It’s an unspoken agreement that during these radio sessions, I initiate the call to hear what he’ll answer with, which is always laugh-out-loud ridiculous and very Rhett.
Tuesday: “Thank you for calling Procrastinators Anonymous; leave a message and we’ll call back eventually.”
Wednesday: “I don't know who you are. I don't know what you want. If you are looking for ransom, I can tell you I don't have money. But what I do have are a very particular set of skills; skills I have acquired over a very long career. Skills that make me a nightmare for people like you. If you let my daughter go now, that'll be the end of it. I will not look for you, I will not pursue you. But if you don't, I will look for you, I will find you, and I will kill you.”
I’ll pause and say, completing the line, “Good luck.”
Thursday: “Tressler’s Whore House: you got the dough, we’ve got the ho. Luke Thighwalker speaking.”
He listens as I laugh, then pretends to be completely serious with various follow-up lines.
When the show starts, he pays close attention as I comment on each song I don’t know and sing along to the ones I do, while I adore every snarky comment he makes about my music taste. I’ve never been the kind of person to be super proud of my music choices, unlike Rhett, who is consistently into the same type of music – which is anything under the rock umbrella, according to his dad – and doesn’t understand how I can like such a wide variety of songs.
The moment I like the most, though, are the few and far-between when we both stop for a moment, process what’s coming through the speaker, and both erupt into simultaneous song. Neither of us are, shall we say musically inclined or, to be blunt, good singers. We suck. But in the clashing tones of our voices melding together in my ears, there’s this feeling of indescribable wholeness where it feels like I’ve finally got something worth holding on to in this town.
When we hang up, I fall asleep with a smile on my face and bliss in my heart.
Chapter Seven – A Night to Remember
On Friday, my shift at Ebony’s starts less than ten minutes from when the final bell rings. Tracy gets really anal about work schedules and actually being a competent manager on Fridays because there are always shows and the owner – the infamous Ebony Vine herself – always comes to watch. Ebony is the most chill person ever to run a business and she doesn’t care too much for the logistics of the coffee house, but Tracy’s always looking to brownnose her.
The place is already buzzing when I walk in at three fifteen, five minutes late for my shift because it’s physically impossible to drive across town in the seven minutes allotted to me. The readings don’t start until seven, so we’re closed until five thirty save employees and performers. Some local band is practicing loud rock music Rhett would probably adore when I take my position behind the counter with the anti-Christ himself Kevin. Tonight, three of the baristas work due to the influx of coffee being purchased, though I don’t see obscenely-perky Caitlin around anywhere.
Tracy’s on top of my without a moment’s hesitation, apparently not noticing my late arrival. “Del, I need you upstairs right now to set up the rest of the loft.”
“We’re opening up the other half?” This is strange, considering we’ve never had to before; the loft is massive, the size of the entire first floor and continuing on to the back, so we normally use half of it on busy nights and use the other half for storage. I protest accordingly, “If you want me up there, I’ll be doing way more work than setting up chairs; I’ll have to clear out the boxes and set up the lighting and clean and I’m not the best suited person to do it. If you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty scrawny.”
She groans, “I’ve noticed, Del, but I don’t have time to do it myself. Ebony’s going to arrive within the hour. You’ll get a bonus for the night if you do it, alright?”
“Deal,” I concede.
For the next few hours, I get to work. While I go at it, I have my headphones in, listening to the latest mix Rhett made for me, this one comprised mainly of songs I adore but know for a fact he can’t stand listening to. Then I realize why and can’t stop myself from blushing. It’s a mix of the songs I’ve told him about, each and every track one I mentioned to him during one of our phone talks or willow sessions. I rummage through my bag until finding the physical copy, where I look for the first time at the title he’s scratched on the spine. The Girl with Eight Piercings and Cotton Candy Hair. I roll my eyes and smile to myself. As my blue hair’s been fading, the pink has started showing through and Rhett loves that I’ve dyed my hair the two colors of cotton candy. I haven’t yet figured out the significance of this metaphor, but it’s sweet and heart-felt and I love hearing it.
Once I can’t wipe the smile from my face from sheer, unadulterated childish joy, I get down to business, singing along with each song that comes up and thinking about the boy who put them together. The boxes – which weigh about what I do and contain God knows what – have to be carried down the steps to another store room to get them out of the way before I can even consider chair and table placement. That alone takes forty five minutes of grunting and stumbling until my arms are burning; I’m not one for physical activity, and the removal of boxes has filled my quota for a good week or more. Then it’s on to dusting off the ancient furniture, which I have to un-stack from the back closet and take out one by one before I can actually arrange them how I want. The job is hard manual labor meant for someone with biceps the size of my head and, unlike me, enough endurance and stamina to walk up a flight of stair without getting winded. Once the heavy chairs are arranged in groups and couples and singles around tables, I play around with which of the various hanging lights should be on to create the right ambiance, an involved process where I have to stand precariously on tables to adjust each and every light multiple times.
