The Ballad (The Bridge Series)

by Ashley Pullo

  At 7:45 p.m., fifteen minutes before I’m to take the stage, the venue is jammed with people and I can barely squeeze into the bar. There’s still no sign of Adam so I reluctantly order another shot in hopes to calm my emerging nerves. I close my eyes and pray he’s here. Open my eyes. Slam another shot. Close my eyes . . .

  “Welcome to the Rockwood!” The microphone booms and a few of the speakers screech, but no one stops talking below a screaming murmur. The emcee sounds like the muffled phone conversations from Charlie Brown but somehow I catch “Ms. Chloe LeGrange . . .” I take this as my cue to mosey on over to the small stage. I give the bartender a lame high-five and knock over a couple empty glasses, which in turn make me laugh crazily. As I amble toward the steps, I grab some guy’s beer along the way and take a masculine swig before climbing to my impending doom. The lighting is pretty shitty, so I can somewhat scan the faces of the room only to wretchedly discover Adam’s absence. I place my guitar strap over my shoulder and bend down to grab my least favorite pick from the case, winking at the NYU boys on the first row.

  “Wassup?” The ‘p’ makes a popping noise in the microphone and finally, it’s quiet.

  “So, I’m Chloe Ford. LeGrange! I grew up on the mean streets of Toronto, playing harvest fairs and FFA shows, both smelling like shit. I moved to the meaner streets of TriBeCa yearning for my solo album, only to play crappy coffee houses and the occasional hippie festival . . . both smelling like organic shit.” I smile sarcastically and for some idiotic reason; start to strum the opening chords to Alanis Morisette’s Ironic.

  “Dreaming of my big break in the big city, but that other Canadian beat me to it, eh.” Holy shit, what am I doing? My words are so vile and slurred and they are echoing all around me, booming in a torturous sound delay. It’s time to retract, refocus and gain control. I attempt a nervous giggle and play the opening chords for my song. A few people clap, maybe because they can detect that I’m falling apart or maybe because everyone enjoys a train wreck now and then.

  “Seriously folks, I would like to play a lovely song for you called, Bright Lights.” I sing and play my guitar moving quickly into the next and the next song, leaving no time for any sort of reaction from the audience. I pause to study the room one last time and drink some water. No Adam. Fuck the Rainbow Connection.

  “This will be my last song. The great Johnny Cash carried around a lot of pain during his life and his passion was inter-pre-ted-ed as reckless, alcoholic behavior. It wasn’t until his final album that people understood his Hurt . . .” I don’t play Jackson.

  I’m done by 8:10 p.m. and sloppily drinking at the bar. This was without a doubt the worst performance ever. I received some applause and a few people bought me a drink, but honestly, the crying on stage ruined any chance I had at signing with Vandal. I pound my head against the wooden bar and I have the urgency to puke my brains out. The embarrassment mixed with my anger and cherry-topped with my shame for selfishly drinking with child is too much. Oh God, the baby . . . .

  I race to the exit, pushing away anyone in my way and run directly into Adam’s chest. I look up at him, wet mascara stinging my eyes, searching his face for some kind of solution. His eyes are wild, but he says nothing. His face says nothing. I take every ounce of confined anger and shove him as hard as I can, right near his heart.

  “You son of a bitch! I’m pregnant!” Adam grabs my wrists to control my theatrical, drunken rant and calmly backs us out the doorway. I smother my face in his chest as I yell a bunch of explicative nonsense and don’t dare look into his eyes because I know he must be furious with my little episode. Instead, I weep into his white dress shirt as he wraps his arms tightly around me. We stand there on the street, obnoxious drunks bumping into us, for what feels like an eternity. I finally raise my head, dreading the next words from his mouth. I’m a mess. Adam softly wipes away my pathetic tears and walks back toward the entrance of the Rockwood. I’m left, pitiably standing on the curb in Manhattan . . . alone and a failure.

  I try to hail a cab in my drunken stupor with shaking arms and messy tears when I feel his hand touch my back. He’s holding my guitar case and motioning to a stopped cab a few blocks away.

  “Let’s go home,” Adam whispers. So much for a private little surprise.

