Something To Dream On

by Rinella, Diane

  Paul’s head drops into his palm. “How many times I gotta tell this kid that you don’t mess with The Beatles? You can screw around with Zeppelin and The Stones, but the Fab Four and Mott The Hoople are sacred.”

  Jimmy acts oblivious to Paul’s groaning. “You know, for the life of me, I can't figure out why this doesn’t sound right.”

  “Because it's a capo song,” Paul and I say in unison, but Paul tacks “you moron” on the end.

  Jimmy laughs and wags a finger between Paul and I. “See? This is why I'm not fazed by your news.” Jimmy pops the capo around the seventh fret and resumes playing. He also resumes sounding like crap. The capo may have done its job of raising the pitch, but “You forgot to tune it,” Paul and I say on cue. This time I tack “you idiot” on the end. Paul just happens to add the same thing. He high-fives me, and for the first time in a long time, I have real friends.

  My feet feel firmly planted as Jimmy nails that opening riff. Harrison knew what he was talking about when he said everything is all right, and I send a smile to heaven for him.

  I really miss the good aspects of my former life. I used to have a great writing partner. We were no Lennon and McCartney, but we worked well together. Under different circumstances, great things could've happened.

  Did I really need to give up that part of my life? I thumb the pic in my pocket that Paul just gave me, the one that is both my one hundred and twenty day chip and my gold star. It doesn’t have to be one way or another, does it?

  “May I?” I ask of the other guitar. Paul holds his hands out in a be-my-guest gesture, and I give it a go with Jimmy by adding in Lennon’s bit. Jimmy kills the sound with the wave of his arm. “No way, man. I’m not even worthy of being in the room when you’re playing, let alone you being second fiddle.” He then takes off his guitar and then motions for me to switch. As humble as I want to be about it, he's right. He's more Lennon to my Harrison. That's not ego talking; it's reality. This match will do for now, but when it comes to writing, I really need to find the Lennon to my McCartney.

  Lizetta’s car pulls up. When she walks toward the barn, my grip on the guitar tightens, making me white knuckled. I just want us to truly be okay and to fully put the past to rest.

  Lizetta’s head is tilted in curiosity as to why I am here when our date isn’t for another hour. I remove the guitar while remembering how the last time I held one while tense, I treated it as a shield. I won’t hide behind anything when it comes to this woman. I won’t even mince words. The guitar gets exchanged for her hands, and right before everyone, my eyes command her attention. “Everything okay? Are we okay?”

  Lizetta looks to her family, and they nod in acknowledgment that I’ve proven there are no secrets. Her eyes get misty.

  After leaving Jensen’s last night, I spent hours talking to Mom about how she came to trust Paul. She reminded me that trust is earned through actions. Seeing Jensen here and being sure that all is out in the open with everyone is yet another way I know trust is deserved.

  I’ve never understood drugs. Why would you put something in your body that will eventually kill you? Is it just for the quick thrill? It’s so abusive. What kind of person abuses anyone, let alone themselves?

  For all the times I have pondered this, last night was the first time that reality hit. On some level, it’s like eating the chemicals in junk food. They hurt your body and damage your mind. It’s like eating too much fried food. It clogs your arteries and causes blockages in your heart. It’s all self abuse, yet because junk food is legal, prominent, and considered less hazardous, society accepts it. I’ve taken part in self-abuse for years. When the bullies attacked, it was easier to feed into what they were saying and become consumed in my problems then to fix myself.

  I don’t believe in abandoning anyone just because the going gets tough. People who care about each other stand together, unless there is good reason to run. Jensen has not given me any indication that he is putting me in danger, so beside him I will stand.

  She sniffles, and then looks dead at me, shaking back her head in bravery. The smile that slips across her face helps me to release the breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Yeah, I can honestly say we’ve never been better. I respect anyone who is reaching out for a second chance. Just keep showing me that I can trust you, okay?” I get another kiss, this time a sweet one on the lips. “Give me some time to clean up.”