It’s tedious and I don’t finish until a few minutes before we open. Then, I run to the bathroom to make sure my appearance is acceptable. Frizzy hair, terribly red face from exertion, sweat beaded on my hairline. Ugh. I cup some water in my hands and splash it on my face until I feel a bit cooler, then try to smooth my hair down. Oh well, I think, sighing aloud. Rhett made it perfectly clear to me this week that he prefers me without makeup and heels and looking like myself. Hopefully that opinion stands since he’s still planning on having me over to watch The Breakfast Club after the reading. Which, judging strictly on how wiped out I am before the main event even starts, I’ll probably fall asleep during.
I walk back into the main room and behind the counter right when Kevin flips the ‘closed’ sign and lets in the masses. A wide array of people – from the usual college students and reckless teens to moms with young children and some elderly folks – have been crowding outside since four and now arrange themselves in positions around Ebony’s until the place is so full the fire marshal will probably turn up like he has the past four shows in a row.
There isn’t much time to ponder the bodies willingly cramped in because a line of about four hundred thousand has started ordering drinks. Without noticing, I’m whipping out lattes and ice teas and regular brews and frappuccinos and frappes and smoothies like nobody’s business. Caitlin, thank the lord, has shown up and now stands between me and Kevin, who’s working the register, cleaning the blenders and steaming milk to keep things going. We’re a well-oiled machine for the next hour. Pastries are baked and organized in the glass display case by the efficient bake team for us to sell. Hot and cold sandwiches are sold Friday nights by volunteers getting Honor Society hours and the kids are irritatingly unaware of what’s going on. Between making drinks, I’m explaining various tips and details to the servers like it’s my job and not Tracy’s. The whole ordeal is both fulfilling and soul-sucking, in equal parts.
Finally, when the local band starts playing, things begin to simmer down. The audience settles in, only the here-or-there customer ordering. Now my main job is changing out the trash and telling people where the straws are. I settle back and look for Rh
ett in the now-dim lighting while the teen band plays a loud set. Everyone claps at the end, even the soccer moms. Though I can’t see Rhett, he must be around here somewhere. Lurking in a corner or something.
The boys head behind the newly-erected curtain to backstage and the illustrious Ebony Vine takes the stage. She’s a very large, very soulful, very funny woman with skin so dark she jokes ‘the night I was born, the sky got stuck in my skin.’ Her parents apparently called her Ebony because she was ‘the blackest damn baby they’d ever seen,’ to use her words the first time I spoke to her. Tonight, her larger-than-life personality is apparent in the shimmering, full-length, any color imaginable gown hugging her insanely curvy body. Her slick hair is done up in a fabulously complex twist and every eye is drawn to her colossal presence. The low tones of her voice cascade over the captivated audience as she speaks.
“A warm welcome to all you poetry-enthusiasts. And to those of you coming out to support your amateur teenager’s dreams, good luck. With everything.” She pauses as chuckling rips through the crowd. Then she smiles and goes on, “Alright, you should know the rules by now, but here goes nothing. One: don’t clap until the poor child is finished reading. Poets are very sensitive and loud, sudden noises will frighten them.” More laughter. “Two: sign ups are in the back and it’s never too late to jump on up. Don’t be shy. I’ve only seen a few people bite. Three: tip your waitresses and baristas as heavily as you can manage. Most of ‘em have been here since three and won’t leave until everybody’s gone. Let’s give everyone a hand, especially to Caitlin, Del, and Kevin, who’ve worked every show this year without griping!” The volunteer lighting guy flips the spotlight over to us and we all wave with grimaces on our lips as the crowd claps. She always does this, despite our constant protests. It’s a general consensus between any barista that we work the counter because we like three feet of bar separating us from the nonsense happening on the other side. “Our first reader tonight will be a veteran from Texas State University, Cal Russeter.”
Cal, a major pretentious douche who’s hit on me every time he does a reading for the past year and a half, thanks Ebony copiously and positions himself behind the mic. “This one’s titled ‘Raw.’
He goes on for about three minutes spouting about the crystals of anguish lodged deep in his soul until his words reach a crescendo in the traditional pattern of a poetry slam. Then, the flow of words drops to a sudden quiet, the noise replaced by palpable electricity, and he steps back.
The crowd, along with Caitilin, who’s head-over-heels for the asshole, bursts into applause. I’m not feeling it, my excitement and nervousness at Rhett being backstage somewhere getting the majority of my attention. A few more poets go by, each one good but not quite good enough to captivate me, and I’m making a pumpkin spice latte since today’s the first official day of fall and we’re finally selling them. They’re hard to make simply from lack of practice and smell amazing, so I’m not quite paying attention to anything when Ebony introduces, “Next up we’ve got one of the most handsome boys ever to grace this stage, first-timer Rhett Tressler.”
I nearly drop the bowl and whisk I’m working with and whip around. My voice is shrill as my eyes catch Rhett, wearing a black blazer and jeans, placing himself in front of the microphone. He blinks into the harsh white spotlight and cracks his neck. “Caitlin, can you finish up for me? I need to hear this one.”
She sighs, “I guess.” And I’m off.