  The Best Sangria

  July 2009

  Amazing news. Big. Huge! And Adam is the only person I want to share in my excitement. I consider calling Mom or Natalie but I want to see Adam’s reaction first. Vandal Records is a small record company specializing in indie singers and bands because they seek talent more than fabrication. They are hosting a show at the Rockwood next month in order to promote one of their newly signed bands, and this band specifically requested me to join them on their headlining night. This is the crucial moment that I dually want and fear . . . the one where I am guaranteed a successful career or the moment when I am erased into demo tape oblivion.

  I have to tell Adam tonight because he’s leaving tomorrow for Hilton Head, South Carolina, with his college buddies. I made an eight o’clock dinner reservation downtown near the Rockwood and thought it would be fun to build up to the big news and surprise Adam. I need to drop off Will at the babysitter’s house then quickly change and get to the Village to meet at our favorite bar. I’m feeling confident and sexy so I decide to wear something from the pre-baby side of my closet and since I’m taking a cab, I pick my uncomfortable turquoise cowboy boots. My black crepe dress hangs nicely on my body, although a little short, but I won’t be bending over tonight.

  I carefully exit the cab, trying not to expose my cha-cha and spot Adam’s striking silhouette waiting outside Bar 55. He meets me at the curb and wraps my arm inside his, kissing my hand.

  “You’re so fucking sexy,” Adam says leading me inside the bar. I blush, amazed that this man still finds me attractive after all these years.

  Bar 55 is super trendy and obnoxious but they make the absolutely best Sangria! We order a pitcher of fermented fruit, ignoring the arrogant Wall Street winos as Adam comically discusses his current case.

  “So the junior associate assigned to my client is some jackass from Yale that keeps scribbling notes with his $300 pen, probably a graduation gift from his Nana. He’s not even watching the trial and I was beginning to wonder if he was doing crossword puzzles. So yesterday, I forced myself to sit second-chair during the cross-examination to take my own notes. When we compared our legal pads during the recess he had like thirteen pages of case references and questions. It looked like a research paper from a first year! My notes had three comments . . . second row left, middle seat suit and front row foreman. It’s really too easy. Anyway, I brought the client in so the dumbass better not screw up.” He gulps his blood-red concoction and grins with delight. He’s so confident and relaxed tonight that keeping my secret is becoming increasingly difficult.

  “What will you do in Hilton Head?” I ask.

  Adam’s going golfing in South Carolina for a weekend bachelor party with his two best friends, Pete and Anthony. They met at Penn State on soccer scholarships and as athletes were rarely allowed to party, but their stories of sober shenanigans beat the drunken debacles of any lush I knew. While Adam was in law school, Anthony travelled to Africa teaching soccer and building sustainable water structures in the tiny villages. He speaks several languages and now works at a boutique architecture firm creating eco-friendly designs. Pete is a television producer for my favorite shows on the Food Network and he’s getting married in a few months to a gorgeous Brazilian chef. It’s hard when you have family and careers to keep the momentum of a care-free college friendship, but these guys are unstoppable.

  “Golf mostly . . . maybe watch the sea turtles,” he smiles adorably and runs his hands through his hair.

  We’re sitting at a small bistro-type table and I can feel the warmth of his legs against my bare skin. He moves his hand up my thigh and nuzzles into my neck. Buzzed Adam is so animated and fun! His hand reaches under my super shor
t skirt and his long fingers tease the outside of my panties. Adam moves my hair to one side and kisses my neck, slowly taking his delicious lips to press against my ear.

  “How about you meet me in the bathroom so I can lift your short dress and pound your sweet ass up against a stall?” His speech is irregular and heavy and although I might be tempted to take him right on this tiny table, I would never have sex in a public restroom. He should know better.

  “Slow down, tiger. I have something I need to show you,” I whisper back into his mouth. Our lips almost touch as I climb my fingers up his leg and stroke his hard bulge pressing against his pants.

  Adam closes his eyes and leans back in his chair, “mmmm, show me.”

