Dancing With Venus

by Roscoe James

  “Ya gotta understand, Jess. That's just how your mother was raised. She let the last thing she saw, the last thing she learned about your aunt, define a lifetime. That don't make her bad. It just makes her wrong. Wrong can be changed. Bad is forever.”

  Jessie touched the picture but said nothing. Her father pushed the door open and asked again, “So. Where are you goin', Jess?”

  She finally looked away from the photograph and stepped past her father. She was still distracted when she answered. “The airport. I've got a ten-thirty flight.”

  Her father grabbed her shoulder and looked her right in the eye. “That wasn't what I was talking about, Jess.”

  * * *

  Jessie said good-bye to her mother. Jessie was reserved but felt no antagonism toward the woman she'd tormented for years. Her mother was her mother. Worried about where she was going, when she'd call, and reminding her to take care of herself. The moment held little joy for Jessie, but more importantly, no hostility.

  She saw her mother differently. Not good or bad, just different.

  Chapter Seven

  When the couple walked in off the sunny sidewalk holding hands, Jessie looked around the Internet café to see if anyone else noticed. No one looked up and pointed. No one leaned toward someone else and whispered. The couple sat at the table next to hers using one of the café's computers and ordered. A book bag sat on the floor between their chairs, and once in a while one of them would reach down and dig something out. There was nothing obvious or overt, just the occasional touch of their hands or sideways glance. But anyone who took the time to look could tell.

  Jessie's coffee refill arrived, and she went back to her search. In spite of growing up during the personal-computer boom, Jessie had never found time to get up close and personal with the X generation's most adored piece of hardware. She ran a few more searches, then pushed back into her seat in frustration.

  Los Angeles wasn't new to her. She'd done Hollywood's walk of fame and even toured the star's homes a lifetime ago. But studio work was throwing Jessie's schedule off, and she'd been finding it hard to sleep at night. That's what she told herself. The three-day marathon scheduled to begin with had turned into three weeks of grueling work.

  She'd met with Bernie a couple of times. Word was the producer was impressed and wanted to talk when the recording session was over. With what they were paying, she didn't mind postponing Colorado. She just wanted her life back. Problem was she wasn't sure who had it.

  “You need some help?”

  The woman was blonde and sunny. A surfer chick. Yellow hair, short white shorts, and a sky blue top. Perfect teeth to go with her perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect hands, and perfect eyes. Somewhere north of twenty and south of Jessie. “Beats me. I'm trying to find someone, and it just ain't happ'nin'.”

  “Yeah. Looked like you were having trouble. Let me see if I can help.”

  Jessie didn't want to wash her dirty laundry in public, so she gave the girl her own name to search. She figured that would be a tough one to find. The girl explained name searches, inclusive, exclusive, and a list of other things Jessie didn't understand.

  “See. There it is.”

  Jessie was floored. Her name was all over the place. The girl clicked on a link and muttered, “Oh yeah. I've heard of her.”

  Jessie was flattered. Then the girl clicked on another link, and one of her goofy promo pictures came up.

  “And when you click a picture like this…” The girl looked up, then looked back at the screen. “Wait, that's you! Is this some kind of pickup line or something?”

  Jessie was floored. The last thing she expected from a woman helping her learn how to use a search engine was the accusation that she was trying to pick that woman up.

  “Hell no. I gave you my name because I thought it might be easier. That's all.”

  The woman looked at Jessie for a beat, then went back to her explanation. Jessie half watched and took the chance to check the woman out. Attractive. Bright. Above all, perfectly normal for California.

  And, given what she'd observed as the woman walked in with another woman, gay.

  “Okay, what if I want to find someone, and I don't have their last name. Can I do that?”

  “It can be done. Might be hard. They'd have to be famous or something. Or you'd need a state—”

  “What if you wanted to find me but didn't know my last name?”

  “Easy. Search Jessie blues. Or Jessie guitar. See?”

  And there she was again. Jessie thanked the woman and went back to her search. It took less than five minutes to find what she wanted. She grabbed her Stetson and purse to leave and stopped to thank the woman again for her help. She regarded the full-figured black woman sitting beside Miss California while she listened.

