The Boys in the Band: Part One

by Lanie Jacobs

  “Been here long?” I adjust my sunglasses with one hand and run the other one through my hair. Cool, calm and collected isn’t happening right now.

  “Only long enough to look to have perfected my creepy stalkerish look.”

  “Oh, come on. I’m not that late.” I get nervous, take the sunglasses off and stuff them into my bag. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do going with any of this. It’s Sunday afternoon, I’m supposed to be lounging around my apartment in my pajamas having deep conversations with my cat and eating ice cream out of the container, not standing on a street corner trying to have a cute conversation with a cute guy. “Okay, maybe I did push it a little.”

  Micah shakes his head. “Aren’t you going to say something about a woman never being late or something like that?”

  “And insult your intelligence?” I scoff as I head for the restaurant. “I wouldn’t dream of doing that to the person who’s going to spend a ton of money at my favorite house of brunching.”

  “House of brunching?” He follows behind me, an arm going out over my head to pull the door open. It’s a sweet act of chivalry that makes me want to turn around and kiss him. “Is that a technical term or did you just make it up to impress me.”

  “What can I say? I have a creative grasp of the English language.” I peer up at him as I walk under his arm and into the restaurant.

  “You certainly do.” He agrees.

  “Hey, if you think I’ve got issues with the language, you should meet my parents. My dad’s from Denmark and my mom’s from Scotland. I’m impressed I can string two sensible words together some days.” I guide him through the crowded room to a table on the far side. Not that I think too much about it but it’s kind of my table. At least that what I tell myself since I seem to be the only person willing to sit so far from the bar area.

  “How international.” He waits for me to sit before he takes his seat. “How did you end up in Portland, Maine?”

  “My parents thought it was a good place to raise kids. So they packed us all up when I was around five and moved us here.”

  “Where were you living?” Micah’s got his arms folded on the table in front of him and he’s leaning in. He’s listening to every word that comes out of my mouth and it’s making me even more anxious.

  “Copenhagen,” I say, “It’s in Denmark.”

  “I know where Copenhagen is.”

  “Really? People usually think I’m talking about Amsterdam. I get a lot of questions about hash and prostitutes.” I’m trying my best not to found like a snot head since the part of the world I come from has a tendency to get grouped into one giant blob by most people. Unfortunately I get it on both sides with my mother coming from Scotland. To most everyone Scotland means Ireland and Denmark means Sweden.

  Yet one more reason I’m a hostile bitch, I suppose.

  “I know the difference between The Netherlands and Denmark.”

  “Points to you for paying attention to your geography. I’m impressed.” I sit back in my chair and tell myself that it’s okay to stare at him if he’s staring at me.

  “What can I say? I was homeschooled on a commune.”

  “Ah, yes. Smart hippie teaching you all about the world. I should have known you’d be smarter than the average bear.”

  “Are you actually giving me a compliment?”

  “You can call it whatever you want.” I say as Nat, my favorite waitress in the whole wide world, sidles up to our table.

  “Hey there, Queen Jane,” she gives me a hip bump to the shoulder. “You want to start off with a drink or do you want to go behind the bar and play mad scientist?”

  “Why don’t you me start off with a Paloma?” I give her butt a hard slap and laugh. “What are you drinkin’ Champ?”

  “Whatever you suggest.”

  Nat turns her attention away from me and runs her eyes over Micah. It’s a slow maneuver. It’s like she’s seen him before but can’t tell where or when. “What do you suggest, Jane?” She asks. Her voice is coated with thick layer of curiosity at the pretty man-specimen I’ve arrived with.

  “My friend here will have a Chavela with a shot of Cabo Uno. You a fan of Bloody Marys?”

  “Only on Sunday mornings.” He meets Nat’s eyes and stops. There’s something fleeting in the look they exchange. A silent communication that I’m not privy to and don’t understand.

  “And you got the cash to cover that shot, Jane?” She asks, the grin on her face is starting to look awkward. If I didn’t know her better I’d swear she was holding something back.

