Alligators in the Trees

by Cynthia Hamilton

  Priscilla didn’t have the heart to remind her that her track record wasn’t anything to gloat over. She couldn’t understand how Rochelle could work up the nerve to face her fruitless pursuit of love, or even any reasonable facsimile thereof, night after disappointing night. The main difference between the two of them was Rochelle believed a man could solve all her problems, while Priscilla knew that men could only add to hers.

  She was trying to think of a nice way to say this, when a door in the alley opened with a burst of music and garbled voices. A figure emerged, walking toward them.

  “Matthew!” Rochelle exclaimed, catching the man off guard. He slowed and eyed both women cautiously.

  “Do I know you?” he asked, eyeing them both.

  “We met the other night…me and my friend Darlene came in last Tuesday for cocktails…you waited on us,” she said, attempting to jog his memory. Matthew shook his head regretfully.

  “We get so many people in here,” he said apologetically.

  “Remember, you told us where the cocktail was invented, and that a man named Harold Ramos—or was it Henry Ramos—created the Gin Fizz…?” Rochelle’s longing to be remembered was becoming acutely embarrassing to Priscilla. Fortunately, the bartender came to her rescue.

  “Oh yeah… I remember now. Sure. Didn’t recognize you without your drink,” he said with a feeble laugh. Rochelle laughed inordinately, as if it were the wittiest thing she’d ever heard. “You ladies been having a good time this evening?” he asked, turning his attention to Priscilla.

  “Yeah, we’ve only been here for a little while. We couldn’t find a seat at the bar, so we had to sit a table,” Rochelle explained. “This is my friend, Sammy…Priscilla. This is Matthew, the nicest bartender in Manhattan,” she crooned sweetly enough to make Priscilla wince.

  “You have two names?” Matthew asked, ignoring Rochelle’s compliment entirely.

  “At least.”

  “Which one do you prefer—Sammy or Priscilla?”

  “I guess it doesn’t matter,” Priscilla said noncommittally, uncomfortable with the vibe he was giving her.

  “Are you on your break now?” Rochelle asked, trying to get the conversation back in her court.

  “Uh…no. I’m off now.”

  “So early? That’s great.”

  “I work the happy hour shift on Fridays, which is why I get off at ten-thirty.”

  “Well, now that you’re off duty, why don’t you join us for a drink?” Rochelle asked hopefully. Matthew turned to Priscilla for encouragement.

  “I’m going home,” she said, taking herself out of the equation.

  “Thanks, but I need to head home, too. I’m working a double shift tomorrow at my other job,” Matthew conveniently remembered.

  “Aw, that’s too bad,” Rochelle said, her pout so pronounced, Priscilla feared she might actually shed a tear.

  “Anyway, it was nice to see you again. Stop by sometime soon and I’ll buy you ladies a drink,” he said gallantly enough to raise Rochelle’s hopes. After giving Priscilla a look she couldn’t quite interpret, he continued on his way.

  “Isn’t he a doll?” Rochelle squealed, as soon as the bartender had vanished from sight.

  “You better get inside. You’re not wearing much,” Priscilla warned her.

  “You’re right, Sammy,” Rochelle answered distractedly, her mind clearly on other matters.

  “Okay, see you later.” Priscilla was halfway down the block before she heard Rochelle call out to her.

  “’Night, Sammy. It was fun. We’ll do it again real soon.”

  “Like hell we will,” Priscilla muttered under her breath, as she waved back, smiling. She was contemplating hailing a cab instead of riding the subway with all the late night cretins, when a man came out of nowhere, making her raise her bag defensively.

  “Hey—friendly fire!” Matthew called out.

  “Jesus Christ! You scared the crap out of me,” Priscilla said, hand to her chest to slow her heartbeat.

  “I’d hate to be the mugger dumb enough to take you on,” he said, coming away from the wall, obviously as startled as she was.

  “I didn’t expect to find anyone lurking in the shadows,” Priscilla said, his actions giving her pause.

