THE EXES IN MY IPOD: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country

by Lisa M. Mattson

  “It just rains a lot.” James began tapping his foot to the beat of elevator music drifting from the restaurant’s surround sound speakers. “The wind knocks down palm fronds. Streets get flooded.” His head bobbed with the music while his hands folded the napkins, smoothly.

  Tropical Storm Warnings had been issued for all of the Florida Keys and voluntary evacuations recommended for Marathon Key south. I felt trapped, helpless and alone. There was no one to hold me during the storm—except the blanket on Linda’s couch.

  “Tornadoes are way worse, Wheels,” James said in his carefree tone, folding a napkin three times with the same precision he used to part his feathery bangs. He always had a black plastic comb in his back pocket, just like my dad.

  A bashful grin spread across my face, like it did every time James called me Wheels—a nickname I didn’t want to broadcast to everyone in Miami. I’d been dodging motorcycle jokes since kindergarten, but let’s face it—Wheels was way better than Boss Hog or Harley the Hog. I wanted the tattoos of my past life in the Midwest to forever fade away—well, until the moment my nickname rolled off James’s tongue.

  I held a strip of tape to the glass and pressed with precision. “I just don’t get it.” My curly ponytail brushed my shoulders. “Why does everyone here think tornadoes are worse than hurricanes?” I pushed my index finger along the tape to make sure the seal was strong. Wind whistled against the windowpanes.

  “You just did it again.” James's words filled my ears. My ponytail whipped around and popped me in the forehead. I blushed as our eyes met. His skin always looked as soft and smooth as if he’d just put down a razor. James took care of his body … unlike Chris.

  “Did what?” I asked, batting my eyelashes.

  “Your accent,” he replied, still folding. “You say ‘git’ not ‘get.’ You don’t pronounce your g’s when you say ‘nothing’ either.” His white teeth gleamed when he said “g’s.” I could feel my chest getting warm despite the humming AC vent above my head.

  I scoffed and turned back to my window project. “Your accent is stronger than mine.” Everyone at work said I talked like a Kentucky girl who’d just had a root canal. People kept asking me to say, “getting,” which I pronounced “gittin’.” I felt like a circus act. I’d become increasingly conscious of my speech and began trying to articulate every syllable like a spelling bee finalist.

  “I like your accent.” He didn’t raise his eyes from the mound of napkins. “It’s cute.” His cheek twitched. My face flushed, as I pulled more tape from the roll. James threw a wink my way more than once during pre-shift and closing time. Chris hadn’t told me I was cute in months. I looked over at James’s broad shoulders filling the booth. He had played lacrosse at University of Georgia and had the body to prove it. He’d looked so fine in his navy sports coat the night we’d shared a three-course meal at the Coconut Grove Chart House.

  The windows began to rumble. A huge band of rain smashed across the building. I jumped onto the Spanish-tiled floor and gripped a stone tabletop to steady myself.

  James twisted his face. “You’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy!” I mocked a laugh, then neatly readjusted my long apron. People were constantly asking me if my name was Dorothy and if I had a pair of ruby-red slippers. It was as annoying as watching Gilbert Gottfried tell a long joke (make that any joke). Many people from Kansas don’t know what Munchkinland is, and they don’t look like the cast from Twister either.

  A radio in the main bus station blared weather reports through the empty restaurant. Major flooding was already reported in Goulds, Homestead and the Redlands, not far from my apartment. Visions of my Pontiac Grand Am stalling in four feet of water on Old Cutler Road rushed through my head. If my car flooded, I’d be forced to call Chris for help. I slammed my eyes shut.

  “I can’t go home.” I grabbed half the napkins from James’s stack and plopped them on a table across the aisle. “Wherever that is.” I collapsed into the booth. The fear of drowning in my car paled in comparison to confronting Chris. It had only been seven days since Chris had left me a homemade bong as a kitchen table centerpiece—two steps away from a crack pipe in my book. I’d spent days bouncing from one co-worker’s couch to the next, with milk crates of clothes in the trunk of my car, trying to decide when to deal with the baggage of our break-up. I was sure Chris had gotten the hint we were finished. Nothing more was left to do but settle our “estate,” i.e. the co-signed, one-year apartment lease, the joint bank account, two sets of bath towels and the bed sheets. Without financial or material ties, I may have never had the nerve to face Chris again.