  Things are getting a lot too hot, so I grab Adam before we start doing body shots right in the middle of the floor. I pull him slowly to his feet using his tie and I smile at the thought of the Dirty Dancing soundtrack playing through my head. Adam follows closely behind me and I can feel his body heat scorching my bare back. I take his hand as we exit into the balmy, Manhattan July, heading east toward the Rockwood.

  “I thought we were going to dinner? Although I’d rather take you home . . .” See, the best Sangria in New York City.

  We stand outside the worn façade of the Rockwood and I take pleasure in the confused look on Adam’s face for a few torturous minutes. I drop his hand and waltz over to the row of posters and stop to pose by the Next Month billboard. I smile with outstretched jazz hands, I do a little jig, I imitate Marilyn Monroe by blowing a sexy kiss and I even point repeatedly and jump up and down. Adam remains expressionless, his hands in his pockets, shaking his head. Then he smiles.

  “Holy shit, Chloe! That’s amazing. Come here,” he says as his index finger slowly summons me. I slither back to my biggest fan and gaze into his approving eyes. He grabs my face and kisses me hard and passionately. When we release for air he moves his hands to my waist and cradles me into him.

  “I’m so proud of you! Now can I take you home?”

  Amir Patel, lic#459762 got quite the show on the cab ride home and I pray his car isn’t equipped with one of those new cameras. We barely make it through the front door before Adam forces me over the arm of the sofa and jerks down my panties in one continuous yank. His strong arm is pressing on my back and I turn my head to the side to watch him above me. His hard cock rubs against my bare ass as he wraps his arm under my waist, pulling me up to him like a ragdoll. His other hand wraps around the front of my neck as he whips my head back to bite my shoulder. Adam turns me around and stares at me with primal lust while I rip off his jacket and loosen his tie. He unbuttons his shirt as I drop to my knees to set him free. I lick his beautiful scar and acknowledge his animal flesh with soft kisses. He moans as he stands me up and pulls my dress up over my head. I can feel him against me but I want him inside me. Adam unfastens my bra and it falls to the floor as he cups my breasts and leans down to bite my lower lip. I bite him back as we slow-dance toward the stairs, my turquoise boots still on. I trip over the first step and fall backwards, hitting my back against the hardwood stairs. I half laugh, half yelp because I can’t decide if the pain outweighs the pleasure. He pulls me back up to him and slowly turns me around, kissing all the way down my bruised back . . . and yes, pleasure is worth the pain. Adam pushes me forward with a pelvic thrust and I catch myself by bracing my arms on the third step. Before I can straighten, Adam has mounted me and is deep inside, taking what he wants with his own irregular tempo. He reaches his arm around my waist and pleasures me as he grinds rapidly, breathlessly, rhythmically . . . oh God! Perfectly.

  The Photograph

  November 2008

  Bang, bang, bang. Zoom, zoom, zoom. Knock, bam, CRASH!

  “Everything’s okay, Mrs. Ford,” Carlos shouts from upstairs.

  I’ve spent the last twenty minutes on the same lyrics and guitar riff because I can’t ignore the loud upheaval in my bathroom. Even little Will is banging his Elmo on the coffee table to the sound of power drills. It was Adam’s very thoughtful and secretive anniversary gift to me but the entire process has been completely intrusive yet highly confidential. I haven’t even been allowed to enter the draped off noise factory for the past two weeks, and although I’m super excited for the big reveal, I desperately want the strangers out of my home.

  Are we strangers at this point? Carlos the project manager, and Frankie Jr. the flooring expert, have been in and out of my house for over a month. The two men are always very friendly and polite and they love the little afternoon snacks of fruit and cheese I provide. Of course there was that embarrassing morning when I didn’t know they were standing outside my bedroom, waiting to start the demolition, and I was in the shower singing the entire soundtrack of Rent . . . they never even mentioned if they enjoyed the performance. Victoria on the other hand, is a real piece of work. She’s this snobby designer from Manhattan and she loves to wander around my house commenting on all the crappiness that doesn’t appeal to her taste. She calls Adam at inappropriate times and maybe I would be jealous, but trust me, she’s only one step above Gollum from Lord of the Rings.

  I slam my guitar case and head to the kitchen for some snacks because I need to get Will out of here before Elmo suffers from a concussion. Victoria is whispering on her phone in my kitchen, so of course I hide in the dining room to listen . . . her voice is so fake.

