Playing for Julia

by Annie Carroll

  “I can wear this with jeans—maybe with nothing underneath.”

  “Do that and I’ll have chaperon you with Drew.” We both laugh.

  On a rack of long, colorfully printed cotton skirts, I find one that is basically black. It has two long cords hanging down from the waist that have tiny, silvery bells that tinkle very softly when I walk. I buy it. Ali buys one in green printed with little flowers, but no little bells. As a last minute impulse, I buy one of the see-through tunics in a golden yellow saffron color.

  When we walk out of the shop Ali says: “Let’s go someplace else for lunch. I’ve seen enough of the famous Haight Ashbury and the hippie world. It’s really a sleazy drug world. I think we’d catch some horrible disease if we ate anywhere around here.”

  * * *

  Mark drops by my office one day the following week to see if I want to go out to lunch. He has just come from a meeting with David about a new assignment.

  As we walk to a café around the corner from our office I realize that Mark is only going to be a friend. He is cute with his twinkling eyes and infectious smile. But there is no chemistry, no sizzling electricity between us—at least as far as I am concerned. Nothing like what I felt on that boat in Seattle and have not been able to forget since.

  We carry our trays to the table and I ask him if he has heard anything from the editor at Rolling Stone.

  “Not yet,” he replies. “Pearl is keeping me so busy I probably couldn’t take on any other assignments.”

  “Mark, you are such a liar. If Rolling Stone calls, you’ll answer,” I laugh.

  “Maybe. At least the work on Voices keeps the bills paid. What does your roommate do, anyway?” He asks, abruptly changing the subject.

  “She works for the Examiner in their Want Ad department. She did the same thing at the P.I. in Seattle. She says it’s very boring, writing up ads for people who call the newspaper wanting to list apartments for rent or cars for sale. She took a lot of art classes at Junior College, but sort of fell into the want ad job. The P.I. had an opening and a friend of her mother knew Ali was job hunting, so she recommended Ali. I know she’d like to do something else using her art background, but at least she has a job so she can pay her bills.”

  “It’s a good entry level job. She’ll probably find something more interesting before long. I’ll try to keep an ear to the ground and let her know if I hear about something.”

  On our way back to the office, he asks if I want to go to City Lights Bookstore this Saturday. Lawrence Ferlinghetti will be reading from his latest work.

  “Why don’t you bring Ali along, too,” Mark says.

  “We’d love to go,” I answer, hoping Ali doesn’t already have a date with Drew. Maybe Mark is interested in Ali which would be fine with me.

  * * *

  City Lights is the most famous bookstore in San Francisco. I had even heard about it up in Seattle because it stocks many books that cannot be found anywhere else on the West Coast. The owner, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, also publishes books by Beat poets and authors, like Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg.

  Ali and I wait in front for Mark as a steady stream of people pass by us and enter City Lights. It is early evening and the street lights, fuzzy in the fog, are beginning to turn on. Then we see him walking fast up Columbus Avenue.

  “Sorry, I’m late. I had a meeting. And I’ve got some news.” He looks into the brightly lighted bookstore through the wall of windows facing the sidewalk. “Whoa. We better get in there while there is any space left.”

  “It’s definitely standing room only,” Ali says as we go inside. “But that’s okay.”

  “You go on ahead,” Mark says. “I see a guy I have to talk to. I’ll find you.”

  “This is like that game of sardines we used to play as kids,” I say as I squeeze through the crowd toward the far wall. Ali nods her head and says: “Let’s just stop here.”

  I look around at all the people sitting and standing in front of us, waiting to hear Lawrence Ferlinghetti. On top of everything else, he is a brilliant poet.

  Then I hear a soft voice from right behind me. “Did you lose the matchbook, Julia?”

  I freeze. I recognize that honey voice instantly. It’s Austen Raneley. I do not turn around. Looking straight ahead, I shake my head ‘no’.

