ambient Florida position

by KUBOA

  I was by myself. I was hungry.

  I walked down the street. A hibachi express, the chicken cooked quickly over a thin sheet metal griddle.

  I sat down at a small table, a water in hand with my teriyaki chicken and wheat noodles. A Newsweek was on the table, McCain’s and Obama’s faces on a split screen graphic. “Who’s To Blame If They Lose....and Who’s To Blame If They Win” said the headline, a story that promised to look at the overlooked campaign masterminds, the social networking twentysomethings for Obama and the fighting campaign managerial staff for McCain.

  I wrapped my noodles around my fork and turned the page of the Newsweek, only to find a Chevrolet ad, my Chevrolet ad, one for the Chevy Cobalt. “Cobalt Cool,” it said in buffed metallic letters, resembling an exhaust pipe.  It made it into print.

  It was a frontal view of the Cobalt, an emo-looking banged kid leaning against the car with an acoustic guitar. A safe image, but meant to evoke rowdiness.

  I twisted more noodles on my fork.

  ***

  Wetness in my hair, in my brow, in my shirt. The blue of it, now a deep purple, my jeans even wet and the back pocket. The crowd moved, the crowd fused, coalescing and collaborating on the call over “This is heavy, Doc” wrapped into “I gave her my heart, she gave me a pen.”

  The drones, the pall, rocking and mocking, we all knew it before we could create.  A deep well of confidence into unknown plans, bodies in the motion -- we knew that when we hit the stage, our bodies would follow, not because we told our body to, or convinced it to, but because that’s what our bodies were supposed to do.

  “This is our last song. We’ve got stuff in the back. Come see us after, if you want to….” I said.

  My head was lowered, eyes dazing and dancing, adrenaline like this not known before. This one’s a favorite. It’s called ‘Whatever happened to Rodney Dangerfield, I hope it doesn’t happen to me.’ Here we go.” Yells, whistles, bouts of laughter.  The crowd had found what they did not know they were searching for, like a $5 bill on the ground.    

  Court picked up the gear, Nathan back at the merch table, there was not a rush, but a tasteful blend of purchases and inquiries. Down by the chain-link fence, I had run off the stage, I was smoking, a habit I had only found recently.

  I could hear steps, was not looking forward to it, the awkward conversation among fans and supposed artists, I knew those feelings -- of elation, of excitement, I also knew when the show was over, something the lonely did not grasp; awareness of social codes forever forgotten.

  “Hey.” The sweetness made me look up.

  It was Laurie.

  “Hey,” I said. “What happened?”

  “You were incredible, to be honest,” she said.

  “Surprised?” I said.

  “Yes, actually, Wallace.”

  “Going to apologize?”

  “For what?” she said. “For not recognizing and celebrating your hidden genius and greatness?”

  “Something like that,” I said. I threw my cigarette down. I kept staring down. Neither of us sure how and why this point had emerged.

  “How’d we get here?” I asked.

  “Where are we Wallace?” she said.

  ***

  Laurie and I walked back in. The crowd at the merch table was gone, I went to the stage, started gathering the cords, the pedals, the tools of us. Laurie was a the bar, she had found a drink.

  A group of lithe girls hung to the side of the stage, their hair in creative do’s, and various shades of blue and black plaid. One had an old-school St. Petersburg Lions polo shirt over a long-sleeved gray shirt, over a ruffled puffy cream skirt. Another carried a My Little Pony purse and a  and heavy-hung bangs with turtle shell glasses. The third wore a collared shirt and bow tie, her long black hair halfway down her back, complemented by size 3 jeans.  One emerged.

  “Hey,” she said, high and faint, but familiar.

  It was Mattie.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Um, guess you heard about me and Nathan?” her voice lifted again, in nervousness or part of the Valley Girl lilt that the generation before and every generation after can never shed.

  “Kind of,” I said.

  “Wanted to tell you, it wasn’t planned,” she said.

  “I didn’t plan anything with you either, “ I said.

  “The pact…”

  “…Was silly and stupid, and it was a joke and should always be a joke.”

  “Huh,” she said. “I’m sure I’ll see you around. You know, maybe family barbecues.”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  On the couch behind the stage, Court slept or pretended to sleep, as a girl with sparkly purple lips sat on his legs, her head on the other armrest, the two not like a licentious duo, but more like a brother and a sister, united in some type of unknown bond.

  I kicked the bottom of the couch as I walked by.

  Court sat bolt upright, his eyes hangdog from too much energy expended in such a little amount of time. His lips glistened not with the girl’s lip gloss, but with a sheen of Red Bull and Jagermeister. His eyebrows, though, in this quick motion, were high on high, raised up.

  “I don’t care!” Court shouted. “I don’t care!” He flopped back down, his hair bouncing. The girl adjusted her position on Court’s legs, her lips touched the couch’s burlap exterior. I’m sure it was rough.

  I walked out the venue’s back door.

 

  XLVII

  TV on the World Series, the dirty Phillies and their underhanded techniques, the rain pouring and Carlos Pena is squinting between first and second looking and looking...the other TV on Bay News 9 -- “I wonder if we're licensed for a public viewing of that,” Uncle Ander said and no one denies he brings up a good point, but now we are the hotel, we are watching the newly installed TVs above the refurbished bar -- we make our own drinks and pour our own water -- as if everything we knew is now wrong, but still tastes good -- “and look at that,” Uncle Ander says and the game is called due to rain, so I do look but the other TV -- Lori on the screen, in a taped repeat, she is not speaking, but stands next to the podium, in the line of people that is always behind the main speaker, Lori is tall and assured, her hands gripped just below her waist -- “can’t see her legs” and I look and Uncle Ander on the ESPN sports reporter, but Lori, she’s in a powder blue jump-business-suit, something I've never seen before, I'm sure I never bought for her, there she is full of HOPE possibly, definitely CHANGE and white bracketed words float across on a captioned black background, “a grave error has been made” and then the headline: “Tampa Bay company makes ‘mockery; of Obama campaign” and I don't know what to do next, because Mom‘s barbecue sauce is dripping off my hands, don’t want to look like an idiot in front of the Sonny’s corporate team and the odd group of skinny girls in Hurley hoodies and black polyester skirts drinking Coronas, and the game is on rain delay (what does that mean? ) but off to the side there is a splash someone enjoying a newly renovated hotel/motel/drive-up, my pool at my residence that always encourages visitors to come in -- no options left and the sound and the images throb, so I do the only thing I know how to do.

  Josh Spilker is a writer living in Nashville. He's a graduate of Vanderbilt University and received a Master's from the University of North Carolina Wilmington. He writes for Impose Magazine and runs the music blog Deckfight, and the e-chapbook publisher, Deckfight Press. He thinks about the beach often.