“Four nights in a row, you working on becoming a nightly thing Mike?” Eric asked me as I slid into my seat.
“Jen wanted to meet up again, and for some unknown reason, she likes this place.”
“Women, they’re attracted to my pretty face,” he responded.
“That would explain why I see so many in here tonight,” I said.
“Hey, Tina is here every night just to see me, isn’t that right Tina?” he asked. Tina, a sour faced older woman who was a permanent fixture in the bar, gave him the finger. “She loves me.”
“As usual, I’m minded that love is something only idiots pursue.” Also as usual, my timing was shit.
“Still on the ‘love is for fools and children’ kick eh?” Jen said as she sat down next to me and scowled, “I’d have thought you might have grown out of that.”
“Unless I’m right and it really is for children, in which case I’d have to regress to get away from that stance,” I said and sipped my beer. I hadn’t wanted to start the evening off with this sort of conversation, though I knew well I couldn’t avoid this sort of talk forever.
“And if you are wrong?” she asked, freighting the words with heavy import.
“Oh wait! I know this one,” Eric said as he set Jen’s drink down in front of her, “Hell freezes over, am I right?” He winked at me. The man had just earned every dime I’d ever tipped and then some.
“Well, bar rules state that arguing with the bartender is not allowed, and since I haven’t heard of a ski resort down below yet, I guess the question is settled.”
“You don’t even believe in a hell,” Jen objected.
“Well that only solidifies my position,” I stated and gestured at Eric to pour one for himself. “To a pretty face in the bar once again,” I toasted, gesturing at Jen. Flattery is better than conflict for placating a woman if done right. Jen flushed slightly and ducked her head a bit while Eric and I drank.
“You two think you’re pretty clever.”
“I’m a fan of Descartes myself,” quipped Eric with a little wave as he excused himself. I confess, I laughed.
Distracted and mollified for the moment, Jen sipped her drink and asked, “So what have you been up to since I saw you last?”
I strained a muscle to keep myself from rolling my eyes, “Mostly the same old shit, working in the studio, taking internet orders.”
“Only mostly?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, I seem to have picked up a student, or perhaps an apprentice, I’m not really sure.”
Jen looked puzzled, “Since when are you into teaching?” she asked, “Last I knew your teaching style consisted of berating people and declaring them incompetent fools.”
“Hell, I don’t even know how it happened, wounded pride I think, but she wandered into my shop and expressed an interest in the productio...”
“She?” interrupted Jen, “Who is ‘she’?”
“Again, I don’t really know, aside from her name and that she can kick my ass in pool, and she’s far crazier than your average woman,” I said. The number of emotions that crawled across Jen’s face told me I could have picked better words.
“Mike, I don’t even know how to untangle the crap you just said. Start from the beginning.”
I sighed, “Ok, quick and simple, Ron and I were playing pool the other night, got challenged to doubles by a couple women, got our asses handed to us, the next day, one of them showed up in my studio, I showed her the working side, she pretty much sneered at it, so I gave her a sort of working lesson and it sort of snowballed from there. Now she shows up and tinkers around in the studio. It’s fucking bizarre.”
“She must be some sort of special woman to coax patient instruction out of the Mighty Mike,” she snapped.
“Actually, she pretty much irritates the hell out of me, and that’s how it all started. Since then, I’ve been my usual asshole self, she glares at me and then does whatever I told her anyway. I never really wanted a student, nor an apprentice, but if I have to have one, she seems to be able to handle it.”
“Do you? Have to have one that is,” she asked.
“Have to? Probably not, but the demand for the stupid little shit I sell has jumped in the last six months and if it keeps up, I will need someone to help to keep up or...” I trailed off as I ran scenarios in my head.
“Or what?” demanded Jen.
“Or I go full time making stupid whirligigs, with no time for what I want to do, or I let the orders pile up and maybe business suffers, or I start working ten hour days, seven days a week, or... I don’t know, things are kind of changing and I’m not entirely sure how to handle it. I’ve been a starving artist for so long that I don’t think I quite know how to handle the idea of actual success, or that I even want it in the form it may come. World famous whirligig maker? I could probably market my shit to some catalog company, set up a mass production facility and make a decent living, but I don’t know anything about that sort of work, and I’m not sure I wouldn’t hate it.” I sipped my beer, “Sorry about that, I didn’t mean to unload on you, I’m just a bit unsure right now, and I know you are familiar with my usual reaction to that.”
Jen wrapped her arm around me and put her head on my shoulder, “I’m here for you Mike, you can unload if you need to and I’ll offer whatever support I can, and I hope you know that.”
“I’m glad to hear that, and I like knowing that I’ve got you and Ron around to support me, but I’ve still got to do the decision making myself.”
“We all have to make our own decisions Mike,” she said.
“To be more correct, we all make our own decisions, one way or another, but it’s whatever. I don’t want to talk about my problems any more tonight, new subject, let’s talk about you,” I said. “You found a job? A place to live?”
“To borrow your style of answering, yes and yes,” she responded. “I interviewed this morning with the paper and I’ll be covering community events and local politics, pretty much the same thing I was doing in Florida, only with slightly better pay, which is good because the place I found is slightly more expensive than the one I had back there in the swampland.”
“So where is the new place?” I asked.
“It’s over on the east side, Riverview apartments, they’re decent sized and the place I got is a two bedroom so I’ll have an office to work in. The big downside is that I won’t be in walking distance from here anymore.”
“That is a tragedy if I ever heard one,” Eric said, “Another round kids?” he asked.”
I nodded and he poured.
“This will have to be my last round tonight,” Jen said, “I start tomorrow morning at the new job, and I’m sure a hangover won’t be impressive to the new bosses.”
“That’s understandable,” I said, “and it is a crying shame you won’t be so close to here anymore.”
“Well, you’ll just have to walk me home tonight, because after this weekend, you won’t get to anymore.”
“You’re moving this weekend?” I asked.
“I’m headed back to Florida to see things packed up and sent this way, and when I get back I will be in the new place. I’ve got an air mattress and enough clothes to get by for now.”
“Well if you need any help, or anything, call me, I’ll do anything I can.”
We finished our drinks mostly in silence, the both of us weighing the import of the words we’d spoken. When Jen set her glass down a last time she smiled at me.
“An escort home?” she asked.
“Of course my dear,” I said and paid the tab.
The night was warmer than our last walk home and we walked closer and slower with our arms linked. I smelled her hair and fought with nostalgia. The rose colored lenses of the past are bedeviling and I tried to remind myself of that. At her door, the kiss, like the walk, was slower and longer. I bade her goodnight and headed back towards the bar. Halfway there I stopped under a streetlight and leaned against it. Idly kicking a heel against the pole and listening to the dull ring of it I wondered why stupid ‘truisms’ seemed to apply to my life so often.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Six
I grabbed a pack of cheap cigars on my way to the studio and immediately headed for the workshop. I pulled the skateboard out from behind the ‘fridge, where it slept, waiting for thinking days. I rolled in circles, bumping gently into tables and walls, trailing blue smoke and thinking. I had a bit of something lurking in the back of my head, a remnant of the previous night’s drunken dreams and I was digging hard for it, but it was resisting, a deep root that didn’t want to come out. I puffed furiously and started riding faster. The skateboard was a relic I had dragged out of my parents garage one day and it had replaced the bicycle ride as my thinking platform. The rides had been great, but more often than not the ideas had come and gone by the time I got back to the studio. I found the skateboard simplified things.