  “Is that No-You-Didn’t-Lose-It? Or No-You-Are-Not-Going-to-Turn-Around-And-Talk-to-Me?” I can hear the grin in his voice.

  I take a deep breath and turn half-way around and look up at him. Same black hair. Same brilliant blue eyes. Same honey voice. And same humming reaction in my body. My pulse is faster. I feel flushed and can’t stop from smiling.

  “What are you doing here? It’s not exactly the kind of place I’d expect to see you?”

  I hope I’ve managed to sound absolutely calm, despite how I feel. If it weren’t for all the people packed around us I think I would have already fainted onto the floor or raced out the door.

  “I write lyrics. I like words. So what better place to come to on a Saturday night? Hear Ferlinghetti. Find out what happened to the Lady in the Mist.”

  “I’m living here now. I got a new job. That’s pretty much it,” I answer mildly. Slow down, beating heart. Keep cool. Keep cool.

  He is still smiling that warm honey smile and it suddenly dawns upon me that he must know my reaction to him. He probably sees it a dozen times a month from a dozen different women. For him this conversation is only a few minutes of amusement before the reading starts. It’s like a bucket of cold reality poured on my head. I turn back to Ali who glances up at Austen, then looks at me with a slight frown.

  “I see Mark coming,” she says. “I wasn’t sure if he could find us again in this crowd.”

  “You still didn’t answer me, Julia. Did you lose the matchbook?” I freeze again. The tone of his voice is much colder. More insistent.

  I turn back to him. No smile from me now. “No. I read it.”

  “I have another one for you.”

  “No thank you,” I force a small smile. This is becoming very uncomfortable. “I don’t need another one.”

  Then I look into his eyes and it is as if everything around us has stopped, the whole world vanishes. It is only me looking at him, him looking at me. It seems to go on for minutes, but I think it must only be for a second or two. I take the matchbook and pen from his hands, write my phone number inside and hand them back to him. I feel what seems like an electrical charge when my fingers graze his for an instant.

  Immediately I turn back to Ali and Mark who has managed to squeeze his way through the crowd to join us. My pulse is still pounding. My body vibrating, but I have to ignore it. Then I get a sinking feeling. Oh, my god, what have I done? My inner voice answers: ‘What you wanted to do all along. See him again. Talk to him again.’

  “What’s your news?” I ask Mark who glances at Austen for a second, then looks back at me. I am trying to get myself back to the land of normal. “Did Rolling Stone give you an assignment?”

  “You got it.” Mark grins.

  “So it’s goodbye Voices and hello Rolling Stone?”

  “Not quite yet,” he answers. “You’ll still see me around Voices.”

  The Ferlinghetti reading is superb—I think. Only one in ten things he says registers in my brain. The entire time I am aware that Austen is standing right behind me, probably hearing every word of our conversation. At least he can’t see how distracted I am. He doesn’t say anything more to me and when the reading and discussion is over Mark, Ali and I leave City Lights. I don’t look back.

  Chapter Five

  Another week at Voices, and we are busier than ever. Closing on Thursday takes longer than usual. It’s late when I climb onto the bus. Parking is almost impossible near our office so I’ve stopped driving my old blue Chevrolet, except occasionally on weekends. Fortunately, bus service in San Francisco is excellent and riding home from work gives me time to think. And I think of Austen Raneley a lot.

  When I g
et home Ali is sitting on the blue sofa watching some show on our little black and white TV. Her job ends promptly at 5:30—much more orderly than mine.

  “Some guy called for you tonight,” she says. “He didn’t leave a message, but I think it was that guy from the band.”

  “Oh,” I answer and smile a little Cheshire cat smile. “Is there anything to eat? I’m starved. Closing took so long and—“

  “Julia, I can’t believe it. You actually gave him your phone number?”

  “Yes.” I head for the kitchen.

  “Oh. My. God. We move to San Francisco and you…I can’t believe it. After seeing them on that boat. Drunk out of their minds. I know he’s good looking, but have you totally lost your marbles?” Ali shakes her head as she gets up from the sofa and follows me.

