by Ashley Pullo
The Refrain
{The Bridge Series}
By Ashley Pullo
The Refrain
By Ashley Pullo
. . . . . . .
Copyright © 2014 by Ashley Pullo
Cover Design © Nick Fantini
eBook and print formatting by Erika Q. Stokes
Olive You and The Ballad
Lyrics written by Ceilidhe Wynn
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior consent from the publisher, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet without the publisher’s permission and is a violation of the International copyright law, which subjects the violator to severe fines and imprisonment.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, incidents and places are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead or actual events are entirely coincidental.
To Luke and Sydney
“A tree I’ll grow, to let you know,
my love is older than my soul.”
~The Lone Bellow
Contents
The Refrain: The Soundtrack
Zacherie Parker aka Frenchy LaFoutre
The Verse
Adam Ford
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Varick Lounge
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Natalie
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Le Salut
Six
Chloe
A Navy Christmas
Almost
Say Everything
Christopher Brooks
Chapter One
Chapter Two
One Plus One Plus One
Chapter Three
The Chorus
July 2004
July 2006
July 2008
July 2010
July 2012
One Year Later . . .
The Prelude
July 1913
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Refrain: The Soundtrack
Apache, The Sugarhill Gang
Bastards of Young, The Replacements
Tyler, Toadies
Skyway, The Replacements
Creep, Radiohead
Dreams, The Cranberries
Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien, Edith Piaf
Fade Into You, Mazzy Star
River, Joni Mitchell
New Slang, The Shins
In Your Eyes, Peter Gabriel
No Woman No Cry, Bob Marley and The Wailers
Designs on You, Old ’97s
Can’t Help Falling in Love, Elvis Presley
Stubborn Love, The Lumineers
Tree to Grow, The Lone Bellow
Zacherie Parker
aka Frenchy LaFoutre
Sigma Chi Pledge Class ’94
July 4, 1996
Evanston, Illinois
IT’S FUCKING HOT. If I were a Texas boy like my roommate, I would whistle and spit and say something charming like: phew boy, it’s so hot I could yank a baked tater from the ground. But I’m not – I’m a French-American from Greenwich, Connecticut, and we say things like: mon dieu it’s stifling . . . let’s resign to the patio for some refreshments.
I do have an image to uphold.
“Shit bro, can it get any hotter?” I remove my t-shirt and tie it around my head like a turban.
Ace looks up at the sky and laughs. “It’s only seven thirty.” He turns his cap backward and pretends to wipe his brow. “Man, this is nothin’. Try running bleachers in August – in Texas – in football pads.”
My five brothers and I have spent the last week repairing and roofing a nursing home outside of Chicago. Community service is the final segment of our six-week leadership conference, and we would’ve finished yesterday, but Piggy knocked over our last pail of tar. Roof work sucks, but everything else about Evanston kicks ass, and I’m actually a little sad to leave. I could live here – it’s like a wet dream filled with John Hughes movies, and rumor has it, Molly Ringwald is waitressing at the diner around the corner . . .
“Yo, Frenchy. Hot nurses.” Sloth puts his tar-encrusted fingers in his mouth and whistles.
The rest of us stop and wave to the group of middle-aged women. The nurses giggle and wave back, and the oldest one, Norma I think, blows me a kiss. I return her attention with a whistle while the other guys catcall and slap their palms against the roof. “Looking good boys,” the nurses shout. It’s all for fun, and the ladies seem to find humor in our daily audacious banter.
Beaker leans back and stretches his arm as far as he can. “Frenchy, pass me a box of nails.”
I dig in one of the pockets of my cargo shorts and find a spare box of nails for my brother. “Here. Last box.”
We’re not actually brothers, but a six-person team from different Sigma Chi chapters. We come from diverse backgrounds and different schools, but we share a common plague of uncreative pledge names. Brother Beaker is pre-med from Tulane . . . Brother Sloth is a junior and president of his chapter at UCF . . . Brother Skunk is a baseball player from Oklahoma University and Brother Piggy is a fat bastard from Virginia Tech. Brother Ace is my roommate and a political science major from UT Austin. He comes from a long line of state lobbyists – the types that oppose medical research conducted at Parker Pharmaceuticals. But I like Ace, and we both have things in our lives we’re not proud of.
Ace wipes his brow and drawls, “After supper we should head into Chicago.” He currently holds the record for bagging the most Chicago ass. He’s not a player, as he tells every girl upfront that he’s only here for a few weeks, but that rarely seems to matter.
The sun is stinging my back so I change directions to alleviate some of the heat, but now, we’re ass-to-ass on the narrow eave. I glance over at Beaker and Sloth simulating a sex act, because apparently, they find our position hilarious.
“What’s the latest tally?” I ask under the noise of my nail gun.
“Shoot, I don’t take inventory, Frenchy. Are you still dyin’ to know my secret weapon?”
“Uh, no you fucker. I do fine with the ladies.”
“You mean that frou-frou shit no one can understand?”
I give Sloth the finger while smoothing out the tar for the flat roof. “I have several techniques, jackass. I only use the French stuff when I know she’ll be impressed. So what’s your game?”