  “You’re welcome to crash at our place, Wheels.” His words sounded like piano keys gliding through a melody. I kept my eyes locked on the stack of napkins in front of me, hiding my rosy-red face. My mind was in a free-fall, tethered to a parachute of anxiety and excitement. I want him. Already. I discreetly fluffed my bangs to make sure they were covering my forehead scars. My eyes followed the razor-thin crease pressed into the arm of his dress shirt. He even wore his waiter’s uniform like a Wall Street businessman. Boys like James had been reduced to mere eye candy once I’d gained twenty pounds in college. I’d shed half the extra weight, and it seemed as if every guy but Chris had noticed. James’s gestures were Las Vegas Strip-sized signs of courtship. James had an undergraduate degree in mechanical engineering and was planning to attend University of Florida’s med school next fall. Chris? I hoped he’d enroll in Jenny Craig. James cut bread for my tables, and filled my salt and pepper shakers. He ordered me a Rum Runner at Fat Tuesday before my butt met the barstool. Don’t get me started on what Chris constantly tried to do to my butt.

  I pulled my raincoat over my head and darted through the parking lot, following James and his fancy, wood-handled umbrella. We slipped through a gate of his apartment building into a lush courtyard of traveler’s palms and Bougainvillea bushes, raindrops bouncing off our jackets. James raced ahead and ducked under a concrete stairwell that sheltered his doorway. I stepped onto his doormat and scuffed my sneakers. Before pulling off my raincoat, guilt crept into chest. I pictured Chris tying down the dive boat for the storm, then driving home to an empty apartment.

  James’s place looked staged for an open house. The kitchen and living room were one big space with white cathedral ceilings and a sparkling chandelier. A spotless, oak dining table separated the kitchen from his minimalist living room, which included a chocolate leather couch, sleek glass coffee table, a big screen TV and a stereo system tower. My mind checked a box: Mr. Clean, unlike Chris.

  “What can I get you?” James asked in his bartender’s voice while loosening his tie. He kicked off his white Nike sneakers by the hallway closet and walked over to the kitchen. Rain pelted the rooftop and windows. I stood in the hallway, listening to the windy rain.

  I unlaced my sneakers. “Do you have any Sauvignon Blanc? Like the one we had with dinner?” Two weeks had passed since our Chart House dinner with fellow co-workers, celebrating our ninety-plus scores on The Cheesecake Factory’s final service exam. James had perused the Chart House wine list skillfully like a gemologist at a jewelry display case. “We should have the Silverado Sauvignon Blanc,” he’d said. “It’s from Napa, so it must be good. We’ll need the acidity to complement our conch ceviche.” I didn’t even know how to pronounce “conch” or “ceviche,” but I knew I wanted to know more about debonair James.

  James pulled the refrigerator door open. “Wine?” His eyebrows perked. “Looks like you’re adjusting to city life very well.” Good, my first Brownie point. Sauvignon Blanc had only been on my radar for a couple months because Cheesecake Factory poured Robert Mondavi Woodbridge Sauvignon Blanc by the glass. Cheesecake Factory beverage training was my introduction to wines that had corks, and didn’t have the words like “dog” or “bird” in the name.

  I shrugged my shoulders playfully. “Thanks to you.” I slipped my work tie into my backpack while James continued to poke around his fridge. At Chart
House, the citrusy, crisp bottle from Silverado danced on my tongue with the juicy, spicy conch. It was my first fancy food and wine pairing experience; James had planted a seed in me that would grow into something—I just had no idea what, back then. The fanciest meal of my life had occurred at the Topeka Olive Garden on my birthday, when Chris had given me a gold chain, and threatened to fart at the table. When we’d arrived at the Chart House, James had pulled out my chair for me. I was twenty years old and felt like a debutante arriving at my first gala.

  “You’re out of luck, Miss Harley.” James turned toward me, waging his head. “We have no wine, but I’ve got three beers to choose from.”

  “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” I said, standing near the entryway.

  James leaned back into the fridge. “You’re easy to please.”