  “Sure, no problem. Hey, I was talking to Barbara, and we wondered if you'd like to have drinks tonight. You know. If you're not busy. We know this club—”

  “Is that a pickup line?” Her day at the studio was through, and tomorrow was Sunday and the engineer would be mixing. She had nothing better to do.

  “No! We just thought you might be in town for a show or something. That's okay. I didn't mean—”

  Jessie let the girl off the hook and laughed.

  “Sure. Why not? Where's the club?”

  Jessie got the information on a scrap of paper and hit the sidewalk. She dug her smokes out and lit up. When a man walked by and sneered at her, it only confirmed her conclusion that California had declared war on smokers. Not just a regional battle involving tables and stools in restaurants and bars. This was an all-out you're-the-enemy war.

  She shook off the disapproving stare with a big smile and headed for her hotel. She had what she was looking for. Now if she could only bring herself to use it.

  * * *

  Jessie stood by the front entrance fidgeting. They'd arranged to meet at nine. She pulled on her dress, the same dress Marci had picked out for her, and tried to make it fit. Without Marci around, it felt too short. Indecent. After the dress had been stepped on and cried into, she'd had to have it cleaned. She still regretted the decision. But wearing it had its own special meaning.

  “We didn't know if you'd show up or not.”

  They all said hello, and Jessie didn't miss the look she got from Miss California, Leslie, when she dropped her half-smoked cigarette to the pavement and ground it out.

  Inside they got a table close to the dance floor, and Jessie ordered a duded-up cowboy drink. A longneck with lemon slices and a salt-rimmed glass. Barbara and Leslie ordered something with paper umbrellas. The music was DJ and the dance floor was full. They'd spent half an hour talking over the noise when Leslie disappeared.

  “I heard you play once. You must not get to the coast much.”

  “Oh yeah? That must have been six or seven years ago. I played a few bars here in the south.”

  “No. I was in DC. A business trip. I caught you at the Wild Side. I stayed for all three sets.”

  “Right. Yeah, that was about a year ago.”

  “You're really good. My daddy has all the blues records. Great stuff. What happened to the boyfriend?”

  Leslie came back towing a few more California sun bunnies.

  “This is Pony. And she's Cowboy. This is Jessie Butler. That blues singer I was talking about.” Pony was wearing black leather kink that included a short leather skirt that looked more like a wide belt. Cowboy, another blonde California beauty, was wearing black jeans and black leather chaps with a leather vest.

  Jessie had never been out in a crowd of unknown people who actually seemed to know her unless they were at a bar she was playing at. She tipped her bottle and tried to figure out what Barbara was talking about.

  “You know. That blond guy. You were at his table between sets. Looked like you two were having a pretty good time.”

  “Oh! No. Just a fan. Somebody I pick…” Shit. She tried to recover. “He always comes to see me when I play that place.”
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  Looks like what happens in DC doesn't always stay in DC. Double shit.

  A basket of no-fat munchies appeared. Jessie almost laughed. Anyplace she played the munchies would be tall on grease and finger-licking good. Seemed like California had declared war on cholesterol as well. She munched a carrot stick and watched the dancers.

  “Leslie said you're a blues singer. Do you sing any Billie Holiday?” Cowboy was squeezing her longneck and Pony equally.

  “Chicago blues. Delta blues. B.B. King. Stuff like that.”

  “Rad!”

  What-the-hell-ever rad means. Jessie was a little surprised to find a table full of blues fans who were all women. Women seemed to get into her music when she was performing, but Jessie always thought that if you gave them a choice, they'd listen to something else.

  That's it. I can become the first blues-singing dyke. Get a whole fan club of crew-cut dykes. Sell hundreds, maybe even thousands of records to all the dykes in the world.

  She watched Cowboy pull Pony off to the dance floor and for the first time realized there wasn't a man in sight. Not a one. Not on the dance floor. Not at the bar. Not waiting tables. None. She'd figured Leslie and Barbara for a couple, and Pony and Cowboy were kind of in your face about it. But she hadn't realized…

  “Barbara? Can I ask you something,” Jessie stage-whispered.

