by T. Torrest
The Studio is always closed on Mondays, so I’m really looking forward to the extra-long weekend.
I need it.
Jack has a gig tonight at The Osprey, so he and I decide to kill some time during the day at the boardwalk. He picks me up in the Mustang with the top down, and we take off for Seaside Heights.
Somewhere on Route 35, I find myself staring at his profile as he drives. He looks so adorably boyish with his sunglasses on, his hand idly tapping the wheel to the beat of a Blues Traveler song blasting out of the car’s stereo. My heart speeds up as I watch his lips pucker into a whistle and the smooth muscle flexing in his forearm as he steers.
Once Popper hits the chorus, I decide to sing along. “The heaaart brings you baaack...”
“Hook.”
“Huh?”
“The hook brings you back,” he says. “Not the heart.”
“The hook? That’s not romantic at all.”
He practically snorts. “It’s not supposed to be. Jesus, Livia! It’s the title of the goddamn song, for chrissakes. How is it that you managed to sing the title wrong?” He’s cracking himself up over there, and I can’t do anything but laugh along with him. For someone who loves music as much as I do, it is pretty ridiculous that I always manage to fudge up the lyrics.
“You have to admit, ‘heart’ makes a lot more sense than ‘hook.’ I’m not taking all the blame on this one,” I defend.
“Lips. The hook is the part of any song that sucks the listener in. The part that hooks, you. Get it? All the best songs have a strong one. Here, I’ll give you an example: ‘Sweet Caroline’ by Neil Diamond. What’s the most outstanding thing about it?”
I think on that for a minute. “The three trumpet notes after he sings ‘Caroline’? The bum, bum, bum?”
“You got it. That’s the hook. I mean, the slow start makes you take notice, but those three notes sell that song. All those idiot college kids yelling out those three notes are mangling what should just be the slow capitulation into the vibe of that song.”
I know what he’s talking about with all those idiots ruining the music. I’m getting pretty sick of hearing the way some classics have been contorted lately. All that accentuated ‘unca-chucka’ during the Ally McBeal version of “Hooked on a Feeling” or the way “Oh What a Night” has recently been remixed into a techno song. If it wasn’t for the Seattle surge a few years back, listening to New York radio would be a near-impossibility.
Jack’s voice snaps me out of my stewing. “I’ll give you another one: How ‘bout Weezer’s ‘Buddy Holly’?”
“No problem. Ooh-whee-ooh. Footnote: It’s a killer video.”
“Yep. ‘Under Pressure.’”
“That’s easy. Those opening notes suck me in every time.”
“They suck in everyone else, too. There’s a reason Vanilla Ice stole it.”
I think about that and say, “Oh yeah, you’re right! For ‘Ice Ice Baby!’ It’s the same bass line!”
He turns up the volume on the radio so we can hear “Hook” again. “Really listen to the lyrics. They’re all about a song’s formula. It has nothing to do with love at all, but the way Popper sings it, if you don’t listen too closely, that’s exactly what he makes the listener believe. That’s the hook.”
It certainly hooks me. I listen to John Popper’s rambling voice churning out its high-speed jumble of nonsense words, and find myself taking a much-needed breath along with him as he breaks back into the chorus.
“Well, maybe it is a love song,” I finally reason. “It’s about the love of music.”
Jack aims a dazzling grin at me. “Well, yeah, sure, there’s that.”
We park in the lot at the south end of the boardwalk around lunchtime, and stop in at The Sawmill for some pizza and beers.
The Yankee game is on and Jack is yelling at the TV along with the other male patrons at the bar. O’Neill just popped out, leaving two men on base.
“What the hell, O’Neill?” Jack screams at the TV before absently sharing his thoughts with the guy at the stool next to his, “He could’ve tied us up just now! Overeager. Wait for your pitch, Paul!”
Jack is so loud, Paul can probably hear him all the way over in Yankee Stadium. I watch O’Neill throw a fit in the dugout, punching a container of Gatorade and kicking at the discarded paper cups on the ground.
