by H. L. Logan
“Hey there, stranger.”
I turned and saw Alysia, the bartender, coming out of the bar. She wore a black zippered hoodie over her work clothes, and I thought about Kendra’s leather jacket. She looked so good in that jacket.
“Hi,” I said, pressing a smile onto my lips.
“So, my place or yours?”
“Mine is fine.”
“Cool. I was hoping you’d say that. Mine is a pigsty at the moment. Where’d you park?”
“The lot over there.”
“Me too.” She slipped her arm around mine. I felt nothing. “Let’s go.”
We started towards the lot, the glow of the street lamps casting yellow circles on the cracked sidewalk. A foul smell drifted up from somewhere, and I realized that someone had puked all over the wall. I gritted my teeth.
“So, what do you do, Mel?”
“I’m a programmer,” I said.
“Ooh, like with computers?”
“Cell phones, actually…”
“Uh huh. I overheard you two talking in there. You have your own company?”
“Yeah.” I didn’t feel like expanding. Or conversing at all, really.
“That’s so hot.” She leaned closer to me. I could smell her perfume—she’d applied way too much, and it was overpowering. “And different, for a woman.”
We walked into the parking lot, which was empty except for our two cars. Alysia unlocked her car, and I walked her over to it. She stopped at the driver’s door, and then turned around and pulled me into a kiss. Her perfume was really strong.
“You are so hot,” she said, and she grabbed the collar of my jacket and swung me around, pushing me against the car. She planted a messy kiss on my lips. “Fuck waiting for your place. Let’s fool around right here in the parking lot.”
My face twitched, and I suddenly felt repulsed. I thought of Kendra, and how I felt when she’d kissed me on the couch. How my heart had leapt so high, and how it felt like I never wanted to stop kissing her. You call that a hookup, Melany? Is that what it’s like to kiss just a girl? Someone who means nothing?
It made no sense, but it was obvious. She wasn’t like anyone I’d been with before. Kendra was different.
Alysia’s hands crept beneath my skirt and to tug at my underwear.
“You know what?” I said, grabbing her wrist. “This is a bad idea.”
She looked puzzled. “Too public? That’s fine, we can go...”
“No, I mean everything. Sorry. I have to go now.”
I walked away, feeling confused and embarrassed.
“Really? What did I do? Hey!”
I slammed the door of my car and roared out of the parking lot. I needed to meet Kendra again.
5
Kendra
Finally, after so many agonizing months, it felt like the storm clouds that had followed me everywhere were finally clearing. Things were finally going my way—I was drumming again. Sure, it wasn’t on a real drum set, but it was still drumming, and I was making money doing it. The street drumming didn’t carry the same stabbing anxiety that lessons did. It felt free and low-pressure. People didn’t care if the performance wasn’t perfect. They loved everything I did, flaws and all. And damn, did it feel amazing to perform for a crowd again.
Could I just be in the eye of the storm? Maybe, but it didn’t matter to me at that moment. The important thing was that I actually felt hopeful again. Things were working out.
And then there was Melany. I’d thought about her occasionally over the past week, and on the day after our fling I admit that I was hoping to see her again. When she didn’t show, it was a sharp reminder of my priorities, and what the whole thing was. One time.
I reminded myself that it was probably a natural thing to have her on my mind—after all, she’d been the first since Max. Of course I’d think about the first person I’d been intimate with in nearly a year.
Yesterday, my manager had called a staff meeting and told us that the owner of the restaurant was going to be coming in over the week to check up on things. Apparently, there’d be a chance for some of us to receive more hours, so we all needed to perform at our best. From the way that he’d broken the news to us—quickly and eager to retreat back into his office—I read into it as “some of you may end up being fired.” Still, I wasn’t deterred. I could be on my game.
I gathered up my street kit and prepped to hit the Riverwalk for the day. Monica slumped in her usual spot on the couch, her mouth slack-jawed.
“I’m going drumming,” I said.
She made a grunt of acknowledgement.
As I went towards the front door, the specter of my sheet-draped drum kit stood out in the corner of my eye. I paused, and then set my bag onto the floor. I walked over to the kit, my chest tight, and gripped the edge of the fabric. Then I inhaled and pulled it off.
My heart pounded, and I stood face to face with my kit. Its chrome glistened, and the golden waves of its cymbals winked in the morning light. My heart thudding against my chest, I reached out to touch it.
My fingers rested on the cool metal. Then I came around to the stool and took a seat behind the kit. My palms were sweating. I looked up and saw that Monica had stopped paying attention to her game and was watching me.
“Are you going to play?” she asked.