  The woman looked up from her cell phone.

  “I just wondered. Is this a, well—”

  “Gay bar?” Barbara leaned close. “Sure, honey. We thought you knew when we found you waiting for us. Figured your taxi driver would say something. That you'd shy away if you didn't want to…well, hang out with us girls. Actually, the Closet is a bar for lesbians. No men allowed. You okay with that?”

  “Sure. That's fine. I just didn't know. Nice place.” Jessie chugged the rest of her beer and grabbed the waitress as she walked by. “Another. And chase it with a tequila. Keep 'em comin', honey.” Jessie slapped the waitress on the ass, and Leslie and Barbara roared with laughter.

  You sure cain't rope no horse if ya don't know how ta ride one.

  She figured her daddy knew best.

  * * *

  Jessie didn't know what time it was. Time had become abstract after her third beer and tequila. The crowd around the table had grown, and after about an hour Jessie started to get it. Every fourth song was Billie Holiday, Bessie Smith, or some other early blues singer. Billie was clearly the favorite.

  Jessie didn't perform that type of orchestrated blues, but she knew all the songs and the singers. And every fourth song was about the woes of lovin' a man or being left behind by one. When a redhead came up and asked Jessie to dance, she slammed her beer down and yelled in a drunken slur, “Why the hell not?”

  An endless line of nameless faces danced Jessie around the dance floor. They were all touchy-feely and invited her to do the same. At some point she made it back to her table to declare the Closet the best bar in Los Angeles. Maybe in the whole damned United States of them there Americas.

  Jessie knew she was shitfaced. She just couldn't bring herself to admit it and go back to her hotel.

  And there was another reason she didn't want to leave.

  Every slow dance, every warm body that pressed into hers, every soulful stare and familiar touch just made Marci that much more real. Jessie would close her eyes and cling. She'd run her hands across a bare back and lean her head on a warm shoulder. Short, tall, skinny, full-figured, it didn't matter. They all felt and smelled familiar. They all reminded her of a stolen afternoon in a seventh-floor room at the Madison hotel in Memphis, Tennessee, with a Greek goddess. She was drunk and on the prowl for something she knew she wouldn't find.

  “What's up, Jessie? You're looking sad.”

  Jessie lifted her head off Cowboy's shoulder and mumbled, “I was an idiot. You know? I let…”

  Cowboy's mouth was a warm, wet crush of enticement and promise, and Jessie's lids fell slow and lazy like a sunset on the Caribbean. When she pulled away and opened her eyes again, she wiped frantically at her mouth.

  “That's okay, Jess. He was an asshole. Come home with Pony and me tonight. We'll make you feel al—”

  Jessie slapped the woman.

  “What? Who the hell do you think you are? And don't you dare call me Jess.”

  * * *

  Jessie groaned and shrouded her face with the sheet. The ceiling was covered with speckled bumps that captured cobwebs close to the wall. She turned and stared into sun. She'd forgotten to close the drapes when Leslie and Barbara had finally dropped her off. She'd been too busy getting her hands in her panties to rub herself off. Marci had floated above her on the ceiling with her unfathomable eyes and warm, soft lips whispering sweet unintelligible things.

  She rolled out of bed and staggered to the bathroom. After a nice long pee she wandered into her room and found a T-shirt to go with the white cotton thong that made her feel sexy. She grabbed her Ray-Bans and headed for her sixth-floor balcony for a morning smoke.

  Palm trees, sunshine, and art deco hotels. That was California. All that and the excitement of being near. She watched the traffic go by and wondered what Marci was doing.

  Is she thinking about me? Right now? Right this minute?

  Jessie flipped her cigarette over the balcony rail and watched it death-spiral to the street.

  * * *

  Jessie picked up some solo work at a franchise theme bar that sold watered-down drinks for the crowd to unwind and booze up with. She was filling in for a sick singer. The studio time had dropped, and she'd been going crazy sitting around her hotel room flipping channels and beating up her guitar. The alternative—getting drunk and picking up men—didn't seem as attractive as it used to. If it ever had been.

