A Winter in Rome

by Francis Gideon

  "That's Reggie!" I rose to my knees on the bed next to her, placing my ear against the wall. "He's singing stuff from Madame Butterfly."

  "Really?" She put her ear next to mine. Her smile grew larger as she began to tap out the beats against the wall. "Man, I miss music."

  "What do you mean? We always have CDs on here."

  She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, but I used to play."

  "You did? How is that I've never heard of that until now?"

  She shrugged. "I'm full of surprises—just like you tonight."

  We spotted Alan walking by his door, coffee in his hand, and bobbing his head to the music. He probably didn't even realize he was doing it, he had gotten so used to Reggie over the years of living here.

  "Hey," I called. It was still somewhat weird, calling out names and actually having to specify who I was talking to, because it was no longer one-on-one. "Alan."

  He looked through the crack of the door and then smiled. "Hey, you two. Can I come in? I thought you had fallen asleep."

  "Nah," I said, glancing at the clock. It was pretty late for Reggie to be playing music, but still early enough for us. "Do you have instruments here?"

  "I do hoard, but I'm not that bad."

  Sybil's face fell. Alan looked between us, but seemed to fill in the blanks rather quickly. "There is a storage space in the basement, though. I've seen a guitar lying around."

  "What are the odds," I asked, "that it's Reggie's?"

  "Only one way to find out."

  *~*~*

  The guitar was an old acoustic one. It was good quality—Sybil could tell right away as she laid her hands on it. But it was old, covered in dust like it had not been played in years, and a few of the strings were broken. Sybil quickly found a couple unopened packages close by, and soon went to work restringing and tuning them again.

  "And what would I do without you?" I teased her.

  She scrunched up her nose, focusing hard as she worked. "You would have probably thought it was junk. Luckily, though, I know how to spot the gem in a pile of trash. And there are more gems here."

  We found an old saxophone, a clarinet, and a standing drum. Sybil kept digging and found a tambourine, sliding it under her arm and winking at me. I knew she wanted me to play it, but no. That was not going to happen. If anything, I'll be the drums. But I never really got to think much about music as an active participant. Only as a fan and the person holding concert tickets, listening to Nirvana again and again on my bed as I went through high school. And now, as a worker who could restore what was once thought to be lost.

  "So, how did you learn to play?" I asked Sybil as we carried the stuff up the stairs, stopping to use the maintenance elevator for a few floors.

  "My brothers. I had a few lessons from their friends before we moved to Kitchener. Then, there was a weird art and music scene there. And of course, there were my Riot Grrrl girlfriends who tried to play, but really failed. But did so with style, you know?"

  "Sure. That sounds good."

  "Why don't you know how to play? It seemed like an acoustic guitar was every single boy's wet dream in the 1990s."

  "My mom was… strict."

  "Ah. She seems like she was with most things."

  I nodded, closing down the conversation. Sybil and I never talked much about our families, aside from our phone calls. Since our pasts were often hard and made up of tangled histories, it was a lot easier to distance ourselves through phone calls and calculated confessions.

  When we stepped out into the hall, I spotted Alan at the other end, talking to Reggie. I saw the dark skin of his hands and his red-painted nails folded in his lap as sat in his wheelchair with an oxygen tank by his side. Alan talked with his hands—a sign that he was enjoying himself. I touched Sybil on the small of her back as she went into the apartment, telling her without words I'd be right back.

  "Hey," Alan said when he spotted me. "You find everything?"

  "Yeah, we did. Thank you…?" I trailed off, wanting to hear Reggie introduce himself to me. I was well aware that Alan could have gotten the nuances of his identity wrong at first, and before I moved on and played this man's instruments, I wanted to be sure I knew who I was talking to.

  "Reggie," he said, nodding. "Sometimes Regina, but mostly Reginald."

  I smiled. "I like both."

  "No kidding," he said between the hum and click of his replacement voice box. "Alan was telling me you like the opera Madame Butterfly."

  "I do, actually! I watched the movie version a little while ago because I couldn't get your songs out of my head."

  "Movies are different than shows. You can't see the audience—you're closed off. I always do better with a crowd."