I had a shape coalescing in my head and I was rounding the corner to my design table when an unexpected voice called from the door. I slid and fell backwards, landing sprawled by the large roll-up door. I looked over at Dawn standing in the door from the storefront.
“You startled me,” I said from the floor and hauled myself upright.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I snagged the skateboard with my foot and stepped back on and rolled towards her, “Thinking, what are you doing?”
She frowned, “I’m here because you told me to come back,” she glanced over at the table where she had been working.
“Well try not to kill me when you come in. Have you finished trimming?”
“No.”
“Well, you don’t need my help then, let me know when you finish,” I said and went back to rolling around.
“That thing stinks,” Dawn said as she hung her jacket on the coat rack.
“So does your perfume, but this is my studio,” I responded and rounded another corner. I rolled over to my design table and started sketching. I was vaguely aware of Dawn standing behind me for a while. I ignored her and kept drawing. After a while I heard the cutting wheel start up. I grunted and started pulling sheets off the shelf and prepping them. I lost myself in work until I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Eh, what?” I asked without turning around.
“It’s lunch time,” she said quietly.
“Kitchen corner is over there, or you can go out for lunch,” I gestured towards the fridge and the door.
“You should eat as well.”
I sighed and stretched my shoulders, “Maybe so,” I said. Realizing I was still on the skateboard, I pushed off and rolled over to the refrigerator. “I’ve got hummus in here, an avocado and boring ass ham and cheese.”
“Whatever you’re having,” she answered quietly. She was oddly subdued today and I found it more disturbing than the sudden mood shifts of the day before.
I spread hummus and avocado on bread and slapped a few slices of ham and cheese between them.
I tossed it on a paper plate and set it in front of her, “Beer, or wine?”
“With this? Beer please.”
I opened two bottles and sat down across from her.
“Good idea this,” I said around a mouthful of sandwich.
“What?” she looked confused.
“Eating,” I said and sipped my beer.
“You’re not so normal as I first thought.”
“Well, coming from you, I have no idea how to take that,” I took another bite and washed it down with more beer.
“What is with the skateboard and the cigar?”
“I don’t have a clue, I just know it works. You don’t fuck with that sort of success, not in this business. You change it when it stops working, otherwise you cling to the odd little things that prompt creation.”
“How did you end up doing this?” she asked.
“Eat your sandwich,” I said and skated back to my design table with sandwich and beer, “Questions can come after I’m done doing this.” I chewed, sipped and drew furiously.
I had a shape coalescing in my head and I was rounding the corner to my design table when an unexpected voice called from the door. I slid and fell backwards, landing sprawled by the large roll-up door. I looked over at Dawn standing in the door from the storefront.
“You startled me,” I said from the floor and hauled myself upright.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I snagged the skateboard with my foot and stepped back on and rolled towards her, “Thinking, what are you doing?”
She frowned, “I’m here because you told me to come back,” she glanced over at the table where she had been working.
“Well try not to kill me when you come in. Have you finished trimming?”
“No.”
“Well, you don’t need my help then, let me know when you finish,” I said and went back to rolling around.
“That thing stinks,” Dawn said as she hung her jacket on the coat rack.
“So does your perfume, but this is my studio,” I responded and rounded another corner. I rolled over to my design table and started sketching. I was vaguely aware of Dawn standing behind me for a while. I ignored her and kept drawing. After a while I heard the cutting wheel start up. I grunted and started pulling sheets off the shelf and prepping them. I lost myself in work until I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Eh, what?” I asked without turning around.
“It’s lunch time,” she said quietly.
“Kitchen corner is over there, or you can go out for lunch,” I gestured towards the fridge and the door.
“You should eat as well.”
I sighed and stretched my shoulders, “Maybe so,” I said. Realizing I was still on the skateboard, I pushed off and rolled over to the refrigerator. “I’ve got hummus in here, an avocado and boring ass ham and cheese.”
“Whatever you’re having,” she answered quietly. She was oddly subdued today and I found it more disturbing than the sudden mood shifts of the day before.
I spread hummus and avocado on bread and slapped a few slices of ham and cheese between them.
I tossed it on a paper plate and set it in front of her, “Beer, or wine?”
“With this? Beer please.”
I opened two bottles and sat down across from her.
“Good idea this,” I said around a mouthful of sandwich.
“What?” she looked confused.
“Eating,” I said and sipped my beer.
“You’re not so normal as I first thought.”
“Well, coming from you, I have no idea how to take that,” I took another bite and washed it down with more beer.
“What is with the skateboard and the cigar?”
“I don’t have a clue, I just know it works. You don’t fuck with that sort of success, not in this business. You change it when it stops working, otherwise you cling to the odd little things that prompt creation.”
“How did you end up doing this?” she asked.
“Eat your sandwich,” I said and skated back to my design table with sandwich and beer, “Questions can come after I’m done doing this.” I chewed, sipped and drew furiously.
Five
I slid into my seat next to Ron that Monday night.
“Hey compadre, what’s new? I hear you and Jen are firing it up,” Ron grinned at me and waved his martini at me.
“Ron, the past three days have been insane and I think I’ve met a woman who takes the prize for craziest ever.”
“Hey now, Jen isn’t that bad, I mean, she’s pretty stable for a woman.”
I signaled to Eric for a whiskey and a beer. He raised and eyebrow and poured. “I’m not talking about Jen. Remember the girls we were playing pool with the other night?” I thanked Eric for the drinks and held the whiskey between two fingers and gestured gently at him.
“You scored that Erin girl?” Ron asked and lifted his glass, “Damn man, she had a great rack.”
“You moron, I’m talking about the other one, Dawn.”
“Her? She spoke all of what, two words the whole time?”
“Look, after you left her and I chatted for a while. Then she shows up at my studio this morning. I thought she was hitting on me at first, but it was more like watching a video on fast forward. She’s moodier than Rachel.”
“Um, well, so you’re running like hell in the opposite direction?” Ron asked, still holding his glass in the air, “because you know Jen is pretty excited about the idea of you and her again.”
I rapped my glass of whiskey against Ron’s glass and tipped it down my throat, “Fuck, I should be running, I should be happy about Jen being back.”
“But you’re not, are you?”
“I’m happy that Jen is back in town, and I’m, I don’t know, happy to be around her again, but I’m fascinated by this girl.”
“You want my advice?”
“Fuck no, I just want you to drink with me and smile tolerantly as I make a jackass of myself. Then I want you to see that I get home safe.”