  Or trying to keep herself pulled together.

  “I’ve got it covered.” He tells her before looking down at the table.

  “Appetizers?” Nat take a breath and lets the word fall out of her as if she’s been holding on to it for a while. It’s the strangest reaction I’ve ever seen from her and later on, after I’ve had my way with Micah, I’ll hunt her down and ask what’s really going one.

  “Chile relleno?” I cock an eyebrow at him and hope he just agrees with anything I say. “Yam fries with tamarind ketchup? Empanada of the day?”

  “I see you’ve got the menu memorized,” he says.

  “She should. She eats here every single Sunday.” Nat tells him.

  “I guess I’ll have to leave the ordering to you.”

  “Sweet!” I smile across the table at him. “We’ll have all the really good stuff.”

  “You mean all your favorites?” Nat’s shakes her head. .

  “Yep.” I answer proudly. “I want every bit of it.”

  “You sure you don’t want to make any special requests? Maybe you’ve got some allergies or something?”

  “Nope. Let’s just get her what she wants before she makes a scene.”

  “You’ve already got that figured out, huh?”

  “The second she opened her filthy mouth.” He looked up Nat smiled.

  To my relief it was a friendly sort of smile. Nothing even close to the one he’d greeted me with out in the sidewalk.

  “Filthy mouth?” I scoff. “You have no idea just how filthy my mouth can be.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Nat rolls her eyes as she backs away from the table. “That’s the best dirty talk you can come up with? Hell, my granny can come up with better than that.”

  “Don’t you have a drink order to place?” I ask and watch her turn away and head toward the bar.

  “Queen Jane?”Micah asked, drawing my attention away from Nat and back to him. “What’s that about?”

  “It’s from a Bob Dylan song.”

  He takes a second before nodding, “Queen Jane Approximately. Why not Sweet Jane?”

  “No one calls me Sweet Jane.”

  “Why not?”

  “Have you met me? I’m not the Sweet Jane type.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, you’ve got this sort of New York street punk vibe going on. I can see a little brunette Nico thing happening. I bet you used to put safety pins in your ears and download Iggy and the Stooges onto your ipod.”

  “You do not even start with that crap.”

  “It’s probably the bangs. I’ll bet you a grand that you’re actually a blonde.”

  I throw my napkin and hit him right in the middle of his smug face. “Can you please change the subject?”

  “I’m just trying to get you figured out.” He holds his hands up in mock defeat. “You’re not exactly giving me anything concrete to go on.”

  “Tell me about your hippie commune parents.” There was no way I gonna give this guy a free pass to play around with my head.

  Micah sits back and looks at past my shoulder to the brick wall behind him. That’s what I plan on being for him. A solid brick wall. “So, we’re not going to talk about you?”

  “No, not really.” I shake my head. “What do you play?”

  “I can play lots of things.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively. “But I should assume you’re asking about musical instruments?”

&nb
sp; “Let me guess, lead guitar and vocals?”

  “Am I that obvious?” Micah asks with a painful little groan. It’s a nice noise, a little on the self deprecating side but I kinda like it.

  “Not really. It was just a guess. Everyone wants to play lead and sing. Guys always think it’s the quickest way to getting laid.”

  “You seem to know a lot for a bartender and reluctant sound tech.”

  “I’m not a sound tech. I just know a few of the finer details.” I remind him.

  “And you’re opinionated?”

  “I am highly opinionated. Painfully opinionated. I’m also obstinate and impossible and people usually end up with a splitting headache after talking to me.”

  Before either one of us can add a single word to my bold statement Nat returns with drinks and a tray full of appetizers.

  “That was fast.” I rub my hands together, my mouth is watering at the sight of the spicy food she’s laying on the table in front of us. “You must have put a fire under someone’s ass.”

  Nat laughs as she places the drinks down. “Not exactly, but they are motivated.”

  “Looking to get me the hell out of here?”