  Lizetta heads to the house, and as the screen door shuts behind her, I plop onto the sofa. A spring tries to poke its way between my legs, but right now, I wouldn’t care if it went up my butt. I’m just too damned relieved.

  Jimmy resumes playing as Paul steps up and gives my back a double pat. “See, kid. She means it, too. You’re gonna be just fine.”

  My thumb glides along the edge of the one hundred and twenty day, guitar pick chip. I should be proud, but I am still ashamed of my previous actions.

  I also should have called Mom by now. I’ve got paycheck stubs gathered, print outs of my school schedule, copies of papers I’ve written—all ready to prove to her that I’m doing all the right things—yet I have failed to call the woman who sacrificed so much for me, which means I am just as pathetic as ever.

  Not anymore.

  I dig into my back pocket and don’t allow myself to think of what I am doing or the pain I have caused. Instead, I dial the number and wait. A hesitant voice answers. “Jensen?”

  Maybe she fears I’m calling to again belittle her parenting skills for having two fuck-ups for sons. Or maybe she is afraid that she will hear that this is the police department calling the person I’ve listed in my cell phone as the emergency contact. Regardless, I stare at my sobriety chip and let the words pour out—words that start with, “Mom, I’m sorry—for everything.”

  My tears drop at the shuddering of her breath. I need to keep the conversation going. I need to prove that my apology is real, and that it covers my every action that harmed her. “I’m sorry for all the times I came home in the middle of the night and puked on the floor. I’m sorry for the time I hit your car. I know I claimed that Bertha skidded on some grease, but I was wasted and hit the gas instead of the brake. I’m sorry for hitting you in the head with a bottle on the night you kicked me out. I’m sorry for doing my first line, because you taught me to be better than that.” Warmth is pouring down my cheek, and the sobbing starts, for both of us. “Your voice rang in my head the entire time, and I’m sorry that I didn’t listen. I’m sorry that I didn’t have the courage to call you well over a month ago, when I hit ninety-one days clean.” Her breath hitches. “I’m sorry that—”

  “Jensen.” The gentle tone that only a mother can make slips into my ears. I’m not done, but I’ll stop, because she deserves the respect. She gulps. “What have you done over those one hundred and twenty days?”

  My accomplishments race out so she can see that I’ve returned to the land of the respectable. “I’m in school, just like we always planned. I have a job assistant managing a warehouse. And as of a few weeks ago, I started making new friends. I found a sponsor, a fellow musician, and … and a really special girl that you would approve of. Mom, she’s amazing, and she trusts me.” I choke on the word trust. Trust from Lizetta means so much. I need it from Mom, too.

  Etta barks, reminding me that she is someone who relies on me. “That was Etta. I rescued and adopted her a few weeks back. Mom, the universe works in really strange ways.” That statement holds so much emotion that I can barely get it out.

  “What—What happened to that other girl? To Laura.”

  Is the fear I sense that she’ll hear Laura is still in my life, or that Laura took it too far and is no longer with us?

  The words are hard to say; yet I force them anyway. “I had to leave her behind.” An image of a bloody corpse on a battlefield covers my inner vision. My eyes squeeze tightly to shut it out, but it won’t go away.

  “Well, then,” Mom says. Is that joy in her voice? Please, God, let it be joy. “It s
ounds like we have a lot of catching up to do.”

  My head drops, and all goes blurry from the heat that washes out of my eyes.

  Thank you.

  This new version of the band sucks! I take another swig out of whoever’s bottle of cheap crap is sitting on the coffee table. If I’m going to suffer through this racket, I’m gonna need some help.

  I can see through Jensen. He’s happy now because he has his little girly; yet he’s still not able to walk away from what we have to offer. What is it he wants? Obviously it’s not me.

  Why can’t it be me? Sure, it’s been ages since anyone has been able to call me sweet but … Well, Jensen knows why. Shouldn’t the hell of my past get me a little bit of love? Can’t he see that if only someone loved me, I’d be such a better person?

  I rub out the water forming in my eyes. Staying tuff is the only thing that keeps me alive. If I gave my reality too much thought, I’d crumble.