  “Actually, I wasn’t lurking, as you put it. It occurred to me you’d be out here on the streets by yourself, and it seemed only decent to escort you to wherever you’re going,” Matthew replied.

  Priscilla gave him a sidelong glance, as if she found it hard to believe there was such a chivalrous man left in the city, aside from Phil. Still wary, she fell into step with him, her mind calculating the probability of his intentions being as altruistic as he claimed.

  “So…where’re you headed?” he asked, as they approached the corner.

  “Home. Hester, between Essex and Ludlow. South of Delancey.” She watched as he processed this information. Priscilla couldn’t help but smile.

  “You’ve got a ways to go,” he said, slowing, as if he hadn’t counted on that kind of distance. “You’re not planning to walk the whole way, are you?”

  “I hadn’t decided yet.” They walked on in silence, past a few nightspots in full swing. “Where do you live?” she asked.

  “The Village, off Christopher.”

  “Not as far, but still pretty far,” she said, figuring her apartment was twice as far as his. “You planning on walking the whole way?”

  “Haven’t decided yet.” When he smiled, Priscilla got a glimpse of what had made Rochelle so gaga over him. His grin was undoubtedly his secret weapon, likely used to disarm females on a regular basis.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in NYCE before,” he said.

  “No—not my kind of place.”

  “Yeah, mine neither. It’s an okay place to work. Good tips.” Priscilla checked the street sign as they crossed the intersection. They’d only walked four blocks and her feet were already plotting a mutiny. As if sensing her discomfort, Matthew took stock of her footwear.

  “I don’t think you’re going to make it all the way to Delancey Street in those,” he said. “We could share a cab…or…we could stop somewhere for drink…or a cup of coffee…give your feet time to rest,” he suggested.

  “Sure, and if we stop to rest every five or six blocks, we might reach my place by Monday,” she quipped.

  Only slightly deterred, Matthew considered other options. “Well, we could do a combination of measures. We could stop at this quiet bar up the street, have a cocktail, then, if you still feel like torturing your feet, we could walk some more, maybe stop for a coffee, then catch a cab… you see the idea?”

  Priscilla tried to constrict her smile, but couldn’t. “I thought you had to work a double tomorrow,” she reminded him.

  “Tomorrow’s…?”

  “Saturday,” Priscilla supplied.

  “Oh, so today’s Friday.”

  “You’re getting the idea.”

  “I work a double on Fridays, and I have Saturdays off. That’s right—I worked a double today,” he said, as if surprised by this revelation.

  “You told my friend you worked a double at your other job tomorrow,” Priscilla pointed out.

  “Oh, I must’ve misspoken. I worked at my other job today.”

  “I see,” Priscilla said knowingly. “I’m getting the impression misspeaking might be a chronic condition with you.”

  Matthew feigned offense. “It was a slip of the tongue, I swear. I lose track of time when I work too much.”

  His earnestness made Priscilla laugh. “Yeah, I bet.”

  “Look,” Matthew said, trying a different approach, “I’m sorry if it offends you, but your friend Rachel—”

  “Rochelle.”

  “Whatever her name is, she’s not my type. I try to be nice to everyone at the club, but I’m sure you know how it is to be hit on all the time. Some people you just have to blow off. Hey, I try to be nice about it.”

  “Don’t worry, you’re n
ot hurting my feelings. Rochelle would be crushed, but I can’t say she’s my type, either.”

  “Does that mean you two aren’t bosom-buddies?”

  “Hardly. I used to work with her and another girl years ago. But I can’t say that we’ve stayed very close.”

  “Ah…so, there wouldn’t be any conflict in me asking you out for a drink. Is that right?” Matthew asked.

  “It wouldn’t be the reason I turned you down,” Priscilla answered evasively.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you saying that you don’t want to have a drink with me?” Priscilla hemmed and hawed, enjoying his moment of insecurity, surely a novelty for a guy like him. Priscilla stopped and studied his face in the glow of the streetlight.

