by K. Z. Snow
Crowd noise from the pavilion continued modestly to swell and make its way into the kitchen. Butterflies awoke in Dare’s stomach. He told himself to relax. This wasn’t exactly a sold-out concert at a mega-stadium, and the people here would be more focused on each song’s beat than on the band’s musicianship.
Bob flipped his wrist and checked his watch. “Any minute now.”
The other band members gathered near one of the kitchen’s two doors. “Mad Max” Kirchner loosely held the neck of his bass guitar. Ernie Novak had a forearm slung casually over his banjo. Junior Schoenfeld’s drums were already set up on stage, along with Bob’s glockenspiel. And Daren Webster Boothe, gender-defying performer at the Sugar Bowl and newest member of Bouncin’ Bob’s Polka Doodles, clutched his nameless clarinet in one sweaty hand.
At least he wasn’t thinking about Incidents and Situations and Issues. Today he was a whole new person—not homosexual or intersexual or any kind of sexual. He wore no jewelry or temporary tattoos. His rakish hair, its highlights washed down the shower drain, was neatly combed, his face bore a faint shadow of stubble but not a lick of makeup, and his body was concealed by the same dorky outfit the four older dudes around him were wearing.
Today he was an ordinary-looking guy in an ordinary little band, an unremarkable cog in a small but noisy piece of machinery, and he would do his best to keep the apparatus running smoothly.
From the other side of the wall that separated the kitchen from the rest of the pavilion, a man’s voice boomed through a microphone, “Are you ready to polka?”
The crowd didn’t exactly roar in response, but they clapped with what Dare interpreted as enthusiasm. A few whistles even cut through the applause. (Old guys, Dare had noticed in his twenty-six years on earth, prided themselves on the strength and shrillness of their whistles. He’d never figured out the technique.)
The band jauntily emerged from the kitchen and climbed the stairs that led up to the stage, where three music stands, spaced carefully in front of Junior’s drum set, awaited them. Bob didn’t need a music stand. Every note of every song was etched indelibly in his brain.
More clapping rolled their way. As Dare gazed over the sea of aging faces and immovable hair, Bouncin’ Bob threw up his arms.
The band members shouted in unison, “Polka doodle-doooooo!”
Chapter Three
DARE didn’t have time to think. He wasn’t even sure his crow had been audible. Bringing the clarinet to his mouth, he fixed his eyes on the first page of music and began tootling his way through the “Beer Barrel Polka.”
According to Bob, who did in fact bounce as he played, the Beer Barrel was the Be All and End All of the polka canon and likely born in the mind of God. That was why he insisted on beginning every performance with it.
The pavilion came alive with movement.
After a few stumbles, Dare relaxed into his role. His six weeks of rehearsal with the Doodles, combined with hours of practice at home, were paying off. He sang along with the other band members when he wasn’t playing, but he hadn’t acquired enough confidence to sing robustly. Bob had assured him that was okay; there were already four bigmouths in the group.
Dare did, however, have to show he was immersed in the music. “The band’s gotta enjoy it even more than the audience,” Bob had told him. “Or at least pretend to. We set the mood as much as the music does.” Dare understood perfectly. He’d been performing in one capacity or another for the past decade, and he knew any kind of performance had to be sold. So he let the music carry him, and he swayed as he played.
At the edges of his vision, colors swirled. He fancied he stood before a tank in which polyester fish swam. A floral-print blouse glided by, then a lime-colored knit shirt; a pair of striped suspenders, then a flamingo-pink jacket. Costume jewelry occasionally twinkled or sent out spears of light. The dancers moved in buoyant, interlinked circles, but not hectically so. They meted out their energy.
Just to change things up, the Doodles interspersed their signature polkas with schottisches and waltzes. The couples on the dance floor were versatile.
Dare’s first solo, which came during the “Fascination Waltz,” was approaching. Bob had rearranged the playlist so Dare could sit out the song preceding it. Not that he needed to—he was twenty-six, not seventy-six, and in excellent shape—but he was grateful for the break. The “Too Fat Polka,” otherwise known as “She’s Too Fat for Me,” came right before “Fascination,” and it featured Bob on the glockenspiel.
