by Brea Brown
I try to imagine what it’d be like to go to a concert with Fantasy Jude, but he’s more of a symphony/opera kind of guy. I can’t picture him rocking out.
But aside from all those annoying, nerve-wracking insecurities, I’m pretty excited about going. It’s a group I always sing along with on the radio. I’m not a mega-fan, though, so I don’t have a band t-shirt I can wear. I settle on a fresh t-shirt but the same plaid shorts I’ve been wearing all day. I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.
At six-thirty, I’m on the verge of throwing up as I stand at my door, making sure I haven’t forgotten anything. Sandberg blinks calmly at me from the bed.
“Okay, I’m going,” I tell him. “No parties while I’m gone. I won’t be late.” I pull the door closed and lock it.
Just as I’m getting into my car, concentrating on not hyperventilating, my cell phone rings and vibrates in my pocket, scaring me. “Oh, gosh!” I slide it out, closing my eyes as I hold it to my ear. I see on the display that it’s Hank, calling from Florida.
“Hey, sis,” he greets me. I hear music and laughter in the background.
“Hi,” I reply, trying to moderate my breathing. “What’s up?”
“Not much. Whatcha doin’? Watchin’ TV?”
“Something like that,” I answer, not wanting him to know the truth. I don’t want to answer a billion questions about it. I know he doesn’t really care, anyway. He only calls for one thing.
“Cool. Hey, I was just wondering…”
“How much?” I know where this is going.
“Just a coupla hundred, to get me through until payday,” he answers nonchalantly. When I tell him I’ll go the ATM in the morning and wire the money to him then, he hesitates before saying, “Oh. I was kinda hopin’ you’d be able to get it to me tonight. Are you busy?”
“I can’t do it tonight.”
“Why not?”
That’s the problem with having no life and setting a precedent that you can drop everything (because “everything” is “nothing”) and cater to someone’s impulses at a moment’s notice: when you suddenly can’t, you have to explain yourself.
“I just can’t, okay?” I snap. “If it’s an emergency, use the credit card, and I’ll pay it off with your money when I get the statement.”
Grudgingly, he says, “Naw. It’s not that important. I was just… me and the guys were goin’ out tonight, that’s all.”
“Maybe someone can spot you some singles to stuff into the stripper’s G-string,” I can’t help but snipe.
“God, Libby! Excuse me for askin’! Sheesh.”
I start the car. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Maybe you should get laid. Would do wonders for your attitude.”
“I’m sure you get laid enough for the both of us, Hank.”
“Screw you.”
“No, screw you!”
“I bet Mom and Dad would be real happy to see what a miserable, dried-up old cooter you’ve become.”
I hang up the phone with shaking fingers. “Nice,” I say out loud, trying to shake off his comment. Well, vocabulary never has been his strong suit. I toss my phone into one of the car’s cup holders. I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry.
I repeat this to myself the entire drive to Jude’s. He’s waiting for me on the steps in front of his apartment building, adding evidence to my suspicions that he’s a slob and doesn’t want me to see the inside of his place. He’s wearing the exact same thing he was wearing earlier. I’m glad I didn’t change into anything special. I would have felt pathetic.
After he slides into the car, he smiles at me. “Hey. How’s it going?”
Still stung from the conversation with my brother, I nevertheless swallow and attempt a smile. “Okay. You?”
“Brilliant, thanks.”
I pull onto the street to take us away from his building. After navigating a maze of one-way streets to get out of his neighborhood, I feel confident enough to talk without betraying my mood. “Have you heard anything about your car?” I ask, thinking that will be a safe topic.
“Yeah. But I’m useless when it comes to those sorts of things. I only know they have to order a part, and it’ll take at least until Wednesday for them to do the repair. But it’s under warranty, so I won’t have any out-of-pocket expense.”
“That’s good,” I say, concentrating on the other cars as I merge aggressively onto the expressway and cut around the slowpoke in front of me. In my peripheral vision, I see Jude shift in his seat and slowly wrap his hand around the door handle.
I ease off the gas. A little. And I resist the urge to pass the next few cars, because it would require me to cut off some other ones. Normally, I wouldn’t hesitate, but I have a feeling my passenger’s not enjoying the ride.
“Anyway,” he says after a while, “I hear these guys are fantastic in concert. That’s why I jumped on the tickets when I found out they were coming to town.”
“What were you going to do if you couldn’t find anyone to go with you?” I ask what I’ve been wondering all afternoon.
He stomps on an imaginary brake in his floorboard as I come up quickly on the back of the truck in front of us. “Aaahhh… I dunno. I s’pose I would have gone by myself. Or not gone at all.”
“You’d have let the tickets go to waste? You could have at least scalped ’em,” I suggest.
Looking over at me, he says carefully, “That’s illegal, though, right?”
“Yeah? So what? People do it all the time.”
He chuckles. “Well, not foreign people living here on a work visa. If I got caught, I’d be deported.”
“Doubt it,” I say. “But whatever. I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“Right.” After another close call with a car, he asks, “Do you often break the law?”
I laugh. “No! Never!” At his silence, I reconsider. “Well… I guess I do a bit of the time when I’m driving—”
“That’s sort of what I was getting at.”