Ron grinned, “Now that is the sort of friend I am excellent at being,” he called to Eric for another whiskey, “This dumb bastard is getting drunk.”
I trashed Ron on the table that night, at least for the first few games. After a couple hours I got lost in the jukebox and never seemed to recover.
“Hey compadre, what’s new? I hear you and Jen are firing it up,” Ron grinned at me and waved his martini at me.
“Ron, the past three days have been insane and I think I’ve met a woman who takes the prize for craziest ever.”
“Hey now, Jen isn’t that bad, I mean, she’s pretty stable for a woman.”
I signaled to Eric for a whiskey and a beer. He raised and eyebrow and poured. “I’m not talking about Jen. Remember the girls we were playing pool with the other night?” I thanked Eric for the drinks and held the whiskey between two fingers and gestured gently at him.
“You scored that Erin girl?” Ron asked and lifted his glass, “Damn man, she had a great rack.”
“You moron, I’m talking about the other one, Dawn.”
“Her? She spoke all of what, two words the whole time?”
“Look, after you left her and I chatted for a while. Then she shows up at my studio this morning. I thought she was hitting on me at first, but it was more like watching a video on fast forward. She’s moodier than Rachel.”
“Um, well, so you’re running like hell in the opposite direction?” Ron asked, still holding his glass in the air, “because you know Jen is pretty excited about the idea of you and her again.”
I rapped my glass of whiskey against Ron’s glass and tipped it down my throat, “Fuck, I should be running, I should be happy about Jen being back.”
“But you’re not, are you?”
“I’m happy that Jen is back in town, and I’m, I don’t know, happy to be around her again, but I’m fascinated by this girl.”
“You want my advice?”
“Fuck no, I just want you to drink with me and smile tolerantly as I make a jackass of myself. Then I want you to see that I get home safe.”
Ron grinned, “Now that is the sort of friend I am excellent at being,” he called to Eric for another whiskey, “This dumb bastard is getting drunk.”
I trashed Ron on the table that night, at least for the first few games. After a couple hours I got lost in the jukebox and never seemed to recover.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
4.5
“Ta-dah!” I said, gesturing grandly at my workshop.
“Oh look, more disappointed expectations,” Dawn said, peering around, “I hope the drinks are better.”
“Now that’s just darned cold, I happen to be rather proud of this workshop. I built most of what you see here, even fabricated half the tools. You wouldn’t believe the amount you have to spend on tools to make tools,” I said as I walked to the refrigerator corner.
“I was sort of hoping for a lot of madness, crazy drawings on the walls and floors, maybe a bit darker and with some jazz playing.”
“Jazz I can do, but dark? I don’t want to go blind, and I have to see to work. Wine, if I recall correctly?”
“Cab if you’ve got anything decent.”
“Come now, I sell art, the world would be greatly disappointed if I swilled cheap beer and farted a lot. This business requires a certain level class, whether I’ve got it or not.”
“More disappointments, even the refinement is fake?”
“Well I could just pour myself a glass of drain cleaner right now for all the headway I’m making in impressing you. That would be nice and dramatically artistic now, wouldn’t it?” I asked as I poured a couple glasses of wine.
“No, drain cleaner just has no style whatsoever.”
I handed her a glass, “Well then, let us drink to my monumental failure.” I held out my glass.
She held hers up and eyed me, “No, I think I’ll drink to your exceptional poise. That’s one hell of a thick set of armor you’re wearing,” she said and touched her glass to mine.
I drank deeply, I found this woman more than a little unsettling despite her comments about my calm. “I think I could guess that the cruder sort of men generally refer to you as a bitch. Sadly for me that word usually translates as ‘fascinating’. So I’m interested and you have me at a disadvantage, who are you?”
“I’m precisely not that.”
“Not fascinating?”
“No, I’m astoundingly boring. I sell houses, mostly to stupid people. I own a crappy, boring house that needs work that I can’t ever find the time to get done. I have a fancy SUV, investments, some half dead houseplants and a fish. I have a life so routine and boring that I could spit. I’ve just discovered that the romantic artist types have the same hell I do. Is everything like this?” she was gripping the wineglass so hard I thought it would break.
I shook my head, “You’re looking at it all wrong.”
“How do I look at right?”
“Well, the first thing to do would be to relax your grip on that wineglass before I have to demonstrate how entirely inept I am at first aid. The second thing is to drink the wine in that glass.”
She looked down and relaxed her grip a bit before taking a sip of her wine. “Now what?”
“You learned to follow instructions,” I said and grabbed the bottle of wine, “I told you to drink the wine in that glass.”
She glared at me and tossed back the remainder of her wine. She held out the empty glass as though for my approval.
“Good start,” I said and poured the glass near full,”Start on that while I get something together.” I set down the bottle of wine and walked over to my storage shelves. I picked out a four foot square of sheet bronze and carried it over to a worktable. After spraying it with a light adhesive I smoothed a large sheet of butchers paper over it.
“Come here,” I said, grabbing a pencil and spinning it in my fingers. She walked over and set her drink next to the sheet metal.
“No, take another drink first.”
“If you want to get me drunk, just say so,” she said, acid in her tone.
I smiled, “I don’t want you drunk, just alive, now drink.”
She took a deliberately large swallow of wine and set her drink down. I handed the pencil.
“You’ve got a sheet of paper and a pencil. Draw a shape, any shape, just so long as it pleases you.”
She took the pencil and stared at the sheet of paper, “What is the point of this exercise? I’m not an artist you know.”
“You hate boring and predictable, so don’t do it. There are forms and patterns and shapes that are appealing to people, tastes differ, but it’s there. Just freehand something that appeals to you.”
I expected her to throw the pencil down and walk out, and from the look in her eyes, she was considering it. Instead she set the pencil on the paper and made several broad strokes without looking down. I didn’t look either and simply stared back at her.
“I’m done,” she said flatly.
I looked down pencil lines on the paper, it was good, doing it angry and blind she’d made smooth lines that would be easy cut.
“Ok, that’s one, two more to go,” I said and grabbed a smaller sheet. “Each one will be smaller,” I said, doing the adhesive and paper ritual again.
“There’s a point to this?” she asked, sipping her wine.
“Ever done this before? No? Oops, you just broke your routine. Now again.”
She looked down at the sheet metal and then at the other piece she’d drawn on. I turned away and started prepping a third sheet. When I was done, I handed it to her. She absently took a hold of it while still staring at her second drawing. The sheet immediately slipped out of her hands and crashed to the floor. Dawn jumped. “It’s heavy!” she exclaimed.
“You get used to it,” I said and picked the sheet up and set it on the table. I gestured towards it and started prepping the shears, uncoiling the air hose and getting out the ear protection. I set it all on the steel table I used for cutting.
“Ok, now what?”
“Now we cut,” I said and lead her to the cutting table. I handed her a set of ear muffs. “This can get noisy, so put these on.”
She put the ear muffs on and immediately wrenched them off. “These fit really tight.”