The look and sound of the instrument undermined Dare’s concentration. He didn’t think he’d be able to play along with it, not while his whole digestive tract knotted at intervals like a climbing rope.
With great relief, he took a seat toward the rear of the stage while Bob and the guys hammed it up during “Too Fat.” A gleefully offensive song, it was nevertheless a crowd favorite. The Doodles’ fans had grown up in an era when political correctness was pretty much restricted to not using the N word.
Unperturbed by the song’s lyrics, the dancers continued their shuffling, 2/4 gallop around the pavilion. Dare watched them and tried to enjoy their enjoyment instead of watching Bob. He listened to the singing rather than the tinkling of the glock. One large, jovial lady embraced the tune with exuberance, nearly flinging her much thinner partner into one of the tables that bordered the dance floor.
Smiling, Dare tapped his foot and sipped water, the bell of his upright clarinet resting on his thigh. Occasionally, instinctually, he licked the reed to keep it moist. A calm confidence displaced his nervous tension. The day was awash in early-autumn sunshine, the crowd seemed merry, and the band had been ticking along like a fine Swiss timepiece.
His past had no place here. With that realization, his frame of mind shifted, squaring itself. The pavilion was a family place full of low-keyed fun, and he was making a singular contribution to its ambience.
Dare had practiced “Fascination” like crazy, alone and with Bob. The accordionist played the first verse, the clarinetist played the first chorus, then they played together for the second verse and chorus while the drummer softly worked his snare and cymbal with wire brushes. It was quite pretty and was Dare’s favorite song with the Doodles.
He was looking forward to showing off his long-buried musical talent.
As the “Too Fat Polka” ended, Dare got up to join Bob at the front of the stage. Bob introduced him to the audience, then intro’d the waltz and began to play. No vocals; the song was lovelier without them.
Seconds after the music began, Dare saw something he hadn’t expected to see. Not in the least. Not here. A young man about his age swept past the low stage with an elderly woman in his formally-positioned arms. For the briefest moment, the dancer’s shamrock-green gaze caught the clarinetist’s stare.
The guy wasn’t what Dare considered a knockout. He was well groomed in a straitlaced way, and his dance partner only intensified that image. Maybe it was simply his gender and age that set him apart. The only people under forty here were kids, mostly little girls. There didn’t seem to be another fit young man on the premises.
When Dare’s portion of “Fascination” came up, his focus snapped back to the sheet music. His tonguing was crisp. His fingering was sure. The notes slid out of the clarinet like liquid copper, with just the right tempo and subtle shifts in volume. Toward the end of his section he looked up again. His gaze immediately lit on the same guy he’d noticed earlier.
Dare thought there was something vaguely obscene about his eyes following the man’s movement around the dance floor while he had his lips tightened around a long, tubular object. He ushered the notion out of his mind. In actuality, his lips were tightened around a mouthpiece, which wasn’t very phallic, and he was maintaining a good embouchure. That had never been a consideration when he’d had dick in his mouth. In fact, a good embouchure would’ve been at odds with a good blowjob.
Still, Dare couldn’t keep his mind out of the gutter.
&
nbsp; The waltz continued, lilting and poignant. Dare didn’t have to keep his attention glued to the music. He all but had it memorized. So he continued to let his gaze stray to the twenty-something male dancer.
Average face, average hair, average build. Slender, and a little taller than Dare’s five-foot-nine. Hm, maybe not entirely average. The guy wore gray wool suit pants that made his ass look like a million bucks—a delectably dirty million, at least in Dare’s manloving eyes—and a tailored trim-fit shirt in lilac. He knew how to emphasize the lines of his body, no doubt about it, and knew how to move with assurance and grace.
Assets aside, the dancer was hardly worth Dare’s attention. In all likelihood he was some uptight, boring-as-beet-juice straight dude. If he wasn’t, he wouldn’t be here, looking like he’d just come from church and leading an old woman through an old waltz. He’d only caught Dare’s eye because he was an anomaly in this place.
And because Dare was a tad horny.
