m sure. I hold my ground. It’s awkward to stand there, trying not to listen to him go. I look at the black and white photos on the walls. Pretentious and purposely quirky. Nothing like Decadence. Pictures of fruit, dripping with dew and sexuality, posed on a rough wood table like they’re having conversations with cruel, comical vegetables. In one picture, I swear a pepper is telling a peach she has a fat ass.

  I hear the toilet flush, but he doesn’t come out yet. I walk around in little circles and think about the riff for one of my songs. I’ve carried it with me in my head since Ithaca, unfinished. Something’s off about it. Missing words, missing notes. I haven’t figured out how to fix it yet. Someday.

  Flyer Guy comes out as I’m mid-circle, thinking about the fingerpicking rhythm. I’m moving my fingers like they’re on the fret board. I must look a little nutty.

  “Lost in thought?” he asks, grinning. Behind his glasses, he has these really nice brown eyes. They’re so alive.

  “Thinking about a song,” I say, feeling my cheeks get hot.

  “Like a skier who has to visualize the mountain before he gets off the lift?”

  I laugh. “Something like that.”

  “Good luck with your next set,” he says. “Break a leg.” I like his smile.

  I walk in the bathroom and latch the door behind me. I don’t even have to go. I just need a moment to myself so I can catch my breath. I hold my wrists under the water and imagine my fingers turning into icicles, then I turn the water to warm. It’s procedure.

  * * *

  I’m almost done with the last song of my second set when Flyer Guy stands up. He weaves his way around the chairs and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket when he reaches the door.

  He doesn’t come back. I give the crowd a good scan while I’m signing CDs and think maybe I will spring for a motel tonight. Then there he is, in the doorway, smiling at me. I smile back.

  He waits as the coffeehouse manager pays me in crumpled ones and fives. I wad up my money and shove it in the inside pocket of my bag.

  “Let us know next time you’re headed this way,” the manager says. “We always get a good crowd for you.” And it feels good to hear him say that, to know that Flyer Guy heard it too. I built that crowd from nothing. I had to beg to open for other singers. I played for meals or free coffee. I fought hard for every bit of ground I’ve covered, and to have a notebook full of places that will book me—it means something.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” Flyer Guy asks as I walk toward the door. “There’s a bar across the street.”

  I usually try to grab one of the older guys. Divorced, with a kid who’s probably only five or six years younger than I am. The kind of guy who wants me but feels bad about it. I can go home with him and stretch my arms out, say I’m tired and thanks and he’ll let me sleep on his couch. Or he’ll sleep on the couch and let me sleep in his bed like some kind of penance for his dirty thoughts. I know him. I’ve met him in more than one town. He’s a type. He’s easy.

  This guy is different. He’s probably in his late twenties. He’s cute. He knows it. He wants me. I know he does. If I go home with him, I won’t crash on his couch. But sometimes, maybe I can just try to be a normal girl and go on a normal date, even if it’s only a drink in a bar. Sometimes I can have something that’s mine.

  So I say, “Yes,” and get jitters, actual jitters, so much so that I even stop thinking about how I’ll describe them in a song. I just enjoy being a girl out with a guy.

  We walk across the street together. He’s quiet. His hands shake a little while he fumbles with a cigarette. It’s cute, makes me feel shy too.

  The place he takes me to is next to the train station. It’s dark. Neon and worn out wood. Almost empty. We sit at the bar. He orders Jack on the rocks. I order a Coke. I don’t drink with strangers, and my fake ID isn’t that great. I only use it when I absolutely have to.

  “So, April,” he says, when our drinks come, “where are you headed next?”

  “New Jersey,” I say.


  “Uch, Jersey,” he says, wincing, and I feel like I have to defend my tour schedule and maybe all of New Jersey.

  “Red Bank is great,” I tell him. “I play at this place called The Downtown. Good crowd. I have a guy I record with sometimes when I’m there.”

  “The Downtown what?” he asks.

  “Just The Downtown.”

  “Like who’s on first?” he says, grinning. He crinkles his nose and his glasses go crooked. He has big teeth. I like them. I think about how I could paint his smile in a song. I realize I don’t even know what to call him.