I smiled, “They have to, that’s part of the noise blocking, don’t worry, it’s just another thing you get used to.”
She put them back on and I showed her how to use the pneumatic shears. I guided her through cutting out the shapes.
When it was done and I signaled for her to take her ear muffs off, she look down at the shapes on the table. “I guess I’m not very good at this yet.”
“The shears are just for fast removal of lots of material, the next step is the cutting wheel.” I gave her a pair of safety glasses and showed her how to trim the rough sheared edges with the rotary tool.
I left her to it while I prepped several packages for shipping. The tool ground away in the back ground, punctuated by noises and curses. I was enjoying this when the tool stopped.
“This wheel is getting smaller, is that normal?” Dawn asked.
“Yes it is,” I answered, walking over to her. “Good time to ask, it’s about time to change it out.” I demonstrated how to change the cutting wheel and where the extra wheels were and went back to packaging. After an hour or so I checked my email for incoming orders and printed them out for my job list. I checked the clock and walked back into the work area.
“Hey.” I got no response, “HEY!” I yelled. Dawn nearly dropped the rotary tool.
“Don’t scare me like that, I could take a finger off,” she glared at me.
I laughed, “You almost look to be enjoying yourself. Come on, it’s time for lunch.”
She turned off the rotary tool and flexed her fingers. “Ok, maybe that is a good idea.”
“Oh look, more disappointed expectations,” Dawn said, peering around, “I hope the drinks are better.”
“Now that’s just darned cold, I happen to be rather proud of this workshop. I built most of what you see here, even fabricated half the tools. You wouldn’t believe the amount you have to spend on tools to make tools,” I said as I walked to the refrigerator corner.
“I was sort of hoping for a lot of madness, crazy drawings on the walls and floors, maybe a bit darker and with some jazz playing.”
“Jazz I can do, but dark? I don’t want to go blind, and I have to see to work. Wine, if I recall correctly?”
“Cab if you’ve got anything decent.”
“Come now, I sell art, the world would be greatly disappointed if I swilled cheap beer and farted a lot. This business requires a certain level class, whether I’ve got it or not.”
“More disappointments, even the refinement is fake?”
“Well I could just pour myself a glass of drain cleaner right now for all the headway I’m making in impressing you. That would be nice and dramatically artistic now, wouldn’t it?” I asked as I poured a couple glasses of wine.
“No, drain cleaner just has no style whatsoever.”
I handed her a glass, “Well then, let us drink to my monumental failure.” I held out my glass.
She held hers up and eyed me, “No, I think I’ll drink to your exceptional poise. That’s one hell of a thick set of armor you’re wearing,” she said and touched her glass to mine.
I drank deeply, I found this woman more than a little unsettling despite her comments about my calm. “I think I could guess that the cruder sort of men generally refer to you as a bitch. Sadly for me that word usually translates as ‘fascinating’. So I’m interested and you have me at a disadvantage, who are you?”
“I’m precisely not that.”
“Not fascinating?”
“No, I’m astoundingly boring. I sell houses, mostly to stupid people. I own a crappy, boring house that needs work that I can’t ever find the time to get done. I have a fancy SUV, investments, some half dead houseplants and a fish. I have a life so routine and boring that I could spit. I’ve just discovered that the romantic artist types have the same hell I do. Is everything like this?” she was gripping the wineglass so hard I thought it would break.
I shook my head, “You’re looking at it all wrong.”
“How do I look at right?”
“Well, the first thing to do would be to relax your grip on that wineglass before I have to demonstrate how entirely inept I am at first aid. The second thing is to drink the wine in that glass.”
She looked down and relaxed her grip a bit before taking a sip of her wine. “Now what?”
“You learned to follow instructions,” I said and grabbed the bottle of wine, “I told you to drink the wine in that glass.”
She glared at me and tossed back the remainder of her wine. She held out the empty glass as though for my approval.
“Good start,” I said and poured the glass near full,”Start on that while I get something together.” I set down the bottle of wine and walked over to my storage shelves. I picked out a four foot square of sheet bronze and carried it over to a worktable. After spraying it with a light adhesive I smoothed a large sheet of butchers paper over it.
“Come here,” I said, grabbing a pencil and spinning it in my fingers. She walked over and set her drink next to the sheet metal.
“No, take another drink first.”
“If you want to get me drunk, just say so,” she said, acid in her tone.
I smiled, “I don’t want you drunk, just alive, now drink.”
She took a deliberately large swallow of wine and set her drink down. I handed the pencil.
“You’ve got a sheet of paper and a pencil. Draw a shape, any shape, just so long as it pleases you.”
She took the pencil and stared at the sheet of paper, “What is the point of this exercise? I’m not an artist you know.”
“You hate boring and predictable, so don’t do it. There are forms and patterns and shapes that are appealing to people, tastes differ, but it’s there. Just freehand something that appeals to you.”
I expected her to throw the pencil down and walk out, and from the look in her eyes, she was considering it. Instead she set the pencil on the paper and made several broad strokes without looking down. I didn’t look either and simply stared back at her.
“I’m done,” she said flatly.
I looked down pencil lines on the paper, it was good, doing it angry and blind she’d made smooth lines that would be easy cut.
“Ok, that’s one, two more to go,” I said and grabbed a smaller sheet. “Each one will be smaller,” I said, doing the adhesive and paper ritual again.
“There’s a point to this?” she asked, sipping her wine.
“Ever done this before? No? Oops, you just broke your routine. Now again.”
She looked down at the sheet metal and then at the other piece she’d drawn on. I turned away and started prepping a third sheet. When I was done, I handed it to her. She absently took a hold of it while still staring at her second drawing. The sheet immediately slipped out of her hands and crashed to the floor. Dawn jumped. “It’s heavy!” she exclaimed.
“You get used to it,” I said and picked the sheet up and set it on the table. I gestured towards it and started prepping the shears, uncoiling the air hose and getting out the ear protection. I set it all on the steel table I used for cutting.
“Ok, now what?”
“Now we cut,” I said and lead her to the cutting table. I handed her a set of ear muffs. “This can get noisy, so put these on.”
She put the ear muffs on and immediately wrenched them off. “These fit really tight.”
I smiled, “They have to, that’s part of the noise blocking, don’t worry, it’s just another thing you get used to.”
She put them back on and I showed her how to use the pneumatic shears. I guided her through cutting out the shapes.
When it was done and I signaled for her to take her ear muffs off, she look down at the shapes on the table. “I guess I’m not very good at this yet.”
“The shears are just for fast removal of lots of material, the next step is the cutting wheel.” I gave her a pair of safety glasses and showed her how to trim the rough sheared edges with the rotary tool.
I left her to it while I prepped several packages for shipping. The tool ground away in the back ground, punctuated by noises and curses. I was enjoying this when the tool stopped.
“This wheel is getting smaller, is that normal?” Dawn asked.