  The recording contract hinges on him, so he could probably get one on his own. Whatever the reason, he hasn’t let us go nearly as much as he thinks he has.

  Inside the family room, Jensen’s forth replacement gives one of his signature riffs a shot. A two-year-old imitating Slash on a ukulele would be more impressive. It must take some serious talent to sound that bad. It also takes some serious alcohol to tolerate it, so I polish off the last of the vodka. All the other bottles are empty, except for some rum. I hate rum. Hopefully there’s beer in the fridge.

  Jensen’s too far above admitting he wants to go back to his old ways. Who better to give him a push in that direction than his new girlfriend? She ditches him, he wallows back, and my world returns to normal. I just need to plant the magic seeds of doubt in her brain about trusting him. With his past antics and all the girls who can say he banged and ran, that’s a freakin’ cake walk. I’ll also help girly find a replacement and away we go!

  The fridge is empty. Damn. I’m stuck with the rum.

  She’s probably staying at his house. I’ll head over just before dawn so I can follow her home and work from there. Easy peasy. Besides, I could use a little fun. What better way than to make a new buddy, even if I am going to screw her over and steal her man?

  A bottle that I didn’t notice before sits on the coffee table. Well, what do we have here? Some kind of fancy brandy? No one here drinks this stuff. It must belong to the new guy. Wonder how I missed it? I must have been looking for the old standards.

  It gets chugged down, but not before I toast the magic of the universe for bringing me a precious gift.

  What’s that sick smell? My head feels like little green men are having a rave in it, and that stench makes me want to puke.

  I open my eyes only to slam them shut as the sun nearly blinds me. I squint hard to get past the pain, and then slowly creep them open. I’m on the sofa, but God, what is that smell?

  I roll over to avoid the light. Something cold squishes when my cheek hits the cushion.

  Ah, God! Puke!

  Across the room, my brother laughs. “Rise and shine, lightweight! That’s kind of impressive for a girl who only had a little vodka.”

  “Ugh! It was the swanky, French brandy that got me.”

  “Imported brandy? Man, you really must have hit it hard. No one around here touches that stuff.”

  I try to get up, but the brightness of the sun glaring in my eyes smacks me down. “What time is it?”

  “One-thirty.”

  “In the afternoon? Shit!”

  Larry laughs. He can find it funny all he wants, but I more than missed my chance to spy on Jensen’s new lay. Crap!

  CHAPTER NINE

  Friday, June 2

  Bertha rumbles as we pull up outside of Good Samaritan. Thoughts of Lizetta woke me before my alarm did. Now that she has accepted everything about me, I want more—a lot more.

  With the turn of the key, all goes silent except the birds outside Bertha’s window. I swoop up the bouquet of roses and head for Good Samaritan. The place is dark inside, so I take a seat on the concrete with my back to the wall and wait.

  What do I say without sounding like some crazy guy who's begging for attention or a perv who’s trying to score? I just want more with her. Is that what I should say? “Lizetta, I want more.” No, that sounds like a proposal. The universe can dictate if and when that happens, but now is a little much.

  Two days ago, clean test results came through—again. Ever since the condiment incident, every thirty days I've taken an AIDS test. Again it's pathetic how it took a personal threat to wake me up. With all the women who have cycled through my bed, some of whom have had very questionable morals, I should've had a test sooner for everyone’s sake. After hearing about Lizetta’s dad, I’ve made a point of telling her that even though my tests have repeatedly come back clean, there is no way that I am touching her without a hat on. I love her too much to risk hurting her.

  Wow … There it is. I was wondering when that word would spring up, though I really didn’t think it would be this soon.

  Is dating for six weeks too soon? Why does time matter? Love is brought on by feelings and the experiences you have with a person, right? After all that we have shared, not having said those three magic words seems asinine.