  I smiled and stared at his butt like I did every day we worked the floor together. I liked being the low-maintenance girl. It was part of my strategy to get boys to like me and look at the results: James was taking care of me before he’d even changed out of his uniform. I was at the nascent stage of understanding young men and their true motivations in relationships. His gestures were so polite and genuine; I thought he definitely wanted me as his girlfriend.

  “Make yourself at home.” His voice sounded like silk. At home?!? My heart began to pound even faster.

  James turned toward me with two bottles of Heineken in his hands. I stood behind his couch in my white work jeans and oxford, caressing the fancy leather cushions. The boy had a level of class I’d never seen before.

  Thank you.” I raised my hand to grab the green bottle from him. Our fingers touched, and I looked away. “How often do you drink wine?”

  James walked back to the kitchen. “Rarely. Wine’s just for special occasions.” I stared at the back of his head while he talked. He flipped open the kitchen cabinets one by one. I stepped to the front of the couch, staring at the cold bottle in my hands. My heart deflated like a cheap beach ball. Tonight was not special to him? The majority of Americans believed they had to be celebrating a birthday at a restaurant where the waiters wore tuxedos in order to drink wine, but 60 Minutes had aired its “The French Paradox” segment a few years before; it was only a matter of time before wine became mainstream in America.

  “That’s cool. I like German beer.” I took a dainty sip, trying to look and sound sophisticated. I tugged my scrunchie from my hair, and layers of long curls cascaded down my back. Note to my twenty-year-old self: letting your hair down in front of a guy sends a message. Make sure that is the message you want to send.

  James continued rummaging through his refrigerator. “Heineken is from Amsterdam.” Crap! So much for sounding cool.

  “Oh, I guess I need to drink more beer.” I felt my cheeks and ears grow hot. “I’ve got some studying to do.” I took a long swig to drown my embarrassment. Sure, maybe I needed to learn a thing or two about wine and beer, but my Busch and Keystone days were a distant memory from a past life—just like my pet raccoon, Cooter, named after the mechanic on Dukes of Hazzard. I sat quietly on the edge of his couch and reflected on the day’s events, letting it all soak in: Chris, the storm, James’s invitation. James handed me a beer coolie, then strolled back to the kitchen. I grinned. I loved the way he anticipated my needs. I couldn’t believe mature, considerate James was a year younger than Chris.

  James slipped two veggie pitas onto ceramic plates. Healthy and classy. Two more boxes checked. On our first date, Chris had given me cold pepperoni pizza on paper towels. I sat on the couch, watching James in the kitchen, tending to my needs. He floated over to his stereo and clicked a few buttons. Counting Crows began crooning about rain kings.

  “How fitting.” James returned to the kitchen, bouncing to the beat.

  “Are you going to play something tonight?” I tried to hide my grin as I pointed to James’s acoustic guitar, cradled in a metal stand next to his stereo tower. James’s mother was a high school music teacher in Georgia. She’d taught him to play guitar and piano before age six. He could listen to any song on the radio, then pick up his guitar and start strumming the tune. Talk about turn-on.

  He rested our dinner plates on the glass-top coffee table. “If you want me to.” He looked down at me on the couch. I nodded eagerly. Both my mother and brother played guitar, and James’s talent reminded me of good times back home. He strolled back to the kitchen, then returned with a short stack of napkins and handed the top one to me.

  My heart flapped under the weight of his full-court-press courtship. Dating servers can be dangerous; it’s hard to tell if they’re just being kind or just want to get your panties off.

  I stared down at the pita, overflowing with bean sprouts and zucchini—two vegetables I’d never eaten before Florida. James kept exposing my taste buds to a world of flavors, and I was hungry for more. After weeks of learning about new foods and flavors, I finally felt my palate could hang with his. He sat down next to me. My heart leapt into my throat.

  “Where’s Adam?” I bit into the floury shell. His roommate, Adam, worked as a financial advisor at a South American banking firm on Brickell Avenue. He had blue eyes and blonde hair and the face of a dashing high school jock, but he’d never offered me a beer or pulled out my chair.

  “He’s staying at his mom’s house,” he said between bites. “She’s scared of storms.” A band of wind smacked rain hard against his windows.