  “Yes, dahling. But Adam dear, the very idea of slate and glass tile is repulsive . . . I understand, but wouldn’t you prefer the Italian marble I presented to you . . . yes I know. Yes, the chandelier is going up now. Okay, we will be ready tomorrow night. And Adam, dahling, we need to discuss the rest of your house. Oh? Okay, good bye.” She shuts her bejeweled phone and darts to the dining room with an angry Botox frown. A chandelier! Oh crap, she sees me.

  “Hi Victoria, I was just going to the kitchen to get some Goldfish . . .” I trail off realizing that she is completely annoyed by my presence but I don’t particularly care for her either, so I pass her to get what I need. Please Lord, let the bathroom be finished tomorrow.

  The following night, Adam comes home early to give his final approval to the Bang Bang Gang and the Manhattan Hobgoblin. Victoria’s brittle arms actually embrace me on her way out, freaky, but a nice gesture. Carlos and Freddie Jr. give Will an adorable plastic tool set and me a CD of Rent and I can’t help but give them hearty hugs of gratitude. We’ve all made peace, now get out!

  Adam runs down the stairs with a look of pure appreciation and satisfaction that he successfully pulled off a major surprise. He stands in front of me with a shameful grin and seductively starts to remove his tie.

  “Chloe, I spent eighty percent of our remodeling budget on this bathroom, but I know you will agree with me that it was absolutely necessary.” He places the tie around my eyes and sensually rubs my back. Men and their blindfold fantasies . . . he guides me toward the stairs by the small of my back and somewhere around the fourth step, we realize the tie wasn’t the smartest idea for two flights of stairs.

  Once we’re outside the bedroom, Adam takes me in his arms and kisses me. He spins me around and puts his hand over my eyes while kissing and nibbling my neck. He pushes the door open with his leg and lifts his hand to reveal the most romantic gesture ever in the history of romantic gestures!

  Right in front of my eyes is the exact replica of the bathroom from Little Palm Island. No really, the same huge porcelain tub with the ornate bronze fixtures, the walk-in shower with the iridescent glass tile and that gorgeous green slate floor that resembles the grass of an enchanted meadow. The dark wood vanity is adorned with a tarnished, vintage mirror that conjures a Parisian whorehouse, lavishly reflecting all the sparkling beauty. And the chandelier, holy crap, it’s beautiful! The amber crystals reflect and deflect everything in the room creating a large fireball to dangle passionately near the tub. Every available space is littered with fresh flowers and fancy sea salts enticing my senses and flooding my memories. It’s the most amazing
thing I’ve ever seen and he did it just for me.

  “Do you like it?” His eyes flutter with anticipation and I’m truly at a loss for words. I run my hand along the tub and the romantic nights of our honeymoon saturate my thoughts. I covet my new bathroom and I love this man!

  “It’s alright,” I tease.

  Later that night, after Will is dreaming sweetly in his crib, I run the water in my gorgeous new sanctuary. The smoothness of the porcelain and the fragrance of the flowers transport me to my idyllic honeymoon, but I’m quickly awakened as Adam joins me, completely naked. The strategic placement of the large mirror has some rewarding advantages as I take in his magnificent body from several angles. He casually removes my lace robe, exposing my nakedness and goose bumps scatter along my body. Adam powers on the new Bose stereo housing his iPod and the harmonious sound of Guster explodes into the room. We carefully help each other into the tub as I suck in my stomach and arch my back . . . there’s really no attractive way for a woman to sit down. The giant tub definitely has enough room for the both of us, but Adam’s long legs require a little finesse in positioning. It’s funny, I use to imagine baths with a partner as something older couples do, like a champagne glass Jacuzzi in the Poconos with bubbles and candlelight. It’s actually quite the opposite with us, blaring music, bright lights, maybe a beer or two, and a lot of random conversation.

  I pull my hair into a high ponytail and turn the water off, not wanting to cause a flood on our first night. Adam blows on my neck as I lay back on him, conscious of his swelling lump below me. We remain silent for a few moments enjoying the music and appreciating the breathtaking beauty of our private retreat.