“Yes it is,” I answered, walking over to her. “Good time to ask, it’s about time to change it out.” I demonstrated how to change the cutting wheel and where the extra wheels were and went back to packaging. After an hour or so I checked my email for incoming orders and printed them out for my job list. I checked the clock and walked back into the work area.
“Hey.” I got no response, “HEY!” I yelled. Dawn nearly dropped the rotary tool.
“Don’t scare me like that, I could take a finger off,” she glared at me.
I laughed, “You almost look to be enjoying yourself. Come on, it’s time for lunch.”
She turned off the rotary tool and flexed her fingers. “Ok, maybe that is a good idea.”
Monday, November 5, 2007
04
I'm piss drunk and I can't do any more tonight, sorry, it is what is.
Mornings were much more enjoyable when I awoke naturally, to my internal clock rather than outside stimulus. This morning the stimulus had been the obnoxious keening of my alarm clock. I know they are designed to wake sleeping people but I’ve never yet met one that doesn’t emit the most terrible sound a human being can hear in their life. In the shower I debated which was worse, angry girlfriend, shitty techno or the damned clock. I couldn’t decide so I settled for the idea of wiping them all from the face of the earth.
“So much for the dream of self-employment, eh friend?” I muttered to the lone goldfish that swam in a bowl on my kitchen counter as I fed it. I’d had that dream, working for myself, no boss, no set hours, living life as I pleased, being delusional as to the real nature of working for yourself. I knew now that the self-employed were the saddest bastards on the planet. Sure, if you created a business that exploded right away and you could sell it for millions, it’s great, if your business was easily self-sustaining through some miracle, you were set. In the real world most of us knew that being self employed meant getting up every morning, staying late most evenings and always worrying.
I slapped together an egg sandwich and headed for my studio. I had about eight thousand square feet in an area that was trying desperately to be the new art district. The bastards with the money hadn’t caught on yet, which was ok with me, because it meant I could afford the space and have my gallery and production studio in the same place.
I’d gotten into sculpture very young, seventh grade, when I was taking an art class and a metal shop class at the same time. I combined them and spent the next few years at school playing around with dozens of styles and materials. It wasn’t until about three years ago that I finally settled on using sheet bronze, bending and brazing to make the shapes I wanted. I had to split my time though, there were the big projects I wanted to do, huge things that would show on the city artwalk and if I was lucky end up in the lobby of some building. On the flip side, there were what I called, ‘yard tackies,’ the little shitty whirly-gigs that I could make several an hour and sell cheap enough to actually have a constant income. This is the reality of self-employment, especially in the art world. You hope to sell enough shit to pay for your desire to make real art. I learned this in art school, and as it turned out, the practical side was far more valuable than anything else.
I had nothing going on the large format side, though this was a simple matter of economics. I had three large pieces sitting in the studio yard without even a prospect of a home and fifteen thousand in materials invested in them. I loved them, and the longer they sat, the more loathing I felt about giving them away.
I was putting together my sixth whirligig of the morning when I saw the door light flash. I sighed, I needed a break but at the same time I needed to ship eight whirligigs today before two and I’d planned on working hard all morning so I could laze away the afternoon. I shut down my brazing torch, shucked my gloves, apron and mask and brushed myself off as I headed for the gallery area to greet another old lady who wanted a left hand spiral on her whirligig.
I stepped through the doorway and peered about, looking for my customer. It took me a few moments because she was in the large nook, where I displayed my latest monster, a nightmare of bronze designed to evoke a mammoth being driven towards a cliff by stone pointed spears. The irony of doing the scene in bronze was one I kept to myself. I’d read too many paleo-anthropologic books that week and I felt a bit silly about it, but it was dramatic and very large so I displayed it. I wiped brazer from my fingers and watched the woman circle it slowly. She wasn’t the usual grey-hair, nor did she give off the air of the local art society types. She seemed actually curious about the sculpture, ducking her head in and out as though inspecting the quality of my welds. Even though her back was to me, there was something familiar about the dark hair that ran over her shoulders, the legs in those jeans. I watched her follow the twisting of a leg and as she turned I caught a profile against the windows of my studio.
“Dawn?” I blurted out, surprised.
She jumped around to face me, a little shock and a bit of apprehension on her face.
“Hi,” she said, simply looking at me.
“Hi yourself,” I said, “I didn’t expect to see you in here.”
“Expectations are funny like that, they never seem to meet up with reality,” she responded as she walked towards me. “I saw your work a year ago on the art walk, and although I liked it, I never came down here. When I met you the other night it took me a while to realise who I was talking to. You weren’t what I was expecting.”
“Mind if I ask what you were expecting?”
“Someone older, darker, somehow I pictured you with a limp, and grey hair, maybe a cowboy hat with a silver studded band. I never expected a young and clean-shaven man.”
“Disappointing is it?”
“To be honest, yes. I was expecting some real history behind these mazingly twisted forms.”
“History is dry boring bullshit written by comfortable bastards who never saw it happen. Don’t you know most artist did their best works in their youth?”
“I know that intellectually, but there is an inescapable romanticism about the old man with visual poetry in his soul.”
“Well my dear, you’ve come to the wrong place for romanticism and poetry, I only make blunt reality and kitsch. It’s all crap, but it is a living.”
“I didn’t come here for romanticism, poetry, blunt reality, and certainly not for kitsch, I came to see you,” she smiled at me and turned to fondle a bit of shit I sold for a day’s wages.
“Ok, so you came to see me, and why?”
“You sound suspicious.”
“Call missed signals, I just don’t understand why it is, that if I am a disappointment of what you expected, you would still come here.”
“Disappointed and surprised are not the same thing, and somehow I’m disappointed you don’t know the difference.”
“I know the difference, but I admit I”m accustomed to others not seeing it the same. Some days I think I’d sell more if I tanned and wore a feather headdress.”
“Somehow, I don’t think that would go with the blonde hair and the blue eyes.”
“I could throw some Nordic nonsense in there and pretend I was a descendant of some long lost Scandinavian explorer.”
“Niche market at best.”
“If I were in Minnesota, I’d make a killing.”
“You would,” she said, and flashed a smile. I hated her in that moment. Too pretty, too confident, she threaten to rival my own supremacy. I wanted to throw her out of my studio.
“Would you like a drink, and perhaps a tour of the production side of what I do?” I heard myself asking. Often I think that I hate myself and do things simply to spite myself.
“That depends on what you’re offering to drink,” she smiled back.
“Follow me,” I said and stepped through the swinging door into my work area.
Mornings were much more enjoyable when I awoke naturally, to my internal clock rather than outside stimulus. This morning the stimulus had been the obnoxious keening of my alarm clock. I know they are designed to wake sleeping people but I’ve never yet met one that doesn’t emit the most terrible sound a human being can hear in their life. In the shower I debated which was worse, angry girlfriend, shitty techno or the damned clock. I couldn’t decide so I settled for the idea of wiping them all from the face of the earth.