“Am I making you nervous?” I tease.
“Very.”
While I’m amused, I’m not cruel. I make a conscious effort to drive less aggressively.
He explains, “Part of it is that I’m still not used to sitting on this side of the car and not driving. And I’m constantly worried I’m driving on the wrong side of the road. Plus,” he adds, “I didn’t drive much at all before coming here. Still avoid it whenever possible.”
“I like to drive,” I state, but it sounds more like a dirty confession.
“I can tell.”
“My dad taught me how.” The sentence is out before I even realize I’m going to say it.
Jude loosens his grip on the handle now that we haven’t had any close calls for a few minutes. “Oh? Is he a Formula One driver?”
I smile at the idea. “No. He tried to teach me to be very cautious.”
“So… what? After you were no longer under supervision, you went rogue? A bit of a rebel, are you?”
I don’t want to talk about this, I realize. “Not exactly. But you have to die of something…” My tone effectively shuts down the conversation. All conversation. We drive in silence for a while.
Soon, the stadium looms ahead of us, and I position us to exit the highway.
We park, walk to the gates, and take our place in the line. Jude pulls the tickets from his back pocket, inspecting them. We determine we’re in the wrong line for the section where our seats are and go to the back of the correct line.
After we’ve been standing there a while, not touching, not talking, he says, “I believe these are good seats; at least I thought they were when I bought the tickets.”
The guy in front of him turns around and cranes his neck to read the ticket. “Dude, those are excellent. Trade ya.”
“Ah, no thanks,” Jude answers, taking him seriously.
“I was just kiddin’ anyway, man. Don’t get all worried. There’s really not a bad seat in this place. You’ve never been h
ere before?”
Jude consults me. I shake my head, even though I hate admitting that I’ve lived in the area my whole life, and this is the first time I’ve set foot in Soldier Field. For anything. Much less something as cool as a concert.
“No,” he answers for both of us. “First time. Soldier Field virgins, both of us.”
I avert my face and stare at my shoes, trying not to squirm too much. The line starts moving, funneling us through security and into the stadium. Soon we’re working together to find our seats, but the signs are clear, so it’s not difficult. Before long we’re sitting and waiting for the opening act, a group neither of us has ever heard of, to come out.
He taps his fingers on his knee. I glance at him shyly. He looks down quickly. Then we both look up at each other at the same time and laugh nervously.
“This is a bit odd,” he states matter-of-factly.
“A little,” I agree. “We’re really early. I overestimated how long it would take to get here. Sorry.” Really, I wasn’t expecting Jude to shell out so much money to park as close to the stadium as we did. I’d figured in at least a mile walk from the car.
“Oh. No worries.”
More finger tapping.
I look around at all the people filing in. The crowd is going to be massive. But it still feels like Jude and I are alone. Very alone. And very awkward.
In LFW, I’d know exactly what to say and how to act. More importantly, Fantasy Jude would know what to say.
“You look lovely this evening.”
“Oh, this? Just a t-shirt and shorts?”
“Yes. Well, I must admit, it’s more clothing than I’d prefer, but since we’re in public and all…”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I know. And you love it.”
“Of course.”
I fan myself with my hand.
“It’s been rather hot lately, hasn’t it?”
“Huh? Oh! The weather. Yeah.”
“Is it always this hot here in the summer?”
“No. This is freaky hot.” Like you. I wish I were the type of person who could pull off saying something like that. But… maybe not. I mean, do guys really like stuff like that? Leslie seems to think so. And I don’t ever want to say anything remotely resembling something she would say.
Not for the first time, I get the paranoid feeling that he can read my mind as he looks over my head, a private smile on his face. Then he changes the subject. “You mentioned your father earlier. Do your mum and dad live nearby still?”
I’m saved from answering by the opening band, who’s revving up. It’s deafening. We stand with the rest of the crowd and cheer, even though we have no idea who they are. Jude inserts his pinkie and forefinger into his mouth and lets rip an ear-splitting whistle. My eyes widen. He wipes his fingers on his shorts.
“Sorry,” he mouths.
The look on his face is so comically sheepish that I crack up. He relaxes and grins, putting his arm casually around my shoulders. We hop up and down, like all the people around us are doing, to the beat of the music.
Although I didn’t recognize the name of the group, one of their songs has been featured heavily on the radio and in a car commercial, so I know the words and sing along without even thinking about whether or not I should. The band does their job, loosening everyone up, lowering our inhibitions as they encourage us to participate and dance with each other, whether we’re total strangers to each other or co-workers who may as well be.
At the end of their act, Jude turns to me. “Programs. Would you like one?”
I shrug. “Should I?”
My response seems to puzzle him. “Uh… Hmm… I don’t know how to answer that.” He laughs.
The heat from my face could incubate a hatchery. “It’s just that”—I try to explain my seemingly inexplicable answer—“I’ve… never…” I sigh and look away from him as I make my confession. “This is the first concert I’ve ever been to. So I don’t know if it’s worth it to get a program. I’ve never done this before.”
He stands up and holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers at me. “In that case, the answer is ‘yes.’ It’s mandatory that you have a program commemorating your very first rock concert.”