  “You never told me your name,” I say. “I’m at a disadvantage.”

  “Ray.” He offers me his hand, and when I go to shake, he puts his other hand over mine, looks in my eyes, and says, “It’s really nice to meet you, April.”

  We talk until last call. I don’t want it to end. I don’t want to stop feeling like I actually exist in the world. He tells me how he used to be in a band. We talk instruments. He says my guitar is a really good one. The way he says really makes me worry that my mother’s old ring wasn’t enough of a trade and maybe I still owe Adam something.

  “I’ve been thinking about having an electric pickup added,” I tell him.

  “Thing is, you’re better off just getting an acoustic-electric. Don’t start cutting into your guitar. You’ll kill the soul. I mean, this is what you do for a living, right? You can have more than one guitar, you know?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I’m so bad with the gear side of things,” I say, pushing my hair out of my face, letting it fall back where it was. “I should probably get my own PA too at some point. I could play in so many more places, and the sound would be consistent.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “It costs. And it’s a lot to learn—all the different techie things I’d need to know before I could figure out what to buy.”

  “You know what? Come home with me.” He’s shredding his wet bar napkin into tiny pieces. I like that I make him nervous. I like that he has jitters too.

  “I don’t know,” I say, “I was going to hit the road and drive to Red Bank. Pull an all-nighter. I have a place to crash there.” It’s always better to make them think it’s their idea.

  “You have a place to crash here,” he says. “I’ll show you my guitars and amp. You can play them, so you’ll have a point of reference when you’re ready to buy.”

  “Are you sure?” I say. “I don’t want to put you out.”

  “Not at all,” he says, and just like that, I have a place to sleep tonight. I have someone to talk to. Maybe more.

  * * *

  When we get back across the street to our cars, he offers to drive me to his place. I tell him I’ll follow him instead.

  “Alright,” he says, “be that way.” He says it like he’s joking, but there’s an edge. It kind of throws me off balance, but I’m so tired. My eyes don’t want to stay open. I get in my car and follow him. He drives hard. Squeals around corners, blows through stop signs. I have to work to keep his taillights in sight. I start to think that maybe I should just drive the other way, cut my losses and sleep in my car somewhere, but it’s one of those rock and hard place situations. Keeping up with him means I haven’t been watching the roads. I don’t know how to get back to where we started, so I just keep following.

  He parks at the dead end of a dirt road. Ranch houses and double wides line the street. He lives in a ranch that looks like a gust of wind could smash it to smithereens. The front steps are decaying. The outside light is busted. The only light in the driveway comes from his neighbor’s house.

  He’s already out of his car and opening the front door when I park. I bring my guitar and my purse with me. I never leave them in my car if I can help it.

  “Come on in,” he says.

  He has four guitars, a futon, a glass-topped coffee table, and a television in his living room. The TV is one of those ancient ones with dials on the front, and it has rabbit ears tipped with aluminum foil.

  His house smells like old tires. Just this hint of it at the end of breathing in. I wonder how close we are to the highway. I listen, but I can’t hear road noise. I leave my guitar and my purse by the door.

  “Okay,” he says, “you have to play the Martin first. That’s my favorite. That’s the one you should get if you have a windfall. I got it in trade a few years ago. Swear it sounds better the more you play it. It’ll cost you, but the tone is unreal.”

  He checks that it’s in tune and hands it over to me. It’s much heavier than my guitar.

  While I’m playing, he dumps a small baggie of coke on the coffee table and cuts it into lines with a guitar pick.

  I try to ignore it and just keep playing. It’s not like I’ve never seen people do coke before, it’s just that I’ve never been so close to it. It was something I glanced from the other room at a party, or I saw people come out of the bathroom at a bar with white powder ringing their nostrils. I try to pay attention to my fingers and the way the stiff strings press into my calluses, but it’s so close. I feel like the dust will get everywhere. Tiny particles will cover my lips and get in my eyes.

  He rolls up a five and snorts one of the lines and then another. It’s hollow and loud like his nose is a deep cavern. He shakes his head, blinks his eyes a bunch of times, and snorts again. His face is red.