“So much for the dream of self-employment, eh friend?” I muttered to the lone goldfish that swam in a bowl on my kitchen counter as I fed it. I’d had that dream, working for myself, no boss, no set hours, living life as I pleased, being delusional as to the real nature of working for yourself. I knew now that the self-employed were the saddest bastards on the planet. Sure, if you created a business that exploded right away and you could sell it for millions, it’s great, if your business was easily self-sustaining through some miracle, you were set. In the real world most of us knew that being self employed meant getting up every morning, staying late most evenings and always worrying.
I slapped together an egg sandwich and headed for my studio. I had about eight thousand square feet in an area that was trying desperately to be the new art district. The bastards with the money hadn’t caught on yet, which was ok with me, because it meant I could afford the space and have my gallery and production studio in the same place.
I’d gotten into sculpture very young, seventh grade, when I was taking an art class and a metal shop class at the same time. I combined them and spent the next few years at school playing around with dozens of styles and materials. It wasn’t until about three years ago that I finally settled on using sheet bronze, bending and brazing to make the shapes I wanted. I had to split my time though, there were the big projects I wanted to do, huge things that would show on the city artwalk and if I was lucky end up in the lobby of some building. On the flip side, there were what I called, ‘yard tackies,’ the little shitty whirly-gigs that I could make several an hour and sell cheap enough to actually have a constant income. This is the reality of self-employment, especially in the art world. You hope to sell enough shit to pay for your desire to make real art. I learned this in art school, and as it turned out, the practical side was far more valuable than anything else.
I had nothing going on the large format side, though this was a simple matter of economics. I had three large pieces sitting in the studio yard without even a prospect of a home and fifteen thousand in materials invested in them. I loved them, and the longer they sat, the more loathing I felt about giving them away.
I was putting together my sixth whirligig of the morning when I saw the door light flash. I sighed, I needed a break but at the same time I needed to ship eight whirligigs today before two and I’d planned on working hard all morning so I could laze away the afternoon. I shut down my brazing torch, shucked my gloves, apron and mask and brushed myself off as I headed for the gallery area to greet another old lady who wanted a left hand spiral on her whirligig.
I stepped through the doorway and peered about, looking for my customer. It took me a few moments because she was in the large nook, where I displayed my latest monster, a nightmare of bronze designed to evoke a mammoth being driven towards a cliff by stone pointed spears. The irony of doing the scene in bronze was one I kept to myself. I’d read too many paleo-anthropologic books that week and I felt a bit silly about it, but it was dramatic and very large so I displayed it. I wiped brazer from my fingers and watched the woman circle it slowly. She wasn’t the usual grey-hair, nor did she give off the air of the local art society types. She seemed actually curious about the sculpture, ducking her head in and out as though inspecting the quality of my welds. Even though her back was to me, there was something familiar about the dark hair that ran over her shoulders, the legs in those jeans. I watched her follow the twisting of a leg and as she turned I caught a profile against the windows of my studio.
“Dawn?” I blurted out, surprised.
She jumped around to face me, a little shock and a bit of apprehension on her face.
“Hi,” she said, simply looking at me.
“Hi yourself,” I said, “I didn’t expect to see you in here.”
“Expectations are funny like that, they never seem to meet up with reality,” she responded as she walked towards me. “I saw your work a year ago on the art walk, and although I liked it, I never came down here. When I met you the other night it took me a while to realise who I was talking to. You weren’t what I was expecting.”
“Mind if I ask what you were expecting?”
“Someone older, darker, somehow I pictured you with a limp, and grey hair, maybe a cowboy hat with a silver studded band. I never expected a young and clean-shaven man.”
“Disappointing is it?”
“To be honest, yes. I was expecting some real history behind these mazingly twisted forms.”
“History is dry boring bullshit written by comfortable bastards who never saw it happen. Don’t you know most artist did their best works in their youth?”
“I know that intellectually, but there is an inescapable romanticism about the old man with visual poetry in his soul.”
“Well my dear, you’ve come to the wrong place for romanticism and poetry, I only make blunt reality and kitsch. It’s all crap, but it is a living.”
“I didn’t come here for romanticism, poetry, blunt reality, and certainly not for kitsch, I came to see you,” she smiled at me and turned to fondle a bit of shit I sold for a day’s wages.
“Ok, so you came to see me, and why?”
“You sound suspicious.”
“Call missed signals, I just don’t understand why it is, that if I am a disappointment of what you expected, you would still come here.”
“Disappointed and surprised are not the same thing, and somehow I’m disappointed you don’t know the difference.”
“I know the difference, but I admit I”m accustomed to others not seeing it the same. Some days I think I’d sell more if I tanned and wore a feather headdress.”
“Somehow, I don’t think that would go with the blonde hair and the blue eyes.”
“I could throw some Nordic nonsense in there and pretend I was a descendant of some long lost Scandinavian explorer.”
“Niche market at best.”
“If I were in Minnesota, I’d make a killing.”
“You would,” she said, and flashed a smile. I hated her in that moment. Too pretty, too confident, she threaten to rival my own supremacy. I wanted to throw her out of my studio.
“Would you like a drink, and perhaps a tour of the production side of what I do?” I heard myself asking. Often I think that I hate myself and do things simply to spite myself.
“That depends on what you’re offering to drink,” she smiled back.
“Follow me,” I said and stepped through the swinging door into my work area.
3.1
Bit of codicil to the last bit, it's only a few hundred words and cheesier than hell, but I need every word I can squeeze out of this, this isn't easy for me
“You haven’t changed so much,” Jen said, smiling and set her hand against my face, “you’re still funny, and you’ve got sandpaper on your face.”
“Hey, I need that sandpaper some times.”
She pulled her hand back and sighed, “Some day, I’m going to make you talk to me without the the jokes.”
I felt a strange little pit open somewhere inside me and my eyes started to glass over, “Hey, it’s a bit early to start getting maudlin, don’t you think?”
Jen rubbed her face in a gesture I knew all too well, “Yeah, you’re right again, but no dances this time ok? Just walk me home.”
“It’s a shitty cold night, you know I love nothing more than walking on nights like tonight,” I said, extracting my wallet and flipping a few bills on the bar.
“No, hey, let me get my half,” she protested, reaching for her wallet.
I shook my head and grabbed her hand, “Let’s just go walk.”
Outside the bar, the night was bitingly cold but clear, the lack of haze letting the stars fight through the glow of the city. I zipped my jacket up and shivered violently, trying to shake off the warmth of Tom’s.
Jen smiled, “You always fight the cold, instead of just being cold.”
“Nice talk from a girl a who just came from Florida, when was the last time you saw snow?”
“Two days before I moved to Florida.”
“Well tonight might be the next time,” I said and offered her my arm.
We walked down the road together in silence for a while, I, watching her as she turned her head back and forth, looking for the changes in the old neighborhood and shaking her head when she saw them. We reached her parents house and I stopped at the stairs to her front porch.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Just been a long time since I walked you up to this door, it feels strange, like I’ve stepped back in life for a moment.”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me up the stairs to the door, “Step back just a little more,” she whispered and kissed me. It was quick, and a little cold and then she disappeared inside. I turned around and stood at the edge of the porch for a moment.