I swallowed and shook my head. This was great progress, but I still felt the anxiety standing in my way like a gigantic brick wall. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. There was still a fist around my heart, and I couldn’t pry it off. But at least it was loosening, just a little bit.
“No,” I said. I covered the set back up and picked up my pack. “Not today. See you later, Monica.”
She shrugged and went back to the game.
It was a beautiful day. The weather was getting much warmer, and summer was definitely here. It was my first Saturday playing at the Riverwalk, and it was bustling with people. My usual spot was occupied by a juggler, so I walked a bit and found a good spot directly across from the Indian restaurant I’d gone to with Melany. I set up my kit, which I’d expanded and refined since my first day playing, and did a few warmups. A small audience started to gather, and once I was satisfied that I’d gotten enough ears tuned, I started to play.
The first day out, I’d just kind of played. Any beat that came to my mind, I went with. It was like clearing off the cobwebs and knocking off the rust. After that, I started thinking about what kind of things would draw people in. After a couple days of experimentation, I learned that bigger crowds were attracted to full beats you could easily dance to, rather than impressive speed drumming. I’d looked up some popular EDM and techno songs, and searched for more pieces for my makeshift kit that could stand in for a variety of electronic drum beat sounds, and focused my performances around making up my own techno style street songs.
It was the kind of music that was looked down upon by the professors at Beasley, and the kind of style that students might’ve made on their laptops in their dorms but never brought in to the rigorous, conservatory style classrooms of the music department. I’d never done any beat-making on the computer before, nor had I really been interested in electronic dance music, so it was a nice surprise to find out how fun it was to do. It was simple, and that was exactly what I needed.
A crowd gathered quickly. Two young guys came up and asked if I could throw down a rap beat, so I did, and they performed a freestyle rap with me. After that, I went back to the dance beats, and a few kids hopped around enjoying the music. My tip jar was filling up. I’d been making pretty decent money—it wasn’t anything near what I would make in tips on a busy night at the restaurant, but it was definitely a relief to have a second source of income. And if I was able to get my hours up after this inspection, then things would be good again.
I had my eyes closed—a habit of mine when I really started to find the groove. I could feel the beat vibrating through my body, projecting out through my hands into my kit and ricocheting back through
me in turn. I’d quickly come to love the roughness of street drumming, and the lack of precision. It was all improvisation—my senses were tuned to feel out the imperfections of my instruments and make them work to my level. I had the kit spread around me in a circle and had memorized the positions of each piece, shuffling and turning around on my butt to reach them all.
Suddenly, I caught something in the air that made my eyes snap open.
Her perfume.
It was faint and vanished in a second, but it was there. Distracted, I skipped a beat in the tempo and had to stop for a moment and start over. My head swiveled, looking around for the source, and then I saw her. She stood on the edge of the crowd, in a short black skirt, black blazer and white button up, a Louis Vuitton handbag hanging off her shoulder and her hair framed by a black, large brimmed felt hat. She looked like such a yuppie fashionista. I couldn’t help but smile.
Melany caught my glance and smiled back, giving me a little wave. I spun my drum stick in the air in a little move of private recognition, and then wound down the song. The audience applauded and whistled, people dropped cash into my jar, and Melany pushed forward through the crowd. My heart started to beat a little faster.
She pulled out what looked like a fifty from her wallet and dropped it into my jar.
“Not from you,” I said, returning it to her. “Though I’m flattered.”
“You were awesome. What’s wrong with me giving you a tip?”
I shrugged. “Just… feels weird.” Because we did it?
“We’re friends, right? Don’t feel bad about getting a tip from a friend.”
I smiled. “Really, Melany. Thank you, but I can’t accept it from you.” Are we friends? What do you call a one night stand you just met? I suddenly started to feel awkward and anxious. “Thanks for stopping, though. It’s, um, it’s good to see you again.” I moved to sit back down.
“I came by the other day, but you weren’t here,” she said.
“Oh, really?” I tried to play it off, but I felt oddly pleased to hear she had come by before after all. “I was probably at work.”
“Since you won’t let me give you a tip, how about you let me take you out to dinner? And we could go to this…” She pulled out a small rectangle of paper out of her bag and handed it to me. It was a flier for an art show at the Shadetree Art Collective. I’d heard of it before. It was a place founded by one of the professors at Beasley, and a popular spot amongst the arts and music majors at the university. I’d been told it was a good place to mingle and make professional connections.
“Melany,” I said quietly—the crowd was still around waiting for me to play, but I noticed people were starting to leave. “I thought it was clear that was a one-time thing.” The anxious, tight feeling was growing. I didn’t want to have this conversation in public, and I didn’t want to lose my audience.
“Well, I thought so too. But I realized that I needed to see you again. So, maybe we can start over. Just a friendly date, that’s it. No expectations.”