  “Something like that.” She grumbles. “Sami’s back in the kitchen asking why don’t you quit working at that shithole club and come work for her?”

  “What? And miss all that...” I stop and try to come up with one good reason to stay working at a job I’m starting to dread. “I’m not sure what I’d be missing, to tell you the truth.”

  “Job got you crapped out?” Micah asks as he picks up his drink and inspects it from all sides.

  “It’s not the same place. It gotten too big. The crowd changed, people stopped giving a shit. I don’t know.” I reach for something to stuff into my face before I say anything I might regret when the job offer doesn’t materialize.

  “Sami wants you here working the bar. She was wondering if you wanted to come in later in the week and have a chat.”

  “Sure.” I wrap my hand around the cold glass and push back any lingering doubt about jumping ship. “But keep it under your hat. I don’t want anyone at the club catching wind of it.”

  “My lips are sealed,” she purses her lips and presses her forefinger against them while she turns back around and moves away from the table.

  “Does that happen a lot?” Micah asks when we’re alone again.

  “What?”

  “You getting job offers? Does it happen every time you walk into a bar or restaurant in this town?”

  “Not really.”

  Micah looks down at the food on the table for a long moment before asking, “Do you think you’ll take the job?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea. I’m really sick of working in clubs. I wouldn’t mind tending bar here. It’s a nice relaxed atmosphere. The customers are a little older. They’re probably a whole lot braver about trying drinks that aren’t loaded with fruit juice and peach liqueur.” I sigh as I take a sip of my drink and let the warm burn of good tequila spread down into my stomach. If that doesn’t relax me a little then nothing will. “Do you even know how many people come in and order a sex on the beach?”

  “No,” he answers with cough.

  “I don’t know either. I’ve lost count. I’m so sick of making that fucking drink. I can tell who’s gonna order it and how much they’ll consume just by the thickness of their spray tan.”

  “You sound burnt out.”

  “Not by bartending. I love bartending. It’s the people in the club that make me crazy.” I take another drink. Things are starting to get all warm and fuzzy around the edges. It’s a good thing. “Did you know that there’s a bar in New York that’s hosting a tiny penis competition?”

  “That was random.” He laughs.

  “Yeah, probably a little but I really wonder what kind of man would enter a tiny penis competition.”

  “One who is either extremely secure with his masculinity or has exemplary oral skills.” He raises an eyebrow and looks straight into my eyes. “Or a wife with a really sick sense of humor.”

  “True. Being clit master would totally make up for having a microscopic wang. The wife thing’s probably more likely. ” I sigh and take another sip. Well, it’s more like a giant gulp but who’s counting.

  “So tiny penis contest aside,” he pauses, the drink still full to the brim sits in his hand waiting to be tasted. “What the hell is in this?”

  “Beer, lemon juice, a dash of Tabasco and Worchester sauce and Clamato.”

  “Clamato?”

  “Clam juice. You’re also got a shot of very expensive tequila on the side. It’s like a really funky Bloody Mary.” I point it out to him before deciding it’s time to stop the chit chat and just jump the fucking shark. “Do you want to have sex with me?”

  “Yes.” Micah puts his drink back down and the table without missing a beat.

  “Did you get a new box of rubbers?” I grab a stuffed chili off the platter and carefully set it on my plate.

  “I did.” He tells me as he stabs his fork into a mini empanada. “I got a whole bag full at my house.”

  “What if I don’t want to fuck you in your apartment? What if I can only have sex in my own bed? Did you take that into consideration?”

  “I seriously doubt that.”

  “You do?”

  “Well, something tells me it’d take an act of congress to get an invite into your apartment.”

  Okay, so he had me on that one. But still, maybe I was a cheap hotel sort of gal or only liked to screw guys in cars. He really should have put more creative thought into just taking me to his place. I sliced the chili with my fork, stabbed it and popped it in my mouth. Still, he did have a good point about me not wanted him to know where I live.