Amused, Ace answers, “I knew it.” He puts down his nail gun and sits on our toolbox, reaching for the bottle of water.
“Knew what?” I smirk.
“You think I have a pickup line. I mean, I do, but it’s all ’bout the timing, brother.” Ace pats my shoulder and laughs. “How ’bout this – I give you my magic line and you teach me some of your frog-talk? Then we’ll know if it’s the method or the man.”
I take a swig of the water and laugh. “Let me get this straight, you, the Lyle Lovett of Sigma Chi, want to speak French to an unassuming girl?”
“Lyle Lovett? Shit, that’s what you think of me?”
“I don’t know many Texans,” I answer.
Annoyed, Ace sighs. “But Lyle Lovett? There’s Willie Nelson, J.R. Ewing, Troy Aikman – well, he’s from Oklahoma but still a Texan. Damn, does Matthew Mc
Conaughey ring a bell, ya stupid Yankee?”
“Fine, whatever. The Matthew McConaughey of Sigma Chi wants to speak French.” This could be a fun experiment and I’m curious to know what he says to make girls jump into his bed. “All right. I’ll give you some phrases in exchange for your golden gift of charm – so what is it anyway?”
“Patience darlin’, patience. Timing is everything.”
BEAKER IS THE only brother that brought a car to Evanston, and not just a car – it’s a fucking jacked-up Tahoe. The six of us pile into the leather interior that even the darkest tints can’t seem to keep cool. Fuck, it’s hot.
“Here’s the address.” Piggy waves a Taco Bell wrapper while fiddling with the radio.
“Turn up the radio,” Sloth demands. “Chumbawumba.” Sloth punches Ace in the arm a dozen times while mumbling along to the unrecognizable lyrics.
Beaker shakes his head and sings in a high-pitched voice. “Chumbawumba sucks balls. So what’s the plan? It’s the Fourth, and Chicago is going to be lit.”
“Fieldtrip buddy.” Skunk rolls down the window and lights a cigarette. “Seriously, don’t we all know how to call a cab if we get separated?”
Pissed, Beaker reaches back and punches Skunk’s knee. “No smoking in the ’hoe, disphit.” He turns back to the wheel just in time to avoid a massive orange cone with an American flag.
I slap Piggy’s back and laugh. “Piggy, we’ll give you a note to pin on your shirt – if lost, please return to Sigma Chi.”
“Ha ha, you asshole. That was only the one time . . . and might I add that I sucked face with a very hot female,” Piggy boasts.
The car erupts in howls of laughter – all directed at Piggy’s recollection of a hot female. Our first week here, we made it to some dive bar that has a reputation to overlook fake IDs. The dingy pub was filled to capacity with crusty old dudes drinking crappy beer and playing bingo. But the minute the bar tramps started to approach us, we hightailed it out of there so fast . . .
Ace leans forward and yells into Piggy’s ear. “She was like sixty, you moron. Beer goggles or not, she was wearing slippers.”
“Piggy, we left your ass. That was disgusting and an embarrassment to the brotherhood of Sigma Chi,” Skunk says flatly.
Beaker makes a sharp left onto a gravel road, causing the SUV’s wheels to announce our arrival. There’s a line of cars waiting to enter a parking lot hidden by trees. Some jerks in reflective orange vests are waving our car over and holding a sign that says:
$15 Parking
No Drugs Allowed
“Holy shit, it’s packed. Give me money,” Beaker demands. We fork over a few bucks and direct him to a spot near a dumpster, hopefully a place we can all remember.
Just across the lake is Chicago’s Navy Pier – the liquid playground of the Midwest. We survived a pub crawl a few weeks ago and goddamn, the chicks were outrageous – not at all like the snobby socialites in Connecticut. It was six hours of non-stop drinking and pushing our way through crowds of people and doing really stupid stuff, but nothing could’ve prepared us for the mob of drunks congregating in this abandoned lot.
All around us, people are setting up lawn chairs and arranging mini bars. Cases of beer and ice chests are being dragged from vehicles and several kegs are being transported by a small forklift to the center of the parking lot. Fifty yards in front of us, the outer edge of Lake Michigan is gearing up for the fireworks, and I can faintly see the lights of Grant Park through the smoky haze. Somehow, we stumbled upon the premium Fourth of July location – and we’re about to party it up with Chicago natives.
I check to make sure my beeper is in my pocket as we file out of the Tahoe. Piggy stretches his arms and looks around. “Well, aren’t we a bunch of lucky fucks.”
“God bless America.” Skunk lights a cigarette dangling between his lips. “God bless America.” He roars, beating his chest.
In unison, strangers return the sentiment by raising cups and toasting our magnificent country. “God bless America.”
“How ’bout it, Frenchy?” Ace nudges my arm and points discreetly to a group of girls.
“Really, you’re still serious?”
Ace nods confidently while putting his arm around Beaker. “Hey bro, gimme the keys. I’ll selflessly be the DD tonight,” he drawls. That’s the thing with good ole Ace – every sentence takes him twice as long as a normal speaker. And the thought of him speaking French with that accent is just something I need to see.