The Yanks and their fans are pretty serious about their baseball. Case in point, the season has barely begun, and this particular game is only in the second inning.
I take a bite out of my humongous slice as Jack orders another beer. His face is still reddened with anger and a muscle is clenching in his jaw.
“Jeez, Jack. I don’t think O’Neill popped up specifically to piss you off.”
Jack spits back, “I’m not so sure about that.”
The absurdity of that comment instantly defuses his anger and his face calms as he focuses his eyes on me. He smiles and shakes his head. “You think I’m bad now? Wait until playoff season.”
His hand covers mine and squeezes. “We should go to a game sometime. My father has season tickets. Box seats right on the third base line. Would you want to go?”
I am completely uncoordinated when it comes to organized sports, but I’ve always enjoyed watching other people play. “That would be great! I haven’t been to a game in years. My father took Vix and me a couple of times when we were little but I think he gave up when he saw that we were more interested in the snacks and souvenirs than watching the game. I always thought my father needed to have sons instead of daughters. He’s like, obsessed with sports.”
“That’s insane.”
I tip my head to the side. “Well, maybe obsessed is the wrong word...”
“No” Jack clarifies. “That you think your father would’ve rather had sons. Who needs boys? We’re loud. We fight all the time. There’s like a whole seven year stretch where we smell really bad.”
That has me chuckling before I find myself caught in a pensive stare.
Jack sees me ogling him and asks, “What are you thinking?”
“I was just picturing what your daughter would look like. I’m seeing an adorable little terror with gray eyes and a mop of black hair.”
“I’m actually picturing her with green eyes.” He looks unmistakably at me as he picks up my hand and brushes a soft kiss across my knuckles. “And brown hair.” He must see the look of panic on my face, because he quickly adds, “But I’m sure she’d still be a terror, though.”
That makes me laugh. “No doubt about it.”
Jack leaves a few dollars on the bar and slides the rest of the bills into his pocket. “All right then. Ready to hit the log flume?”
We chug down the rest of our drinks and cross over to the water rides. Thankfully, we have our own boat, so we don’t get too soaked on the thing. Usually, there’s at least one wiseguy who just loves to lean over the side for a handful of water to splash at the rest of the log occupants. Barring that nuisance, the flume is more of a floating roller coaster and less of a bathtub.
After the ride, we stop at the carousel house and Jack gets a cup of fries with vinegar. I only pick at a couple on our walk down to Midway. The huge slice at the bar is still sitting in my stomach and I know I have to find room for a cheesesteak. You just don’t come all the way down to the boardwalk and not get a cheesesteak from Midway.
Jack finishes his fries by the time we make it to the big green and yellow stand in the middle of the walkway. I watch the gargantuan yellow lemon slowly spinning on top of the structure as Jack orders up two sandwiches and lemonades. I grab a stack of napkins from the dispenser and we find a spot on one of the benches looking out toward the ocean. I have to stuff the pile under my leg while we eat to keep them from blowing away. It’s a beautiful, warm, sunny day, but there’s no escaping the strong breeze this close to the water. Thank God I brought a scrunchy to keep my hair out of my face while I eat. Cheez Whiz in the tresses isn’t really the coolest look.
<
br /> “Hey Jack. Say ‘scrunchy’.”
“What? Why?”
“Because I love hearing guys say stuff that they were never intended to say.”
You know, like Barbies or curling iron.
“Scrunchy.” He says it like he’s angry at the word, and it makes me snicker. Jack looks at me like I’m nuts.
“Now say ‘ballet slippers’.”
“No.”
“How about ‘Jordache jeans’?”
“No.”
By this point, I’m just about ready to lose it. “Okay, just say ‘Nellie Oleson’ and I’ll leave you alone.”
A wicked grin spreads across his face seconds before he hurls his sandwich wrapper into the garbage and comes at me in one quick motion. I jump up from the bench so abruptly that the movement manages to sploodge the contents of my cheesesteak almost completely out of the bread. Jack finds this predicament not only hysterical, but highly gratifying. I give him the stink eye as he sinks back down onto the bench.