The band’s first break came after “Fascination.” Dare had no idea if there was some protocol for breaks—retreat to the kitchen, socialize with the audience, creep out to the rear parking area and smoke weed; what did he know?—so he took his cues from the other members.
As Bob divested himself of Lucille, he leaned toward Dare and mumbled, “Better head for the potty, little boy. If you don’t want to be swamped by fans, you can use the bathroom back in the kitchen.”
“I assume you’re being facetious,” Dare said.
“And I assume you forgot what I told you about using ten-dollar words around two-bit guys.”
Junior and Ernie had already headed for the kitchen. Mad Max was at the bar, drinking something on the rocks. Bob made for the tables, all glad hands and grins. He wasn’t really a gruff asshole, just liked to act the part when he wanted to get some point across.
Dare didn’t feel like circulating. This was hardly his natural milieu. After laying his clarinet on a chair, he descended the stage steps to seek refuge in the kitchen.
“Excuse me.” The voice was soft and tentative. And male.
Dare turned his head to the left. Reflexively, his eyebrows rose. Rich green eyes held his gaze.
“Just wanted to tell you what a great addition you are to the band.” The young man, that young man, immediately blushed. “I mean your clarinet playing. The waltz sounded really nice.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” The guy’s timid smile was pretty damned charming. Not seductively so, but warm and sincere. “Is this your first time here or your first time playing with Bob’s band?”
Christ, he had arresting eyes. And skin so smooth it seemed to lack pores and follicles—on his face, anyway. His hair wasn’t the common bark-brown it had at first seemed to be. Other shades, lighter and darker, subtly wove through it.
Yeah, this was definitely somebody who required more than a passing glance to be appreciated.
“Both,” Dare said. “It’s my first time with any band. Since dropping out of college, I mean.” Senses sharpening, he stuck out his hand. “I’m Dare Boothe.”
The guy nodded. “I heard Bob introduce you. Jonah Day.” His hand slipped into Dare’s. It was a polite clasp, not manly, not wimpy. Certainly not suggestive. “I take GG, my grandmother, out dancing every weekend.”
“Ah.” One question answered. “That’s considerate of you.”
“Well….” Jonah shoved his hands in his pockets and turned at the waist to look behind him, probably at his grandma. Dare snuck a quick look at his ass. What a fine piece of scenery. Damn fine. Slim waist, too. “She’s done a lot for me,” Jonah said, his tone weightier than before.
A mild restlessness shivered through Dare’s groin. He had a fleeting fantasy of rubbing his frontside against the taut, round swell of Jonah’s backside. To banish the image, he glanced at the older woman, who was dressed far less conservatively than her grandson. When he inadvertently caught her eye, he smiled and lifted a hand. She mirrored the greeting.
He turned back to Jonah. “So, do you live around here?”
“Not too far away. I live near GG so I can sort of look after her. We’re in Wind Lake. It’s—”
Brightening, Dare jumped in. “I know where it is. I live in Waterford.”
“Really?” Jonah grinned—almost, it seemed, in spite of himself. “We’re practically neighbors. Do you, uh, live alone, or with your parents, or have a wife and family, or…?” He pulled in his smile. “Not that it’s any of my business, of course.”
Dare reassuringly cupped Jonah’s arm, but just for a second or two. “No, no, that’s okay. I live with my older brother. Our parents offered to let us rent the house when our dad took a position at a hospital in San Diego last year. The place had been up for sale a few months without any offers, so my folks figured it would benefit all of us if Carver and I became their renters.”
“Good idea in this housing market.”
“Yeah, it worked out well for the whole family.”
“You and your brother especially,” Jonah said. “Waterford’s become pretty gentrified.”
“Sure has. I don’t exactly fit in.” Dare hoped that might serve as a hint that he didn’t follow the straight-and-narrow. Just in case Jonah might be wondering.
Jonah appealed to him. That much was apparent. Less clear was why. Many of the customers and all the go-go boys at the Sugar Bowl were countless degrees hotter. And they were openly gay, which spared interested parties that frustrating guessing game, Is He or Isn’t He? They drank prodigiously, laughed loudly, and never hesitated to make their intentions known.