  “I’ve already been warned about those guys by a girl in my office. There are so many musicians around because of Rolling Stone and the Fillmore being here. They have terrible reputations. No woman in her right mind—“

  “I think I’ll have a cheese sandwich.” I open the refrigerator. “I’m really tired.”

  She shakes her head again. “Unbelievable. And you don’t want to talk about it.”

  I don’t know what I could say to Ali to explain. I don’t understand my reaction to him, my attraction to him, but I hope he calls again. I hope he doesn’t think that I had my roommate lie and say I wasn’t here.

  * * *

  While there are no required “things-you-must-know” at Voices, I have quickly learned that to have any conversation and credibility with my fellow employees there are certain standards for cultural events and activities I should meet. For movies: see an important one the first week. Better yet: see it the day it is released. Best of all: see it at a private screening in Los Angeles before its release date. For albums: listen to the songs the first week—unless someone manages to get their hands on it before then. For art: best seen at the gallery opening. For books the pace is slower. If you haven’t read a significant book within a month, someone will offer to lend it to you and insist you read it.

  Tonight we—Ali, Drew, Sam and I-- have gone to a must-see-immediately movie: Easy Rider.

  Ali and Drew invited me to join them and Drew’s friend Sam, who is somewhat important in the antiwar movement. I can see why Ali likes Drew. He is the kind of man to inspire confidence. Warm, friendly, a trustworthy smile. He still has a short haircut and wears button-down collar shirts, but he’s an attorney and has to look conservative. Sam’s hair is growing out to that shaggy stage currently favored by counter-culture types. He’s wearing jeans and a slightly battered brown leather jacket, although the whole look may be something he has come up with to create an anti-establishment image. I strongly suspect this blind date is Ali’s attempt to get me interested in someone other than Austen.

  We all agree that Easy Rider is brilliant as we walk into Vesuvios.

  “It really captures the conflicts in this country today,” says Sam. “Dennis was telling me how they came up with the symbolism.”

  We order drinks.

  Sam goes on to offer his analysis—or is it merely opinion—of hippies and rednecks and the drug culture and motorcycles and then somehow brings it around to his efforts in the antiwar movement. He drops names in every third sentence. I have the feeling that we could have been discussing the price of tea in China and he would have figured out how to bring up his antiwar work. And, I think, if he is so ‘in’ with movie people why hadn’t he seen Easy Rider at a private screening before it was released in theaters?

  I am bored, so I sit back, put on my fixed smile and turn off the conversation.

  Vesuvios is noted for two things: art and Kerouac. The owner, Henri Lenoir, has hung his private art collection on the walls. He invited Kerouac and other Beat authors to do readings in his bar. No drinking establishment did anything like that before, but now other bar owners put art up on their walls. Not many are holding literary readings, however.

  I gaze around the room at the art works, then see Austen standing at the bar talking with a man I think is John, the one who writes most of the music for the band. He is tall and has a rugged, clean-shaven face, long, thick brown hair tied back. He looks like he might be a couple of years older than Austen. A blonde-haired young woman in a long blue skirt stands next to John holding a drink in her hand.

  I stare at Austen—willing him to look at me—and he does. I smile at him. He smiles back with that honey smile of his.

  A couple of minutes later I excuse myself and walk over to look at one of the paintings. Austen saunters over and stands next to me.

  “You like art, do you?”

  “I’m not sure about this one. I think I’ll have to come back another time to see this in better light.”

  “You look bored.”

  “Possibly. We are talking about Easy Rider. It’s an interesting movie but the conversation is not.”

  “Well, you could go back over to that table, pick up your jacket and purse and we could walk out of here together.”

  I turn to him. “No, I would never do that, no matter how boring the conversation is. And besides, I’m not as bored now.” I smile up at him. “I guess I’ll go back to the table.”

  I am sure I sound more confident than I feel. Pounding pulse. Vibrating body. It is a delicious feeling—certainly worlds better than the numbing boredom caused by Sam’s droning pomposity. Now—I hope—he’ll call me again.