“Mike, you’re in trouble,” I said to myself and stepped off into the night.
“You haven’t changed so much,” Jen said, smiling and set her hand against my face, “you’re still funny, and you’ve got sandpaper on your face.”
“Hey, I need that sandpaper some times.”
She pulled her hand back and sighed, “Some day, I’m going to make you talk to me without the the jokes.”
I felt a strange little pit open somewhere inside me and my eyes started to glass over, “Hey, it’s a bit early to start getting maudlin, don’t you think?”
Jen rubbed her face in a gesture I knew all too well, “Yeah, you’re right again, but no dances this time ok? Just walk me home.”
“It’s a shitty cold night, you know I love nothing more than walking on nights like tonight,” I said, extracting my wallet and flipping a few bills on the bar.
“No, hey, let me get my half,” she protested, reaching for her wallet.
I shook my head and grabbed her hand, “Let’s just go walk.”
Outside the bar, the night was bitingly cold but clear, the lack of haze letting the stars fight through the glow of the city. I zipped my jacket up and shivered violently, trying to shake off the warmth of Tom’s.
Jen smiled, “You always fight the cold, instead of just being cold.”
“Nice talk from a girl a who just came from Florida, when was the last time you saw snow?”
“Two days before I moved to Florida.”
“Well tonight might be the next time,” I said and offered her my arm.
We walked down the road together in silence for a while, I, watching her as she turned her head back and forth, looking for the changes in the old neighborhood and shaking her head when she saw them. We reached her parents house and I stopped at the stairs to her front porch.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Just been a long time since I walked you up to this door, it feels strange, like I’ve stepped back in life for a moment.”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me up the stairs to the door, “Step back just a little more,” she whispered and kissed me. It was quick, and a little cold and then she disappeared inside. I turned around and stood at the edge of the porch for a moment.
“Mike, you’re in trouble,” I said to myself and stepped off into the night.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Sorry about the delay, installment 3 is here, I'll try for a fourth later tonight.
The second morning in a row, I awoke with pounding in my dreams, though this time it came from my neighbors apartment and not my front door. Having a wannabe DJ for a next door neighbor is less than pleasant on a hangover, but I was feeling more tolerant that usual and merely threw a glare and a few muttered imprecations at the wall before heading into the shower.
The hot shower has to be one of the greatest inventions of mankind and stood for a long moment, my head resting against the tiles. The coolness on my shoulder and head contrasted with the water that reddened my skin as I drew pointless squiggles in the condensation.
The night before had a hazy quality in my mind though not the cratered landscape of a black-out drunken episode. It felt more like a memory of skydiving, a rushing screaming terror with scattered tiny instances of clarity. I smiled again and ducked under the spray.
I sat down to a late lunch, still in a towel and flipped the phone open and turned it on. I chewed and idly watched the boot up screen, mind mercifully blank for once. I tensed as it searched for signal and found it. A few moments later the message tone sounded, indicating new voicemail. I took another bite and punched the key for voice mail.
“You have thirteen new voice mails,” intoned the smarmy electronically generated voice. When the same voice announced a message from Rachel, I quickly punched the seven to delete it. I did this eight times before it announced a number with an unfamiliar area code. My chewing slowed. When Jen’s voice began playing I stopped chewing entirely.
“Hi, I’m ah, detained in town a bit longer, family business, and well, my family is making me a bit crazy. I was wondering if you could bail me out for a few hours? I just need a bit of sanity. Call me back,” She rattled off a phone number faster than I could write. I hit replay and noticed the timestamp set the call for just an hour ago. I repeated the number to myself as I killed the voice mail and dialed the number. My finger hovered over the talk button and I set the phone down and rubbed my eyes. I sighed, “Ron, you might not be as stupid as you look,” and I punched the button.
When I arrived at Tom’s, she was already there, just right of my usual stool, where we’d sat when it was Ron, her and I. She was still in school, Ron and I playing the older, world-wise types. Eric was leaning across the bar, his hands moving as they talked. I could see by the way her bright hair shook that she was laughing. I slid into my seat.
“Mike! Damn, when is Ron showing up? We can have a reunion.”
“On a Sunday? Hell, Melanie won’t let him out tonight, you know that.”
“Not even for a special occasion like this? Oh right, she hates you.”
“Still? I’d have thought she’d have gotten over that,” Jen said, “Thanks for saving me, if I had to spend another evening listening to my father cheer on the jackasses on AM radio I was going to take their advice and buy a gun. Unfortunately for them I’d use it to kill them all.”
“Weren’t you a Young Republican once? I seem to recall you campaigning for Bob Dole.”
“If you’re looking to play the youthful indiscretion game, I think I can win that one, now shut your mouth, buy me a drink and tell me I’m pretty.”
“You’re pretty. Eric, get this blackmailing bitch what ever silly umbrella drink she’s learned to love while living in tropical paradise.”
“Whiskey and water as always Eric.”
After we’d gotten our drinks, Jen turned to me said, “Look, I’m sorry our last meeting was so short and after running into Ron earlier today, I’m really sorry I caused a fight with your girlfriend.”
“You didn’t cause a fight with my girlfriend, she caused it because that’s what she does and I’m happy to be done with her. I’m still not even sure how she ended up with the title ‘girlfriend’ for that matter.”
“Surely there was something there at some point.”
I sipped my beer, “No, there wasn’t. I met her one night here with Ron, she was an acquaintance of Melanie’s of all things and we got drunk and ended up in bed. Then it happened again, and again. After a while it just became a regular thing for us to fuck and I was too lazy to care when she started referring to me as her boyfriend.”
“Inertia can be deadly.”
“Millions of car accident deaths agree,” I could tell she was looking for a way to bring something up, but didn’t know how to say it. “So what family matters have got you stuck back here again and how long are you stuck here?”
“Mike, I’m not going back to Florida.”
I stared at her for a moment, then at my beer, then at her again, “Ok, tell me a story.”
“There’s no story, I just don’t like Florida, it’s a bug infested hole and I miss being here, I miss my family, and I miss you and Ron, and I of course miss Eric.”
“Hear that? I can bring a woman back home from across the country!” Eric yelled, having walked up at that moment.
Some wit across bar asked, “How much money do you owe her?”
“Bunch of funny types in here tonight,” he said, “Another round?”
“I think we’re going to need a couple shots.”
“Celebrating?”
“Assimilating. Make it tequila, no wheels.”
“So what happened to Florida as the land of golden opportunity?” I asked after the burn of the cheap tequila had faded a bit from my mouth.
“Nothing, I got my opportunity to get some experience, and I’ve already got a job with the paper here because my resume is no longer a big blank.”
“So you’re back then?”
“Well, I’m here to find a place to live and then I’ve got to go back and wrap and things up in Florida, hire some movers and then I’ll be back.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this the other night?”