Okay, so maybe that was precisely why Jonah appealed to Dare. He clearly wasn’t a party animal. And Dare hadn’t hooked up with anyone in longer than he could remember.
“I should go back to GG,” Jonah said, gracing Dare with another smile. “Didn’t mean to monopolize your whole break.”
“You haven’t. And I appreciate the encouraging words.”
He forced himself not to stare as Jonah walked away. Shit. Still no closure on the gay or straight issue.
As it turned out, Dare had plenty of time before the next set. The band took leisurely breaks, and the old folks in the pavilion didn’t seem bothered in the least. There were no signs of impatience, no shouts or foot-stomping.
Dare hustled to the back bathroom to relieve himself, dab the sweat from his face, and comb his hair. After grabbing a bottle of water from the kitchen cooler, he returned to the stage and sat on the edge, legs dangling. He wanted to let Jonah Day ogle him. If, that is, Jonah was so inclined.
Seemed he was, although he didn’t watch Dare steadily and confidently, the way guys in bars watched and sent signals to each other. Jonah chatted with his grandmother and whatever acquaintances wandered up to their table. Between conversations, he idly scanned the crowd.
His gaze kept flicking over to the stage.
Dare was sure of that. Jonah’s eyes were large and bright. It was impossible to miss each directed flash of green. Go lights, Dare thought with a private smile. Should he proceed?
Within another few minutes, the band regrouped on stage and resumed playing. Jonah and his grandmother stayed. Dare was inexplicably pleased.
The “Pennsylvania Polka,” then a schottische. “I’ve Got a Wife at Home” and the “Liechtensteiner Polka.” A waltz, another schottische.
Jonah and GG danced, talked for a while with an older couple, danced some more. Once again Dare was the one doing the watching, and the more he watched, the more intrigued he became. Jonah wasn’t like any of the other men he knew. Dare wanted to find out what lay beneath that polite, doting-grandson veneer. Maybe he needed to. The keenness of his curiosity rather surprised him, but he couldn’t seem to quell it.
Any effort to become acquainted with Jonah Day might not pan out. Dare once again told himself he could be setting his sights on a yawn-worthy straight dude, maybe one who had a clarinet fetish. Jonah’s glances, which kept coming, could’ve carr
ied admiration for Dare’s musicianship, not his manhood.
How could he find out once and for all? Should he ask Jonah out for a drink? A milkshake?
By the second break, Junior’s wife and Bob’s sister were in the kitchen, setting up a small buffet for the band. Dare had no choice but to hang out, nibble on some wings, and shoot the breeze. Don’t leave, he kept thinking to Jonah. We’re not done with each other yet.
The third and last set, like the first two, went smoothly enough, although Dare had lost his desire to move to the music. At first he feared Jonah and his grandmother had left. But no, they’d simply moved to a different part of the pavilion.
Finally, the set concluded with “In Heaven There Is No Beer” and Bob’s solo performance of the “Accordion Waltz.”
Before he even returned to the kitchen to disassemble and case his clarinet, Dare blew off the stage and headed for Jonah’s table. GG immediately beamed at him, and it must have been her reaction that made Jonah turn. His smile was more reserved than hers as he rose from his chair.
“Hi,” he said, shaking hands with Dare. “Thanks for coming over.”
GG gazed up at them, bright-eyed and alert.
She didn’t seem all that old—probably hadn’t hit seventy yet—and, in spite of her apparent love of flamboyant clothing and jewelry, wasn’t overly made-up like a lot of her female contemporaries. Back in the day, she could’ve been a hippie. Or did she predate that era? In any case, Dare immediately got the impression she was sharp, real sharp.
“Jonah,” she said, “aren’t you going to introduce me?”
An impish expression crossed his face, giving it a whole new dimension. “No. I’m going to ignore you. You got enough attention today.”
GG dug her red-orange fingernails into her grandson’s wrist… but not hard. “You know what a harridan I can be.”
Jonah removed her hand. “I suppose I would know if I understood the word.”
This must’ve been how they interacted—playfully, with good-natured sarcasm. Dare’s assumption was right; GG was no dummy. And the young man with the emerald eyes definitely had some hidden facets.