  “Oh, you know,” I say when he tries to hand me the rolled-up five, “I’m kind of tired. And I should hit the road early. I’ll just crash. I’m good right here.” I pat the couch.

  “We haven’t fucked yet.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, come on. I know what this is.”

  My whole body shakes. “You don’t even know me.”

  “You’re all the same. Aren’t you?” he says, straightening his next line with the guitar pick. “You fuck for drugs. You’ll be gone in the morning. You’ll take the rest of my bag while I’m sleeping. I have to get mine now, so at least it’s a fair trade.”

  I stand up and rest his guitar on the couch.

  “I’m gonna go,” I say. I start walking to the door. He gets up and grabs my wrist so quickly.

  “Don’t play games with me, April. You know how this works.”

  His grip is tight. I twist my wrist to try to find a weak spot, but he squeezes harder and gets so close that I feel like he’s taking all the air away.

  I back toward the door. He grabs my other arm.

  “You look so young.” He tries to kiss me. I turn my head away. My back hits the wall. I can see my guitar and my bag by the door. I think it through. Picture it all in my head. It has to be quick.

  “This could be so dirty,” he says. His breath smells like booze and burnt plastic. “I get the feeling you like it that way, don’t you, April?”

  “You know what?” I say sweetly to throw him off guard. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. “You’re right. I like it dirty.” I take a deep breath, like the extra air will make me bigger and stronger, and then I knee him in the groin as hard as I possibly can. My kneecap feels like it could crack in two. He lets go of my wrists and reaches for his crotch. I push him over while he’s off balance. Grab my guitar and my bag, open the door, and run as hard and as fast as I can. By the time I’m at my car, I have my keys out of my bag. He’s in the doorway. He’s hobbling out to me.

  “Get away,” I scream, hoping neighbors will hear. “Get the fuck away from me!”

  I unlock my car, throw my guitar and bag on the passenger seat, and climb in, closing the door just in time. He smacks my window. His face is right there. His glasses magnify his eyes, big and bulging.

  I start the engine. Lean on the horn. Flash my lights. I hope someone will notice, that one of his neighbors will come help me. No one does.

  “Bitch!” he screams. “You goddamned bitch!”

  He raises his fist like he might try to smash it through the window. I throw the car in reverse. Feel a bump. I hear a crack. He screams, like maybe I ran over his foot. He�
�s doubled over on the ground. I have to keep going. I back down the driveway to the road. My tires screech as I speed away. I don’t know which way to go, but it doesn’t matter as much as getting distance. I make turns on gut feelings, and eventually I’m out at the highway and I have no problem keeping my eyes open.

  I drive until daylight, until I can’t stay awake for another second. I sleep in my car in a playground parking lot. There are kids playing and moms waiting with juice boxes and the sounds of all of it make me feel safe enough to close my eyes.

  * * *

  When I wake up, everything feels too bright and too loud. Like another world, totally different from the one I was in last night. I wish this one felt real and that one didn’t, but it’s the other way around. These moms in the park, their kids, they aren’t even close to being a part of my reality. I don’t know them. I don’t remember anyone ever sitting on a bench with snacks and band-aids in their purse while I played on the swings. I could never be like those women. I wouldn’t know how. I sit in my car, watching them all. I feel like an alien.

  Scribbling with a broken golf pencil, scraping back the wood with my fingernail when the lead gets too low, I write on the back of one of the flyers from the show. I write it all down. Everything. I always do.

  At night, when it’s dark, when I’m in a strange motel room or parked at a rest stop, when there’s enough light to see by—a streetlight, the TV flicker—I write. When I have a pen and the back of an envelope, a receipt from the gas station, or a motel postcard, I write lyrics, thoughts, flashes of things I could use in a song.

  Mostly I write to Carly. I’ve been doing it for years. Since I left. Vows and proclamations have evolved into confessions. Sometimes you need to feel like you could tell someone everything if you wanted to. That there’s someone to tell.

  I, April,

  have loneliness so large it’s like a frostbitten explorer

  I have to drag down the mountain.