“I was happy to see you and I didn’t know how you’d take the news.”
“You thought I’d be angry or something?”
“I don’t know Mike, I was angry with you when I left, and we didn’t speak once the entire time I was living there.”
“I do recall that being your decision, as I didn’t know where the hell you were, and you never contacted me until the other day.”
“I know that, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if you were angry with me and when I talked to you on the phone and you sounded happy to hear from me, I didn’t want to spoil it, not right away.”
I sipped my beer, “I don’t understand why you thought I’d be angry with you for moving back.”
“I thought, I left you, went to Florida, angry with you because you wouldn’t go with me, and now here I am, back after a couple short years, ready to come home and it’s like you were right when you said Florida was nowhere, and you just sit there like it’s no big deal. You’re still as frustrating as ever.” She wasn’t quite yelling, but her face was a bit flushed and her eyes were sharp.
I blinked at her, “Um well, I guess I should say, ‘I told you so.’ and do a little victory dance,” and I jumped off my bar stool and danced around a bit while crowing, “I was right! Oh yeah, gonna rub it in, I was right.”
I sat back down and smiled at her, “That better?”
She was laughing but she repressed it to glare at me, “You are a complete jackass.”
I shrugged.
The hot shower has to be one of the greatest inventions of mankind and stood for a long moment, my head resting against the tiles. The coolness on my shoulder and head contrasted with the water that reddened my skin as I drew pointless squiggles in the condensation.
The night before had a hazy quality in my mind though not the cratered landscape of a black-out drunken episode. It felt more like a memory of skydiving, a rushing screaming terror with scattered tiny instances of clarity. I smiled again and ducked under the spray.
I sat down to a late lunch, still in a towel and flipped the phone open and turned it on. I chewed and idly watched the boot up screen, mind mercifully blank for once. I tensed as it searched for signal and found it. A few moments later the message tone sounded, indicating new voicemail. I took another bite and punched the key for voice mail.
“You have thirteen new voice mails,” intoned the smarmy electronically generated voice. When the same voice announced a message from Rachel, I quickly punched the seven to delete it. I did this eight times before it announced a number with an unfamiliar area code. My chewing slowed. When Jen’s voice began playing I stopped chewing entirely.
“Hi, I’m ah, detained in town a bit longer, family business, and well, my family is making me a bit crazy. I was wondering if you could bail me out for a few hours? I just need a bit of sanity. Call me back,” She rattled off a phone number faster than I could write. I hit replay and noticed the timestamp set the call for just an hour ago. I repeated the number to myself as I killed the voice mail and dialed the number. My finger hovered over the talk button and I set the phone down and rubbed my eyes. I sighed, “Ron, you might not be as stupid as you look,” and I punched the button.
When I arrived at Tom’s, she was already there, just right of my usual stool, where we’d sat when it was Ron, her and I. She was still in school, Ron and I playing the older, world-wise types. Eric was leaning across the bar, his hands moving as they talked. I could see by the way her bright hair shook that she was laughing. I slid into my seat.
“Mike! Damn, when is Ron showing up? We can have a reunion.”
“On a Sunday? Hell, Melanie won’t let him out tonight, you know that.”
“Not even for a special occasion like this? Oh right, she hates you.”
“Still? I’d have thought she’d have gotten over that,” Jen said, “Thanks for saving me, if I had to spend another evening listening to my father cheer on the jackasses on AM radio I was going to take their advice and buy a gun. Unfortunately for them I’d use it to kill them all.”
“Weren’t you a Young Republican once? I seem to recall you campaigning for Bob Dole.”
“If you’re looking to play the youthful indiscretion game, I think I can win that one, now shut your mouth, buy me a drink and tell me I’m pretty.”
“You’re pretty. Eric, get this blackmailing bitch what ever silly umbrella drink she’s learned to love while living in tropical paradise.”
“Whiskey and water as always Eric.”
After we’d gotten our drinks, Jen turned to me said, “Look, I’m sorry our last meeting was so short and after running into Ron earlier today, I’m really sorry I caused a fight with your girlfriend.”
“You didn’t cause a fight with my girlfriend, she caused it because that’s what she does and I’m happy to be done with her. I’m still not even sure how she ended up with the title ‘girlfriend’ for that matter.”
“Surely there was something there at some point.”
I sipped my beer, “No, there wasn’t. I met her one night here with Ron, she was an acquaintance of Melanie’s of all things and we got drunk and ended up in bed. Then it happened again, and again. After a while it just became a regular thing for us to fuck and I was too lazy to care when she started referring to me as her boyfriend.”
“Inertia can be deadly.”
“Millions of car accident deaths agree,” I could tell she was looking for a way to bring something up, but didn’t know how to say it. “So what family matters have got you stuck back here again and how long are you stuck here?”
“Mike, I’m not going back to Florida.”
I stared at her for a moment, then at my beer, then at her again, “Ok, tell me a story.”
“There’s no story, I just don’t like Florida, it’s a bug infested hole and I miss being here, I miss my family, and I miss you and Ron, and I of course miss Eric.”
“Hear that? I can bring a woman back home from across the country!” Eric yelled, having walked up at that moment.
Some wit across bar asked, “How much money do you owe her?”
“Bunch of funny types in here tonight,” he said, “Another round?”
“I think we’re going to need a couple shots.”
“Celebrating?”
“Assimilating. Make it tequila, no wheels.”
“So what happened to Florida as the land of golden opportunity?” I asked after the burn of the cheap tequila had faded a bit from my mouth.
“Nothing, I got my opportunity to get some experience, and I’ve already got a job with the paper here because my resume is no longer a big blank.”
“So you’re back then?”
“Well, I’m here to find a place to live and then I’ve got to go back and wrap and things up in Florida, hire some movers and then I’ll be back.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this the other night?”
“I was happy to see you and I didn’t know how you’d take the news.”
“You thought I’d be angry or something?”
“I don’t know Mike, I was angry with you when I left, and we didn’t speak once the entire time I was living there.”
“I do recall that being your decision, as I didn’t know where the hell you were, and you never contacted me until the other day.”
“I know that, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if you were angry with me and when I talked to you on the phone and you sounded happy to hear from me, I didn’t want to spoil it, not right away.”
I sipped my beer, “I don’t understand why you thought I’d be angry with you for moving back.”
“I thought, I left you, went to Florida, angry with you because you wouldn’t go with me, and now here I am, back after a couple short years, ready to come home and it’s like you were right when you said Florida was nowhere, and you just sit there like it’s no big deal. You’re still as frustrating as ever.” She wasn’t quite yelling, but her face was a bit flushed and her eyes were sharp.
I blinked at her, “Um well, I guess I should say, ‘I told you so.’ and do a little victory dance,” and I jumped off my bar stool and danced around a bit while crowing, “I was right! Oh yeah, gonna rub it in, I was right.”
I sat back down and smiled at her, “That better?”
She was laughing but she repressed it to glare at me, “You are a complete jackass.”
I shrugged.
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