  “All right, one drink,” she relented, knowing as well as he did what she was agreeing to. Matthew grinned and motioned to a nightclub just up the street.

  Oh, what the hell, Priscilla thought fatalistically, as they entered the club. Rochelle had been right about one thing: she had gone a long time between men.

  Nine

  “So this is your master plan

  Funny, I don’t recognize it

  I recall a grander vision

  Yet somehow it never fit

  Gone are those grand ideals

  Cherished emblems of conceit

  Were they too heavy to shoulder?

  Or just too hollow to repeat?

  What is your life now but static illusions?

  Where’s the challenge now you’ve reached your conclusions?

  How can you honestly tell me you’re living a life

  All you’ve really achieved is the absence of strife

  Don’t you remember how it feels?

  Don’t you remember how it feels?

  Don’t you remember when you had blood coursing through your veins?

  When possibility stirred your heart and doubts triggered your brain

  Now you’re satisfied with complacency and proud to say you’re sane

  Though your luxury is your shackle and your privilege is your chain

  Don’t you remember how it feels?”

  Tobias leaned away from the mike and switched from playing the keyboard to backing Brody’s bass guitar with synthesized drums. They just about had this song in the bag now, after spending a total of thirty hours on writing, revising and fine-tuning. They would have enough preserved on tape to arrange and rehearse from. It would serve as their blueprint, the structure and essence of the song, from which they could choose other musicians and singers to accompany them.

  It was not their style to go into the recording session with every note and nuance set in stone. For them, the only way to keep the work fresh was to add something new to it after letting it gel. Brody executed a long, writhing riff, embellishing the melody as only a guitarist of his standing could, taking the number to an entirely different level. Tobias added in a few bars of piano as Brody trailed off, and another signature song was born.

  Both men paid close attention as they played back the culmination of three days of intense labor. They were mentally and physically spent, but they were pleased with the results. It wasn’t the easiest piece they’d ever written, but it wasn’t the hardest one, either. Brody was happy to work round the clock on anything that had Tobias so fired up. After a decade of estrangement, this song was proof they had not lost their unique collaborative gift for songwriting.

  Tobias fiddled with Brody’s gadgetry and mixed in two previously recorded tracks. They listened again, hearing the piece with all the instrumentation for the first time. They played it through once, then Tobias restarted it and ran through it again. He stopped the recording in several places while he scribbled notes to himself.

  Brody freed himself of his bass and stretched mightily, the long hours of bending over his instruments having taken its toll. He twisted his torso to one side then the other, eliciting a series of loud pops and crackles. He watched Tobias for another minute or two, then left the studio to check on the ladies. He found them out on the deck chairs, flipping through magazines while they gossiped and sipped champagne. For Brody, it was one of the sights that made life worth living.

  When Tobias had appeared at his door three days earlier, Brody worried he had fallen into his old self-destructive habits. He had been wearing the same clothes, and it was obvious he hadn’t been to sleep yet. But to Brody’s his relief, Tobias didn’t seem strung out, merely preoccupied. He had the makings of another song in his head, and he was chomping at the bit to get into the studio before he lost his grip on it. Brody was only too happy to oblige, skipping his morning trip to the gym in order to accommodate him.

  He was also highly encouraged when Tobias suggested a spur of the moment shift of venues, asking if they could head out to Brody’s place in the Berkshires for a more intensive collaboration. After Tobias’s earlier reticence at having Roberta around, Brody was happy when he made no objections to having her come along with them.

  Unlike Tobias, Brody worked better when he had feminine encouragements and comforts close at hand. He was more than little surprised when Tobias came to him on the second day and asked if he could have “his girl” out to join them. Since Simone’s arrival, the four of them had fallen into the same domestic routine the guys had shared for the better part of two decades—concentrated doses of creative brainstorming mixed with the stirring vibes of female nearness, what Tobias referred to as “cosmic purring.”