Uncertainly, I take his hand. It’s warm and dry. I stare at our two hands for seconds that seem like an hour. I feel disconnected from my body as I try to remember the last time I held anyone’s hand. It saddens me when I can’t recall. It was probably the hand of one of my parents, as we were crossing a street when I was a little kid.
Jude pulls me to my feet. “Right. I think I saw a stand right this side of the security check.” He lets go of me when he sees me still gazing at our linked hands.
I smile nervously up at him, hoping I didn’t offend him. “Okay. Let’s go, then.”
It takes a good thirty minutes to weave through the crowd, stand in line, and get back to our seats. By the time I’ve had a chance to do a cursory flip through the little booklet, the lights are dimming, some music starts playing, and the crowd goes crazy. The guy behind me grabs my shoulders and shakes them, even though I’ve never seen him before in my life. Jude turns around and says, “Oi!” good-naturedly, but I laugh to show that I don’t mind. I’m pretty excited too, and can understand the guy’s enthusiasm.
The band runs out onto the stage, waving before taking their positions at their instruments and microphones. The lead singer yells, “How’s it goin’, Chicago?!” in the sexiest Irish brogue I’ve ever heard, stirring up the kind of scream-fest that makes my hearing distort.
The first song they perform is fairly slow, which I think is an interesting choice, but I guess it gets everyone’s attention. I’m not familiar with it, so I listen intently to the lyrics. And I’m a little shaken by how much I can relate to them. Of course, that’s what makes a song good, right, that pretty much everyone can find some way to relate to it? But it’s still a little spooky, like the lead singer’s singing directly to me. When he softly sings the final words, the crowd goes ballistic, screaming, clapping, whistling, and—in some of the girls’ cases—crying. I stand there, processing the song.
Jude nudges me. “ARE YOU OKAY?” he shouts, leaning down closer to my ear.
I nod, pasting what I hope is a sincere-looking smile on my face. Then the next song (a fast, catchy number) starts, and the moment passes. None of the other songs take me by surprise. I actually know more of them than I’d expected I would. Jude and I sing and clap along unselfconsciously to the faster songs, even when they’re clearly about love or—more often—sex (or is that just where my mind is?). We simply let loose and have a good time.
It’s something I’ve never done before, and I can see now how it could be addictive.
10
In addition to the over-priced program, I walk away from the concert with two t-shirts, ringing ears, and a huge crush on the entire band. And I don’t want the night to end… ever.
So I’m relieved when Jude says (shouts) in the car, “I’m starving. Let’s go to this great gastropub in my neighborhood. It’s open late.”
“A what?”
“Gastropub. You know, a pub that serves food.”
I shake my head. “Okay, I think you’re making these things up now and pretending they’re your funny British words. And then when I’m convinced they’re real words, you’re going to laugh at me if I use them.”
He narrows his eyes at me playfully. “Take the piss all you want.”
“Maybe when we get to the ‘gastropub,’” I say. I guess I just agreed to go.
We park at his apartment, in his temporarily empty reserved spot, and walk the three blocks to the bar. Before we find a seat, Jude walks straight up to the bar, where he talks to the bartender for a while, after introducing me. Their easy conversation makes it clear that Jude’s a regular.
“Come here often?” I ask, as we walk to a table with our first round of drinks.
His rejoinder, “Is that a pick-up line or a quest
ion?” makes me laugh and blush.
I eventually answer as I slide into my side of the booth, “Just a question,” but the real answer is, “Both.”
He twirls the cardboard coaster in front of him. “I’m not much of a cook. I come here to feel a little less… lonely.”
There’s that word again.
I just nod, afraid of talking and admitting how lonely I am, too. Then I say, “But it’s good that you’re not homesick for England.”
“What gave you that idea?” he asks, raising a thick eyebrow. “Most of the time, I feel like a Billy No Mates in this town. I’m terribly homesick.”
I cock my head. “But you said…” Oh. No. Not again. “Never mind,” I quickly amend.
“What?” he presses. “What did I say?”
“I’m getting you confused with someone else.” I hide my face in my glass.
Wryly, he asks, “Hanging out with lots of Limeys lately?”
Our server comes over and takes our orders. By the time she’s gone, Jude’s forgotten his earlier question and has mercifully moved on.
He takes a huge gulp of his dark beer and says, “Anyway, I’m at sixes and sevens lately. I like my job, and I want to like this city, but I feel so out of place here.”
“Maybe someone at the embassy can suggest a support group for you,” I offer. “You know, made up of people like you who have relocated to the States. It would probably help a lot just to hear someone who talks like you… and understands what you’re saying when you say things like ‘Billy No Mates.’”
“Friendless loser.”
At first, I think he’s calling me that; then I realize he’s defining his earlier statement. “Yeah, I got that from the context of what you said earlier. It was just an example.”
“Actually, that’s a really good idea,” he says slowly. “I know I’ll get used to it over here eventually, but it’d help if I had someone to talk to.” He looks up at me for the first time in several minutes. “Like this. This is nice. Even though I’m being a whinger and you’ll probably never want to go anywhere with me again.”