I grab the scattered stack of napkins off the ground and swipe the food off the boards before the seagulls can attack and get everyone near us pissed off. Plus, I have to clean my forearm which is covered in grease, cheese, and bits of onion that had dripped out of the last of my sandwich during his attack. Attractive.
He kisses some cheese off the corner of my mouth. “Hey, finish that thing already. I want to hit The Zipper.”
Satisfied that I’ve cleaned myself off as well as possible, I take a last bite and throw the remaining heel of bread into the trash along with all our crap.
Jack holds my hand as we walk down to the Casino Pier. I love the smell of the boardwalk on a sunny, breezy day. It’s a mixture of rotting wood, salt air, and fried zeppole dough, which I promise you, smells a lot more appealing than it sounds.
When we get to the pier, the line at The Zipper isn’t too bad.
The ride itself is.
Let’s just say that after two beers, a slice of pizza, a couple fries, large lemonade, and a loaded cheesesteak, the last place you’d want to find yourself is upside-down and spinning. The ride doesn’t seem to bother Jack, but it’s all I can do not to lose the contents of my stomach over the longest three minutes of my life.
When the ride is over, Jack holds out his hand to me. “Hey Liv? You’re looking a little pale.”
“That’s funny, I would have sworn that I was green.”
Jack laughs. “Are you alright? Want some water?”
“Water would be great.”
Only actually puking would be more embarrassing. Who wants to date a girl who can’t handle a bumpy ride? I make a mental note to take Jack down to Great Adventure someday so I could prove my thrill-ride bravery. Rolling Thunder alone would accomplish my goal. The last time I was on that thing, I thought for sure the ancient wooden structure was going to fall down at any second taking Vix and me along with it. Instead, we’d walked away with our lives, albeit bruised and beaten because the rough ride had thrown us around like a couple of rag dolls. How that coaster hasn’t been condemned by now is beyond me.
As Jack leads me over to the nearest concession stand I say, “I’ve never had a problem on The Zipper before. I love that ride. It must have been all that food. How come you’re not sick?”
Jack pats his belly. “You gotta build up immunity to this sort of thing, baby.” He throws his arm around me in sympathy and asks the girl behind the counter for a bottle of water. And a chocolate chip cookie. And a double-sized, vanilla-orange soft swirl cone. Ugh.
Jack eats his dessert on our walk back down to the car and I start to feel less ill. We play a few wheels along our route whenever something interesting catches our eye. Thus far, we have amassed two CDs, a box of Snickers, and a stuffed, three-legged dog which Jack promptly named Grendel. We pit-stop at the arcade, play some Skeeball, and then step into the photo booth. Four minutes and a few stolen kisses later, I’m admiring the black and white strip of pictures at the entranceway to the confectionary while Jack buys a box of peanut brittle inside.
From a few yards away, I watch a group of girls nudge each other and nod in his direction as they walk by. By the time they near me, I can hear their muffled voices as they comment on ‘what a hottie’ Jack is.
I’m thinking I should probably be jealous, but actually what I’m feeling is proud. Jack barely registered the girls’ giggling, even though I know he had to have known what was going on. His non-reaction makes it clear that he’s here with me today, and that’s all that seems to matter to him at the moment.
I stand watching him from behind, seeing his tall form leaning against the counter and think that those girls have absolutely no idea how ‘hot’ he truly is. He’s not only beautiful, but charming and thoughtful, funny and intelligent. He’s the complete package. He’s everything a girl could want in a man. He’s everything I could want in a man.
An unfamiliar ache makes its way into my heart, a longing to put my arms around him and never let him go. I’ve never fallen in love before, but I’m starting to wonder if this is what it feels like. I’ve never had a stroke, either, but I imagine the symptoms are the same.
In any case, it’s scary as hell.