  * * *

  I pick up the phone on Monday night and hear Austen’s honey voice. On Friday evening I hear him opening the squeaky gate in front of the cottage.

  I am in my short, dark purple A-line dress with narrow low black heels. Earlier when I put it on Ali hissed: “You are really asking for it, Julia. Wear something longer.”

  “I’ve got tights on. It’s not like I have bare legs or anything.”

  “Dressed like that he’ll probably throw you into the back seat of his car and take you on the spot. Wear something else.”

  I shake my head at her. I’ve decided that going out with him could be the cure for me, a good way to get him out of my mind. Maybe he will turn out to be a vain idiot like that Tommy or really stupid—although judging from his lyrics that’s probably not true. And I might as well look cute while I’m finding out if he is as awful as everyone tells me rock musicians are.

  He knocks and when I open the front door, I say “Hi” a little breathlessly.

  “This is a wild-looking place. How did you find it?” He is smiling, happy. He wears more conventional clothes: black jeans, blue shirt, brown suede leather jacket, but it’s still the same black hair, honey voice and sky-blue eyes. My body starts reacting: my pulse speeds up, my breathing is already shallow.

  “It’s even crazier inside,” I say. “Come in. I’ll give you the house tour. It takes about 60 seconds—this cottage is so small.”

  Inside he looks around. Ali is seated on the blue sofa.

  “You remember my roommate Ali.”

  “Sure.” He glances at her. Ali gives him a small tight smile.

  “I don’t know if the kitchen or bathroom is the highlight of the tour.”

  He walks across the living room behind me and as we stand in the kitchen entrance looking in, he puts his hand on my shoulder and pulls me toward him. I feel myself go all soft inside.

  “Nothing like olive green and fire-engine red to keep the cook awake.” I say, too brightly. “And now for the bathroom…”

  He laughs when he sees the orange and purple. “Whoever did this must have been on acid. Totally fried brain.”

  Then he asks: “No bedrooms?”

  “One big room upstairs we have to share.”

  “Back to college days again—huh?” He grins and raises an eyebrow. “Okay, done with the house tour. Let’s go.”

  He helps me into the frosty blue raincoat with the City of Paris label inside. I found it at my new favorite thrift store on Mission Street. I don’t think it’s going
to rain, but it was my compromise with Ali: the coat covers up how short my dress is. I can wrap it around my legs when I’m in his car.

  On our way out to the car he says: “Like your dress.”

  How am I going to get through this evening? This is going to be more than a few words exchanged on a boat, in a bookstore, or a bar. My body is still humming.

  Chapter Six

  The entrance to the Basque Hotel is on a dark, narrow street at the edge of Chinatown. Austen parks the car nearby. He drives a brand new black Mustang convertible with an 8 track sound system in it. I am impressed.

  How did you find this place?”

  “I have my ways.” His arm is around my shoulders and he pulls me closer to him as we walk toward the modest entrance of a nondescript building. I am beyond melted, but hope it doesn’t show. “Let’s go have dinner, baby.”

  In the small hotel dining room we are immediately seated at one of three long tables. There are two seatings every evening and we are at the second one. Rather ordinary plates, glasses, flatware and napkins are at every seat. Food—it is real Basque food—is brought from the kitchen in big country bowls and the waiters serve everyone from them. Then the bowls are set on the tables and passed around, family style, for anyone who wants seconds.

  Austen tells me the hotel was established decades ago for Basque shepherds who were brought to America to tend sheep on California ranches. It was someplace to stay when they came into the city. Someplace where they could talk to people in their own language. Someplace they could feel at home in a foreign country. And the hotel kitchen’s reputation simply spread. Seating is always very limited; hotel guests have first priority.

  “So you got a job, did you? Where are you working?”

  Oh good. An ordinary question. I am calming down. It is beginning to feel like a normal dinner date with a normal guy—except when he touches me.