  A lock clicks next to my ear, startling me back into reality. A man who is built like a sixty-seven Impala, and makes me feel like a Mini Cooper, steps out. I've heard so much about Griffin yet have only met him in passing. I stand to greet him properly and find that I have to grow another four inches to face him, and no one has ever referred to me as being short. The shine coming off of the top of his head makes me feel like I am looking at a deity. Damn! His biceps are almost as wide as the sleeves on his scrubs. Lizetta said he buffs himself out so that he won't get harassed for being gay. It must work, because he is seriously intimidating. That is, until he looks to the roses, touches a hand to his heart, and gasps like Michael Jackson impersonating a little girl.

  “Pink? Ah, Lover Boy, this is so sweet of you.” He leans in and gives me a whisper sprinkled with fairy dust. “But in the future, if you really want to get my heart racing, red complements my eyes better.” He pulls back and winks, and then shakes my hand. Now he sounds like he is impersonating Barry White. Which one is real? Maybe they're both fake. “Hey, Jensen. I'm Griffin, your hot mama’s bestie. Come on in.”

  I take two steps then stop and look around while feeling I'm forgetting something. The flowers are already in my hand, so there's nothing else to remember.

  “It's all right, honey,” he says. “I have that effect on a lot of men.” Griffin gives a back kick and shoulder twist, reminding me of Shirley Temple singing “On The Good Ship Lollipop”. I totally get why he and Lizetta are such good friends. He’s kind of freaking me out though. A person’s lifestyle doesn’t matter, but ever since that fateful night, homosexuals have scared the crap out of me. If there's a side of me I don't know about, that's fine, but I'd like to know—yet I also really don't want to know, which is why I'm keeping my distance.

  And that’s all bull because when it comes right down to it, what I am truly afraid of is how it took something selfish to wake me up. So yeah, Griffin’s sexuality reminds me that I’m an asshole. I am also so in my own head that I haven't said one word to him. Say something, dork! “Yeah, between us both being so close to Lizetta, and the fact that I've been here a couple of times now, it seems like we should've at least exchanged more than hellos.”

  “Life can be like that sometimes,” he says, followed by a soft sigh. “We can get so wrapped up in everything going on around us that we miss the little things that are more important. Happens here all the time. It might be the only thing I don't like about this place.”

  My muscles unclench. There it was. The relaxed demeanor with his arms at his side tells me I am now getting a taste of the real man and the voice God gave him—mellow, likely baritone but borderline bass, and not at all girly. He's just met me, and he's already warming up. It’s nice to be ac
cepted by good people.

  “Anyway, your Sweet Cheeks just called and said she's on her way, which means she’ll leave the house in about twenty minutes. Some lame excuse about oversleeping. You know how the womenfolk are.” With that I get a manly slap on the shoulder. Griffin seems to have a well-adjusted personality crisis going on. “You want a cup of coffee? It's not very glamorous, but you can hang out in the back with me while I feed the dogs.”

  I can hang here for ten minutes and not be late for work. Lizetta won’t make it in time, but Griffin’s invitation feels like a gesture of friendship over that of politeness. I take him up on his offer to make a new friend and become more integrated in Lizetta’s world.

  My dreams for a normal life are coming true.

  My untied Chucks pound on the pavement as I run into work. Thankfully, my best friend supports me by greeting me at the door with a cup of coffee.

  “Girl! Where have you been?” Griffin says before slurping out of the cup. So much for my excitement over chivalrous caffeine. “Lover Muffin was at the front door when I showed up on time this morning. He had to go so he could get to work on time, but he left you those.” Griffin points to my desk where a beautiful bouquet of roses sits. “As much as I like Sir Hots-a-lot, the boy has got to learn that when you go to Safeway for flowers, you remove the wrapper before giving them to a lady. I think you should forgive him though, because he had to drop them off earlier than any florist was open. Still, the boy needs a little bit of schooling. I will never understand straight men.”

  Aw. Jensen is so sweet! As if I didn't miss him enough already, now I miss him all the more.

  “I gave him a bad time for not having the foresight to get a card, but he did plan on delivering them in person, you know, had you been on time.”

  Yeah, but he left a note anyway!

  “You are the brightest spot to ever enter my life. Each day I realize, more and more, how much I need you. Check your voicemail.”