I stand as close to the stage as possible without leaving my post behind the counter and watch as he runs a hand through his tangle of curls and takes a deep breath. His deep voice falls on me and my heart nearly stops. “I’d like to apologize preemptively for my nerves and for how shitty this poem is going to be.” The crowd laughs, and he smiles brightly. “I’m doing this because the girl I’m in to works here and wouldn’t agree to go out with me until she heard a poem I wrote about her. So it’s called ‘For the Blue-Haired Girl in a City of Blonds.’” The audience members make a serious of meaningful noises and look over at me, but I can’t bring myself to tear my eyes from Rhett. My heart’s beating wildly and I can’t imagine what his is doing. He begins and everything stops.
To the people of this city
where I live but will never be welcome
you ought to understand I can see
I have not lost the use of my senses
to hear your sneers
to see the gestures
to feel your hate
more important for you understand
is that I have found a light
one lonely, spectacular girl who reminds me
that I am alive and I am important
her cotton candy hair tell me each and every day
that the angry white scars
riddled across my less-than-white biracial arms
will not separate me from her
the piercings in her ears let me know
that my higher than the average two point four kids family
will not make her think less of me
so to the people of this city
where I will stay as long as she’s here
throw all the punches your privileged arms can carry
because I will tolerate a world of white-washed demons
for the sake of a cotton candy angel.
Rhett steps back and walks off the stage via the steps on the left instead of going backstage like everyone else as the room severs from its anxious silence into a world of uproarious applause. I can only stand there, dumbfounded, as Rhett cross the forbidden line never to be crossed by a mere customer and walks behind the counter.
And then, beaming because I can’t stop myself at this point, I dash over.
Before either of us knows what to say, he’s leaning toward me, tilting my chin forward with his fingers as I shut my eyes. Our noses bump and I feel the smile on his soft lips as they part mine and his hands slide from my shoulders to the small of my back, stopping briefly on the tense bones of my hips. A shiver shoots up my energized spine. I press my body against his chest as some weird, primal ache to get closer to him takes over me. Like the hours upon hours we’ve spent together have been leading up to this exact moment. Everything stops and I can’t hear the voices swirling around us in the taste of his skin on mine. For those few seconds, there are no string quartets or fireworks or anything I expected. Instead, there’s absolute calm mingling with intense heat spreading from the spot where my nose brushed his in perfectly synchronized awkwardness to the electrified synapses of my no-longer hurting muscles.
We pull away at the same moment. The audience’s applause intensifies because, apparently, they watched this interaction and are very pleased. For some reason, surrounded by a cloud of foreign thoughts and feelings brought on by this unknown reality, my fingers brush over my lips, as if testing to see if this night is real, if his lips really pressed mine moments after reading the first poem ever written for me in order to earn the rights to go on a date with me.
“That was…” I stop in an attempt to understand my life. His hands are still on my back, distracting me until I can think of something appropriate. “Um, wow.”
He laughs out loud. “The poem or the kiss?”
“I…” My face has surely gone beet-red and my tongue has tied itself into a constrictor knot so tight it won’t let words out.
I didn’t think it was possible, but his smile spreads wider across his face. “Cordelia Kane, you’re acting like this is the first time you’ve been kissed.”
Embarrassed, I glance at my shuffling feet and the next poet begins to speak. “Not once.”
He nudges me playfully on the arm. “Come on, Cordelia, you are so downright kissable I’d be surprised if you’d been kissed less than a thousand times.”
I look back at him and say honestly, “I have been kissed by a grand total of one boy besides you on a whopping two occasions.”
For a moment taken aback, Rhett locks eyes with me and smirks. It�
��s the same expression he donned when finding out we had the same favorite holiday. “We’re on an even playing field then.”
“Are you lying?” The idea that this glorious boy in front of me with lips like paintbrushes and eyes like a museum had been kissed as few times as someone as gangly and weird-looking as me is a baffling notion about as strange as Rhett’s existence.
He shakes his head, black curls bobbing in the dim white light, and tell me, “In fact, Cordelia Kane, I have had but one girlfriend who I dated for two months and kissed twice. I was never a romantic until I moved here and met you, strangely enough.”
“I’m shocked,” I say quietly and stupidly, “but glad, I suppose.”
“Glad?”
“To be your third kiss.” I stand up on my tip toes and kiss him lightly on the lips. “Not quite as monumental as your first, but arguably more important.”
“Arguably? The last girl I dated was the kind of girl your mother wanted you to be and nowhere near as sensational as you.”
I extract myself from his arms and reply, “I need to get back to my job, so hang around for another forty five minutes and we can get out of here.”
“I expect you to decide on a favorite food and favorite color picked out before I return.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Still buzzing and excited from the already spectacular evening, I go back to making drinks for happy poetry-enthusiasts, several of which inquire after my relationship with Rhett. The minutes blur by as anticipation catches up with me. Though I’ve seen The Breakfast Club a hundred or so times at this point, I imagine watching it with Rhett will be an experience in a league all its own. Every time I’ve watched someone else’s favorite movies or listened to a favorite song with its owner, the most exciting thing is not the media itself but being given the privilege of watching a face light up again and again with joy, seeing that child-like enthusiasm busting through an honest smile. And Rhett, being so absolutely full of life and love and an insane zest for all of it, will not disappoint.
Love in the Time of Cynicism Page 10