  “Are you going to freak out if I tell you that I like rough sex?” I ask after I swallow the cheese filled chili bite down. “And this is a onetime deal. You. Me. Awesome fuck fest and no follow-up phone calls needed. You up for that, or what?”

  “You certainly have a way with words.” He picks up the shot of tequila and tosses it back. He’s looking a little flustered. That’s a good thing since, going into this. I’d really appreciate having the upper hand.

  “I know, I’m a real poet and I’m a little on the slutty side.”

  Micah picks up his drink and stares into it again. He looks like he’s at a loss for words.

  I sit back and wait for him to regain some of his cool composure. No need in rushing him now that I’ve laid it all out in the table.

  It doesn’t take long before his eyes are back on me. “So, when you say you’re into rough sex how rough are we talking?”

  “Nothing too extreme. At least not for a casual one-nighter. Mostly the old standards. Pull my hair, slap my ass, fuck me till I can’t walk. No action in the back passage, though, I save that territory for long term fuck buddies.”

  “How do you know I’m not in that second category?”

  “Because you didn’t put the words fuck and buddies on the end of that sentence.” I tell him. “And you look way too sentimental around the eyes. And I never get involved with musicians. It’s a personal thing.”

  “What if I changed my mind and told you I was a banker?”

  “I would think you were lying and I wouldn’t sleep with you.”

  “No musicians, no liars. Anything else I need to know about?”

  “Oh, I’ve got a whole huge list of things but you’re cute and reasonably intelligent so I’m willing to overlook it.” I cut off another piece of the chili and bite down on it. It’s funny how sometimes you only realize you’re hungry after you start eating.

  “But I’m not long term material?”

  “Oh, god no. You’re too good looking for that.”

  “I am?” This time he doesn’t stop to inspect his drink before putting it to his lips and taking a huge gulp. The grossed-out face he makes when he has to swallow the clam-tomato-beer concoction is priceless.

  “
Yes, you’re hot fantasy material.” I assure him. “At least you are if you’re any good in bed. And if you’re not I can always improvise.”

  *****

  “This is where you live?” I’m standing in what’s got to be the largest industrial loft apartment in the Portland area and trying not to look overly impressed by what I’m seeing. It’s difficult. He’s got a million times more space than I do and a killer view of the skyline.

  “What? You don’t like it?” He moves past me, arms filled with two bags of leftovers from brunch which he deposits on the kitchen island.

  “No, I do like it. It’s a beautiful place.” If the circumstances were different I’d crawling into every corner but that isn’t the reason I’m here.

  “Do you want to see the terrace?”

  “Are you going to throw me off it?” I laugh as I peer though a closed set of French doors. “You’ve got an ocean view?”

  “I’ve got the top of the building to myself. I can see everything from here.”

  “Okay, I’ll admit, that’s pretty impressive.” Maybe he wasn’t lying about being a banker. In fact Micah being in finance made a whole lot more sense once you popped this slice of million dollar real estate into the equation. It was either banker or international jewel thief.

  God help me, my brain cried out in frustration, I’m about to fuck a banker.

  I put my hands in my hair and let my eyes fall across the room. To my relief they settled on the Marshall JTM34 amp in the middle of the room. “Holy shit, is that a ‘59 Les Paul?” All the blood rushes out of my head. Between the amp and the guitar, Micah’s got a tidy fortune sitting in his living room. This is serious shit. It’s like stumbling on Bilbo’s mithril in your grandmother’s attic.

  “It is,” he says.

  “And the JTM? Please, tell me that’s not a forgery.”

  “No, it’s the real deal.” He’s standing beside me and he smells just as good as I remember. “You want to try it out? It’s got a fantastic tone. Warm and bluesy. I think you’ll like it.”

  “No, I’m not touching either one of those.” I laugh and step away. “Please tell me those aren’t just for show.”

  “Oh, god no. I play them all time. At least here in the apartment. I have a different Marshall for playing out. I’m not dragging that puppy into a bar.