  She couldn't turn around on the sidewalk without seeing Marci. Every bus and taxi in the city had big color advertisements plastered to their sides or strapped on their roofs announcing a night of magic with LA's very own Marcella Dionysius. The Los Angeles Center for the Arts was proud to present America's premier cellist. And Jessie even worked up the nerve to call and see if she could get a ticket. Sold out had never sounded so disheartening.

  “Ha! You're kidding, right? Those sold out an hour after they were available. I've got a Meatloaf concert… Yeah. I've got a lot of those tickets.”

  “Nope. His tits are too small.”

  “I beg your pardon—”

  Jessie closed her phone and kept walking. A smiling Marci hugged her cello and looked back with a twinkle in her eye from the roof of a taxi.

  Thursday nights were always slow in the clubs and bars she played. People staying home to charge their batteries for the weekend. The theme bars got mostly office workers on their way home, so the place cleared out a little earlier than others. She still had the tables full at eleven, but the elbow bars and stools were empty. She was winding down her night with a John Lee Hooker set. “One Bourbon, One Scotch, One Beer” always got another round for the bar, and she liked to keep the help happy.

  She was packing up her gig bag and putting her guitar away when a guy stopped by to see if he could buy her a drink. She thought about it for two seconds. Free, white, and twenty-one had always worked for her. But she said no. And thanks.

  Jessie dropped by the manager's office and said goodnight on her way to the employees' entrance. She pushed out into the cool night air, dropped her things on the stoop, and dug out a smoke. She hooked the heel of her cowboy boot up on the railing and leaned back, lost in thought.

  “What's up, Psycho Girl?”

  Jessie coughed and sputtered. When she turned, she found a Greek goddess dressed up in white cowboy boots, jeans, some funky green button-down shirt with yellow snap buttons, a bright red cowboy hat from the kid's toy department of some department store, leaning against a utility pole by the Dumpster.

  “Marci. What… I… Where… What're you doing here?”

  “Oh, I heard there was some two-bit blues player hangin' out with the to
urists. I thought I'd come down and throw tomatoes at her. Where's your hat?”

  Jessie had played this moment out in her mind a hundred times. Then she'd decided a hundred and one times that the moment was best left to flights of fancy. A hundred and two times she'd wished so hard for this moment her fingers hurt from crossing them.

  “Well. I reckon that would be me. Lost the hat, though. Doesn't go with my new 'do.”

  The moment stretched, and the night air filled with the sounds of crickets, traffic, and the LAX landing pattern.

  Finally Marci broke the silence. “You can't say it, can you?”

  “What's that?” Jessie flipped her cigarette and turned so she could really look at Marci.

  “I found you. I'm standing right here. All you have to do is say it.”

  Jessie crossed her arms under her breasts, stuck her chin out, and leaned against the employee entrance. Do you have any idea how many times I've said it in my mind? How many different ways I've said it? How many times I've cried…

  “I call your sister on her honeymoon. I search every two-bit dive in LA that pretends to have something to do with the blues. I put on my best cowgirl outfit. I come down here and sit through two hours of the crappiest blues singing—”

  “You got a tin ear, I reckon.”

  “Then I had to sit on my hands while some idiot in a suit walked up and invited you to have a drink.” The cockiness left Marci's voice. “What do I have to do, Jessie? Tell me. I'll do it.”

  Jessie's leg trembled a little when she pushed off the heavy metal door. She picked up her gig bag and her guitar and walked down the three steps of the back stoop to the pavement. She didn't stop until she was standing in front of Marci. She set her things on the pavement and hooked her thumbs in the front pockets of her jeans.

  “Well, to start with. You have to get rid of that hat. If that's a cowboy hat, I'm Madonna.”

  Marci smiled and pulled the straw hat off with a flair and threw it in the Dumpster. “There you go. No hat.”

  Jessie looked down and frowned. “And what's with the white cowboy boots? Only place I seen a pair of those before was some old Mel Brooks movie.”