  I leaned farther over my plate on the coffee table. “I’m scared.”

  “You shouldn’t be.” James took a long sip of his beer. We sat in silence, eating our pitas. I wondered if we were talking about the same thing. He didn’t ask about my fall-out with Chris.

  After finishing his pita, James grabbed his guitar. I rushed over to my linen backpack by the door and fished my Frente! jewel case from the side pouch.

  I shoved the CD in his face. “Will you play song eleven, please?” I plopped down Indian-style on the couch. I’d heard James play his guitar once before—after dinner at Chart House. The next day, I’d listened to “Labour of Love” while ironing my work apron and dress shirt. I’d daydreamed about us performing a duet, even though my vocals could make William Hung cringe.

  The guitar strings began to bounce off his fingers, and a big grin shot across my face. I listened to the playful lift in the lead singer’s voice, as James crooked his head toward the stereo speaker. He listened intently to the chords, and the sound of his guitar glided perfectly with the CD before the first chorus. My shoulders swayed from side to side. I grinned like a front-row groupie as James strummed. He began to sing along with the second chorus while the storm released its fury of rain and wind. His voice was soft and controlled. He hit every note with a high, sweet tone like only Adam Levine can pull off today. He was my rock star. Like the Frente! lady sang, he was as cool as he believed. I laced my fingers around the green beer bottle, smiling at James. My head was a hazy mix of alcohol and frayed emotions. My break-up wounds were still healing. That’s always the easiest—and riskiest—time to fall right back into love.

  Snap! A loud crack blasted outside living room window, echoing through the apartment. The entire room went dark. I squealed and clutched the edge of the couch, trying to keep myself from grabbing James.

  “Shit.” James jumped up from the couch, resting his precious guitar between us. I listened to him in the darkness, fumbling his way through the living room toward the window. He peeked through the blinds. “The electricity lines snapped.”

  “I thought you said we had nothing to worry about,” I whispered.

  “We’re fine.” He stumbled toward the hallway closet with his arms extended, helping him feel the way. “I’ll get my flashlight.”

  Boom! Boom! Boom! The sound of a fist pounding on James’s front door echoed through the apartment. My eyes zigzagged around the dark room.

  “Damn it,” James said with a hiss. “What now?” James fumbled at the door.

  Holy crap! What if it’s C
hris? The thought slammed into my head. No way. He couldn’t find me here. My fingers flew to my mouth. Chris writes code. He’s beyond smart enough to hunt me down. I felt like a hurricane was churning in my stomach and started gnawing on my fingernails.

  I leaned over the back of the couch and squinted at the front door. Waiting, more waiting. My worst nightmare was about to unfold: James and Chris, face to face. My pulse was spinning out of control. The sound of his doorknob turning felt like a vice squeezing my brain.

  “Hey.” I heard James exchanging hellos with someone, then exhaled a sigh of relief. Must be a neighbor. “Do you have any candles?” The young woman asked. I listened to James rummage through an entryway closet. He clicked on a big flashlight and sprayed a white beam in my face. I threw my hands over my eyes.

  “Who’s that?” she asked in an irritated tone. I watched the beam of the flashlight bounce around the hallway and over her silhouette. She was tall and thin with long hair. Model-like. Ugh.

  “A co-worker.” I heard James whisper. Jealousy began to seep into my bones.

  The electricity kicked back on, drenching the room in light. I looked at James standing in his doorway wearing the remnants of his white uniform, handing the girl a stack of candles. She had a porcelain, pouty face like Anne Hathaway with brown locks falling over her shoulders. Her big, brown eyes met mine. Damn. She’s prettier than I thought. The hum of kitchen appliances and the central air-conditioning charging back up filled my ears. James stepped into the doorway, blocking my view. My mind zip-lined through the possibilities of their relationship.

  James returned to the living room with two flashlights and four more packs of candles in his arms. The model was gone. Finally.

  I laced my arms across my chest. “That’s a lot of candles.” The only people who kept that many candles in stock were grandmas and Boy Scouts. I didn’t know what else to say because I wanted to ask, “Did you date her?” Guys don’t like jealous chicks, I reminded myself.