  By the time Tobias staggered out onto the deck, the late afternoon sun had disappeared behind a screen of clouds, promising a spectacular sunset. With witnessing that in mind, Brody had stationed himself near the kitchen window where he had begun to assemble a barbeque feast.

  Music was playing at party level and the merriment barometer had risen to an almost annoying height. Roberta and Simone were dancing together as if they were born to entertain their men like Scheherazade. When Brody caught sight of Tobias, he came out to greet him with an ice-cold beer and a joint. Tobias waved the latter away.

  “You look like a train derailment, man,” Brody commented as he squinted through the smoke. Tobias pressed the back of his hands against his eyes, feeling as though he had aged five years in the last few days.

  “Go have a shower—it helped me.”

  Tobias took a long swig of beer, and with all the effort he could summon, raised himself off the chaise. “Hey, before you go, would you mind bringing the demo out here? I promised Robbie she could hear it when we were done.”

  The request didn’t sit well with Tobias, who never liked to share works in progress. In his mind, that meant no one—outside of the musicians, producers and studio arrangers—could hear anything until it hit the airwaves.

  Not only did it rankle him that Brody wanted to share their unfinished work with his girlfriend, but if she was going to hear it, there was no way to keep Simone from hearing. Tobias shot his partner a penetrating look, angry enough to dampen the festivities a notch. After all their history together, Brody knew better than to ask a thing like that.

  “C’mon, man—you don’t have to be like that. They just want to hear what we’ve been bashing our brains out over for the last three days. We at least owe them that. It’s not like they’re spies or anything.” Tobias drained the rest of his beer and handed the bottle to Brody, his expression hard and unrelenting. “What am I supposed to tell them?” Brody asked with exasperation.

  Tobias shrugged. “I don’t care what you tell them. If we’re going to have the same level of collaboration we’ve had in the past, then we’re going to have to show respect for each other’s creative taboos. No one listens to our work until it’s finished—completely finished,” he said in a voice just above a whisper. He looked back at the girls, performing for each other in blissful ignorance. He glared at Brody before skulking off to bathe his tired bones.

  Later that evening, after the feast and several bottles of wine, after the mind-numbing effects of listening to Roberta and Simone prattle
on with stoned abandon, Tobias had reached a moment of clarity where he had the sudden and overwhelming desire to be free of that scene.

  The amount of effort it took to wrench a song out of his mind and soul surely warranted a different form of reward, like solitude, or at least reverential silence. His psyche had reached the saturation point and what had seemed like a good idea now made him feel completely claustrophobic.

  Having Simone around for a couple of days had relieved some of his physical needs, but the benefits no longer seemed more vital than they were distracting. Stretched out there on the massive sofas with the other three had him craving a night like the one when he had wandered the streets until after dawn, off everyone’s radar, free to do anything or go anywhere. It had been one of the most liberating experiences he’d had in years, and all he could think about was getting back there, back to a state of consciousness free of all distraction.

  His talent almost demanded he get back in the frame of mind that had spawned the best song he had written in over a decade. If he stayed in this hedonistic den of quasi-domesticity, he’d stifle his creativity for certain. He was definitely making inroads, but he wasn’t where he wanted to be yet.

  With his plan for the preservation of his sanity sorted out, Tobias begged off early, catching a few hours of much-needed sleep, getting up after the others had finally slunk off to bed. Stealthily, he packed the few belongings he had brought along, arranged for a car to come and collect him at six a.m., and repaired to the studio for a few hours of solitary work before leaving.

  When the car arrived, Tobias scribbled a quick note to Brody, telling him he had some business to attend to, and left car fare for Simone, should she wish to leave before her host and hostess did. He knew what their reaction to his hasty retreat would be, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He knew better than to try to explain his need for privacy and solitude. It would only generate persuasive arguments, injured feelings, or grudging disapproval. The single most important consideration was safeguarding his newly recovered talent. If that meant alternately dodging his partner, his wife and his girlfriend, so be it.