  He told me, after a stuttering cough, that he was also in Paris is Burning. I had seen that movie after Alan told me about it, but I didn't get a chance to tell this to Reggie. He seemed to want to talk more and more, even if it was giving him trouble.

  "Do you want to watch us play? We're just messing around, but it could be fun. They're your instruments after all," Alan offered, his hand on the small of my back as he did.

  Reggie shook his head. "I'm tired. I'm glad they're getting some use. Alan. Let me read your book again?"

  "Sure. Of course."

  After we departed, Alan moved right to his bookshelf inside the apartment as I sat with Sybil to set up. She had already tuned the guitar and was working on the other instruments, finding reeds for the saxophone, and seeing if she could produce a note. I wasn't sure if Reggie had wanted one of the books on art that Alan had written, or something else entirely. I shouldn't have been surprised when Just Kids appeared in his hands.

  "Be right back," he said, kissing the top of my head, before he left.

  "So," Sybil said, strumming the guitar and making an excited face. "How should we begin?"

  *~*~*

  It took a few tries, but Sybil's fingers eventually found the right chords on the guitar. "Oh, God," she mumbled. "I haven't done this in years. I never learned to read music."

  "How did you know what to play, then?"

  "I'd watch my brother's hands. They were always so much bigger than mine. I remember trying to get the A and B chords and my poor fingers would feel as if they were snapping." She gave an awkward smile as she reached out, trying to reach the chords. She let out a small squeal when her hands managed to fit.

  "What songs do you know?" Alan asked, sitting in one of his reading chairs. I was on the floor, in front of the coffee table with a small Casio Alan had found in his closet, plucking at odd noises. Sybil was in front of me, on the couch, her tongue sticking out as she flicked around the strings.

  "I think I know Nirvana and some Stones. They were pretty easy."

  "Play Nirvana," I said. "Anything you can remember."

  She rolled her eyes, but then strummed the chords. I recognized the first few bits of "All Apologies", but she didn't get very far. "Too sad," she said before moving on and trying "In Bloom" and then "Come As You Are." She got the farthest in that while Alan and I exchanged happy smiles.

  "Wait," he said. "How old were you two when this song came out?"

  "Pretty young. I borrowed the albums from my brothers when I got older."

  "And I got in on the bandwagon later," I added.

  Alan closed his eyes and whimpered playfully. "I was in high school, oh goodness."

  "The years only seem far now," Sybil said. "But we all remember it, so what does it matter?"

  Alan shrugged. He picked up the tambourine, and though it didn't really go with the song, he started to hit it gently as Sybil struggled through "Come As You Are". She often went back to the beginning to start over whenever she messed up a note, but each time she did, she got better and better.

  "Craig," she called out at about the fifth play-through. "What instrument are you?"

  "No, no," I said, taking my hands away from the Casio. "I was just watching."

  "Nope," Alan disagreed. "Find something, or you'll
get the tambourine."

  That shut me up. I picked up the drumsticks that were worn down on one side from the constant use and banging. I liked that they were used; so often at concerts, the drummers threw out something brand-new that didn't have character. I pulled over one of Reggie's small drums and held it in my lap.

  "Better," Sybil stated. She began "Come as You Are" again and then, soon enough, we were all playing something, doing something. She moved through the whole song, done as best as she could, and in spite of herself, went back to "All Apologies" afterwards. As she played and Alan and I followed along, I wondered what my job with Rebecca would really be like. I worried that it would be boring—that I'd get stuck inside the ivory tower and never really get out and live like I was doing right now. But I couldn't stand never knowing what my future was like. Alan had gotten his dream and Sybil was working through making her way through her life as crooked. But me—I needed something, even if it was going to be a huge risk.

  I thought of Patti Smith again, and how she had lived inside the Chelsea hotel with Mapplethorpe, giving him her last pennies, but hoarding all of her thoughts. When she shot to fame with Horses, she seemed to do it overnight, as if she had built it all up. Even when she wasn't in the spotlight, she was still creating. I had to remember that. And going on tour, to different cities, spreading herself around the world—that was the fastest way to stay connected. What was better than literally having a foot in all of the world like that? Right now I only knew Toronto, Ontario and some people from Rome over Skype. I hadn't moved around the world enough, but there was still lots of time.