Skunk bumps into me, making a mad dash to the kegs. “Beer – now,” he grunts. Beaker follows immediately behind him with his own personalized flask and a bag of weed.
I take out my tin of Altoids and pop a few in my mouth. “Let’s do it. Do you remember the phrase I taught you?” The French jargon I gave him sounds nice, but it means something completely ridiculous. This should be fun . . .
“I got it. Les étoilesdansent comme des singes dans l’océan et le beurre . . . blah blah blah. Now, watch and learn.”
Piggy and Sloth wander around the parking lot in search of beer and girls, while Ace and I approach the girls sitting in a circle of lawn chairs. They whisper and giggle as we stand goofily with our hands in our pockets, waiting for inclusion. Ace murmurs something under his breath and slaps my shoulder.
“One word, brother. Works every time.” Ace smirks as he approaches the group of girls. It’s sickening really, watching girls squirm under his cowboy spell.
“Hi boys – ya gonna just stand there with stupid grins or join us?” the brunette in the overall shorts asks.
We move closer to the group, me still feeling a little awkward, but Ace – he squats next to a girl with huge tits spilling from a tank top. Well, that’s not fair . . .
“Cute,” Ace drawls.
What the fuck? That’s his magic? He’s shittin’ me—
“Sorry?” she quips.
“Your little tattoo on your ankle. I like it.” Ace places his finger on the most horrific excuse for a dragon – wait, is that fucking Bowser? That’s awesome.
The girl with the Nintendo tattoo throws her head back in laughter and smiles. “Oh yeah? What’s your name?” she asks. I don’t believe it. That was the stupidest line ever, and yet every girl in the group is gaping in admiration at the Don Juan of Austin.
“I’m Chris Brooks – and what’s your name darlin’?”
“Darcy. Let’s grab a beer.”
Ace rises to his feet and gives me a cocky smile. He helps Darcy from the chair as I catch her mouthing something to the other girls.
Ace puts his arm around Darcy’s shoulders and leads her toward the kegs. “Hey Darcy, you speak French?”
God, I hope she does.
I plop down in the empty lawn chair determined to have a good time. The cooler at my feet is overflowing with Coors Light, not my favorite, but they’ll do. I pop a can as the fireworks take over the Chicago sky. Several feet away, three large speakers in the bed of a truck blast the electric genius of Jimi Hendrix. The humidity is finally fading and the party is picking up . . . this is nice. I might as well enjoy the show and have a few beers—
“Wanna make out?”
Before I can answer, the drunken brunette in overall shorts stumbles into my lap. She’s hot – big brown eyes, plump lips and long brown hair. She drapes her arms on my shoulders and mimics my surprised face. I shake my head in disbelief while placing my hands on her waist.
“Sure.” I shrug.
That’s what’s great about America – the Fourth of July is a celebration for a country full of dreamers. A place where resiliency overpowers fear . . . picket fences, barbecues, television, beer, drunk girls, fireworks . . . there’s no place I’d rather be.
THE VERSE
ADAM FORD
CHAPTER ONE
Adam Ford
7/4/03
Re: No fireworks
Memo: The Fourth of July – Nostalgia vs. Transitory
THE FIRST WEEK of July was traditionally
spent in our family’s rundown cabin on Lake Erie. It was only twenty minutes from our house, but we would pack up the Chevy wagon like we were leaving on a month-long adventure. Man, life was noticeably different then – innocent and unassuming. It was simplistic.
Time was measured by leisurely bike rides, fishing contests, laps in the lake, and moonlit campfires roasting hotdogs and marshmallows. On lazy afternoons, the lake kids would stretch out on that old dock and stare up at the clouds for hours, not a care in the world. After dinner, my little brother and I would pile into the bottom bunk of our cabin and play competitive games of checkers and UNO. And even after Dad passed away in ’92, Mom was adamant about keeping that rustic cabin and taking us there every summer to enjoy our youth.
The lake was also a breeding ground for prepubescent summer romances, some drama-filled and others completely innocent. As for me, I remained quiet and ordinary until the summer I was fifteen and managed to steal a kiss from the hot lifeguard at the drive-in theater. This was huge – I was lake folklore for two years before my friend Tango actually dated and broke her heart. Classic Tango.
There are so many good memories and lasting friendships from those Buffalo summers, but my favorite part of our vacations was the annual fireworks show on the Fourth of July. We would line up our lawn chairs, lather ourselves in bug spray, and prepare to be amazed by the flickers of light erupting in the navy sky. The contrast of dark and light alone was fascinating, but mostly, I was intrigued by the dichotomy of fireworks – some would explode with reverence while others would fizzle into oblivion.
Like life.
As a twenty-five-year-old professional, single male, this day has evolved into a game of bragging discourse and drunken debauchery. The hotdogs have been replaced with organic bratwurst and portabella burgers. The plastic cups of Kool-Aid were switched with goblets of chilled wine. Those carefree bike rides around Lake Erie dissolved with the rest of my childhood memories as soon as I boarded a steamy NJ Path Train to Hoboken. And there will be no sweet, stolen kisses among the fireflies. I expect to get laid.