My heart starts hammering in my chest as I realize I am somewhere between simple attraction and the high that would come from freebasing ground unicorn hooves. Why isn’t there a word for that? That limbo stage between like and… something more? Whatever the unnamed emotion is, it’s what I’m feeling as I gaze at Jack.
And then he turns around and sees it practically written all over my face.
I don’t care. I don’t try to hide it. And instead of screaming and running away from me, I watch as a slow, satisfied smile spreads across his handsome features.
Back in the car, as Jack pulls out of the lot, we’re both uncharacteristically silent. I’m thinking about our fun day and how crazy I am about the man sitting next to me. After only three weeks, there’s no way I’m going to be crazy enough to actually say it out loud to him, however. Besides, I figure the expression he caught on my face a few minutes before is enough drama for one day.
Turns out, I couldn’t be more wrong about that.
CHAPTER 20
Friday night, June 16, 1995
11:00ish PM
The Osprey
Manasquan
Jack’s gig is happening right around the corner from our beach house. I brought my camera so I could take some shots of Thunderjug strutting their stuff onstage, so I’ve been separated from the girls for most of the time we’ve been here.
I had introduced them to the guys as they were setting up hours ago, and Isla didn’t waste any time adding Freddie, Booey, and Jim to her kissing tally. They were only trying to help.
But now Freddie is really playing it up, down on his knees at the edge of the stage, swinging his shoulder-length hair in Isla’s face. I can tell she’s trying not to crack up as I view her through my lens, and good sport that she is, grabs at his jean-clad legs to play along.
I snap a few more shots of Jimmy at his kit before swinging the camera over to Jack. He’s acting a little strangely, clearly trying not to give attention to something on the far end of the room.
Then I notice why.
I look across the club and see a beautiful, dark-haired girl shooting daggers at me from the bar. I’m trying to pretend I’m unaware of her staring, but her dirty looks are making me feel pretty uncomfortable. Jack too, apparently. I know I won’t even bother to ask him who it is, because I already know it has to be Sadie.
The band breaks soon after, and Jack doesn’t waste any time coming to my side. I hand him his water bottle and swing my camera over my shoulder, using the opportunity to sneak a peek at Sadie, still staring me down with those stiletto eyes.
She leans into her friend and says something that makes them both laugh. Crooking her mouth into an evil grin, she makes her way over to Jack and me. I try to look oblivious about it, wishing Vix or Tess or anyone was there next
to me for this instead of on the dance floor.
Sadie taps Jack on the shoulder, but I turn toward her the same time he does. She doesn’t even bother to look at me as she purrs, “Hey babe! I didn’t expect to see you here. My God, I can’t believe it’s been days since I talked to you!”
Days?
Jack offers an emotionless, “What’s up.”
She gives me the once-over before silently dismissing me and turning toward Jack, her back almost fully in my face. “So, listen. You know how I have that subscription to the Shubert on Broadway. They finally sent those tickets for us to see ‘Chicago’ next week. I was going to call you and see if we were still on.”
Jack takes a sip from his drink, his bored eyes never meeting hers as he answers, “No thanks, I’ve made other plans.” At that, he gives me a showy wink, purely for Sadie’s benefit.
Right on, baby.
Sadie huffs at that and answers casually, “Well, maybe next time.”
Again with the look.
“Oh- and you left your Soundgarden CD in my Miata the other night. It’s right outside if you want to come get it.”
I can’t help the snicker that escapes from my throat. This chick is something else.
She plants a hand on her hip at the sound, turns directly toward me, and asks, “Excuse me, but who are you?”
I can feel my hands clenching at my sides. I swear, if we were both guys, she would have gotten a faceful of my knuckles by now. I’m ready to inflict more pain on this chick than a clone army of Tonya Hardings in a baseball bat factory.
Instead, as the well-bred young lady that I am, I’ve learned to utilize a bit more tact when dealing with such situations. I manage a cool smile, slide a hand along Jack’s ass, and say, “I’m his official photographer.”