I chewed my lip. A million thoughts were rushing through my head, and most of them were negative. Melany was amazing, and I couldn’t deny the chemistry I’d felt with her during our night together. On the surface, she seemed like she’d be prissy and stuck up, but she was the complete opposite. She was a total sweetheart, she was interesting, she had amazing taste in music… But then again, Max had also been those things. His true colors hadn’t shown until later.
You’re gonna get fucked again, and not in the good way. Don’t do it.
And yet, I felt something that I thought would be gone from my life forever—longing. I would’ve liked to go out with Melany again and get to know her better, to see where things would go… But I just couldn’t get past the warning alarms. I’d learned my lesson. I couldn’t bear to go through that hurt again. The wound in my heart was still fresh and gaping.
“It was a one-time thing, Melany.”
“Kendra…”
“I should to get back to my performance. My audience is leaving.” I held the flier out to her.
“Keep it,” she said. Her gray eyes flashed over mine, and I could see the disappointment in them. “In case you change your mind. I’ll be there.”
“Okay,” I said. I put the piece of the paper into my pocket and sat back down on the ground, averting my gaze as she left. She was just a one night stand. I don’t even really know her.
So why do I feel so stupid about this decision?
I drew in a quick breath, raised my sticks, and then let everything out into my beat.
When I got to work that afternoon after my time at the Riverwalk, Patti, one of my co-workers, pulled me aside in the employee break room as I was putting my backpack away in a locker.
“He’s here,” Patti hissed.
“Who?”
“Brandon Miyaguchi.”
“Who’s that?”
“The owner, dummy. He’s doing his inspection today.”
I nodded, but in truth I was only half-listening. I’d been distracted the entire day since Melany had re-inserted herself into my life. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. The two sides of my mind were fighting over how I felt about the whole thing.
She’s just a stranger, and it’s time to forget about her. You’re feeling weird because she was the first person you’ve been with since Max, but that’s it. Follow through and she’s bound to hurt you.
And yet, it felt like I wanted her image to come into my mind. I kept fighting the thoughts but they returned, carrying warm excitement with them. When I went out to start my shift, my thoughts were bouncing between daydreaming about her and berating myself over feeling anything for her.
“I’ll have the Melany ramen, with extra Melany, please.”
I stared slack-jawed at the lady, my pad and pen in hand. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You wanted the…?”
“The maximum miso ramen, with an extra side of chashu.” She held up the menu and pointed to it.
“Oh, right. Will that be everything?”
“Do you guys do crab Crawfords here?” her husband asked.
I blinked. “Pardon?”
“Crab. Croquette. Crab croquette. Do you have them?” He gave me an incredulous look.
“Yes, sir,” I said quickly. “We do have an excellent creamy Crawford—I mean, croquette. Would you like one?”
“Okay. One of those, and please, if you could tell me about your toro tuna sushi? Where is that sourced?”
“Um.” Huh?
Suddenly, I heard a George Benson song start playing on the restaurant’s radio, sending my thoughts flashing back to Melany’s apartment. If I focused hard enough, I could recall the taste of her lips on mine, the feeling of her hands on my body… I remembered the way I felt walking the Riverwalk with her—how comfortable and open I was.
The man stared at me. Sourced. I’d known this. All the servers were trained to know where our fish was caught, what kind of drinks paired well with them, and all sorts of other random information, but right now I just couldn’t bring any of that to mind.
“Well, it’s… fresh caught… uh, today. From the Atlantic Ocean. Very fresh, very good stuff. Would you like to order a plate of it?”
He cleared his throat, not looking impressed. “No, thank you. That will be all.”
“Thank you,” I said, and headed back to the kitchen to drop off the orders.
Fuck, I need to concentrate.
I stuffed my hand into my pocket to check my cell phone for the time, and my fingers brushed against a piece of paper. The flier. I pulled it out and looked over it.
“Art, live music, and drinks,” it said. “Celebrate this year’s class of Beasley illustrators.”
It started an hour before I got off work. I could go, if I wanted to.
If I wanted to.
But I didn’t.
Right?
“Order,” I said, and handed off my order sheet to Preston, that night’s head cook.
“How wa
s Miyaguchi?” he asked. “Heard he’s intense.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I must’ve missed him.”
“The hell are you talking about?” He waved the sheet in front of me. “This is his order, ain’t it?”
My heart tumbled out of my ribcage and dropped all the way down to my feet. “What?” I spun around and saw the man I’d just served saying something to his wife while scribbling in a little notebook. She nodded and looked over my way. I clenched up and quickly looked back at Preston. “That’s Brandon Miyaguchi?”