  It took me far, far too long to realize that as both Alan and Sybil were playing, and I had been hitting the drum, pretending to be Dave Grohl, I had also been murmuring the words.

  "Fuck," I said aloud.

  "What?" Alan said, staring at me. "I liked it. It was like you forgot you were being watched for a second. "

  "Isn't that what bad artists do?"

  "Nah." Alan waved his hand. "You have us. That's good. Sing for a bit, Craig. You're actually not half bad."

  Not half bad, I repeated in my head. That was better than being an art class drop-outs; that was better than a C in my English course. So I continued to sing, the words coming to me because I had listened to these albums so much in high school that I had worn through them. Before mp3s and my iPhone, I just had my CD player and my room. I knew this so, so well.

  It was some else's words, I told myself. This didn't count as 'real' art or 'real' creativity. But then again, I didn't exactly know what 'real' anything looked like. I only saw the joy on Alan's face when he painted something or lectured, and I only knew of Sybil's curt-but-confident demeanour when she gave advice—or played the guitar. She was also really good, and it surprised me. I could see Sybil like this, finally finding what she had wanted to do at the poetry slam. Maybe she could be in a band instead. They did tell Kathleen Hanna, after all, why bother doing spoken-word when you could be in a punk singer? More people would listen to you then. Then Alan could design the art, I could sing whatever words Sybil wanted, and we could be something really, really cool. We could stay connected that way, and even if I travelled the world, I would still always be theirs.

  When we got to the end of the songs, we all smiled at one another approvingly. Alan got up to get us all something to drink as I slid closer to Sybil on the couch, knocking her shoulders.

  "You could be in a band, you know."

  "Pfft," she said, then sighed a little. "Believe it or not, that's not the first time I've heard that. My girlfriend said it a lot… but I never felt like a Riot Grrrl."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah, well, I followed her around to all those revival shows and we traded mix tapes. But that wasn't me. Kathleen used to yell 'girls to the front!' and I'd stand in the back. Even as Laurie dragged me up, I didn't understand why I was going. It took me until last year to understand that disconnect—and well, here we are."

  Alan nodded as he handed out drinks. "I get it."

  "You do?"

  "Not in the gender way. But I used to think that because all the artists I admired were gay, I was gay, too. I liked men, so why not? It wasn't hard to follow that impulse. But I conflated so much of my sexuality with art, when... they're both so different."

  "What do you mean?" I asked. "You told me they were both beautiful once?"

  "Yes, but the difference is that our moments are private. They don't hang in a gallery."

  "They're on our wall," Sybil said, looking at the calendar and then our corkboard. She grinned, and so did I, because for the first time in a while, I felt as if I understood why things were happening the way they were. Why we didn't go to the gallery and why Alan had given away our space painting—we had so many better plans.

  Sybil picked up the guitar again, strummed some chords. "How about this time," she said, "we all sing. And maybe something a little more uplifting. What do you think?"

  "How about 'Sea of Love'?" Alan suggested, tilting his head.

  I smiled. I knew the lyrics and, from the looks all around, so did everyone else. It was such a common song, one that had been covered and covered again by so many artists, it lost its origin point.

  "I like that," Sybil said. "Simple chords. Very easy. What do you think, Craig? You okay if we all join in?"

  I held the drum sticks tight in my hand. This was an acoustic song; all I'd need was my voice—plus Sybil and Alan's. I slid closer to him, touched his hand, and nodded.

  "Sounds perfect."

  As Sybil strummed the chords, I started us off. Alan came in last, just as Sybil trailed the "I-I-I" in the middle of the chorus. The melody carried me away, and soon, I felt the world change around me. Only this time, I wasn't afraid.

  Fin

  About the Author

  Francis Gideon is a m/m author, editor, and essayist. He has appeared in Microscenes, Gay Flash Fiction, Love Lane Books, and in ‘To Hell With Dante: An Afterlife Anthology’ by Martinus Press. He lives in Canada with his partner, where he reads too many true crime stories and stays up way too late. Find out more about his work online:

  http://francisgideon.wordpress.com/