The Latecomers Fan Club

by Diane V. Mulligan

  “And he’s only ten minutes late,” Charlie said when Nathaniel reached their table. He stood and stuck one hand out to greet Nathaniel, using the other to push his hipster-nerd glasses up on the bridge of his nose. He wore an oxford shirt, khakis, and bucks. He looked like a kid on his way to prep school.

  “There’s a reason our band is called the Latecomers,” Nathaniel said, taking off his coat.

  “Oh, are we a band again?”

  Nathaniel hadn’t planned on launching into band-talk quite so early in the evening. “Once a band always a band, isn’t that how the saying goes?”

  “I’ve never heard that one,” Jeff said, throwing back the last of his glass of beer and gesturing to the waitress. In typical Jeff style, he wore a flannel button down and baggy jeans. His hair appeared to have spent the day under a cap and his scruffy beard needed a trim. Charlie was tall and thin, and Jeff was short and stocky. They could not have been more opposite, but they seemed united in their skepticism of Nathaniel’s motives.

  “Abby didn’t protest against your skipping out on Valentine’s Day?” Charlie asked.

  “She wasn’t thrilled, but you know how it is.”

  “When are you going to just end it with her?” Jeff asked.

  Before Nathaniel could respond the waitress appeared to take their order for another round. Nathaniel glanced at the beer list, scanning for something cheap that didn’t scream cheap the way Bud did. “I’ll have a Naragansett,” he said.

  “Professor Harte!” she said, taking the drink menu from him. He looked up in surprise. She was thin and short with long, wispy hair pulled off her face with one of those stretchy headbands. Her black t-shirt stretched tight across her small, round breasts.

  A student. He had no idea which one. She could have been in any of his classes at any of the three schools where he was currently adjuncting. Her name was probably Emily or Katie, and she probably sat in the back, chewing gum and looking at Twitter on her phone. He had no idea what to say to her.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m already mostly done with that paper you assigned.”

  “I never doubted it,” Nathaniel said.

  “You’re sure you just want a ’gansett?”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Jeff said, “he’s only drinking it ironically.”

  Charlie stifled a laugh. Nathaniel wondered if the girl had any idea what “ironically” meant, but she just smiled and went to fill their order. All three men watched her perky ass as she walked away.

  “I don’t know how you can stand to be around all those sexy co-eds all day,” Charlie said.

  “What do you do when they come to your office hours crying because they’re afraid of failing and desperate to pass by any means necessary?” Jeff asked.

  “First, I have no offices, as I’m a lowly adjunct. Second, my policy is to just pass everyone. That way I don’t get any negative student evaluations.”

  “Always a man of ethics,” Jeff said.

  A moment later, the girl returned with their drinks. She set them down and turned to Nathaniel. “No big date for Valentine’s Day?”

  “What are we, chopped liver?” Jeff asked.

  She turned bright red and looked back and forth between Nathaniel, Jeff, and Charlie. “Oh, I didn’t realize—”

  “He’s kidding. These two idiots are my bandmates. And no, no big date. Valentine’s Day is a bit overplayed,” Nathaniel said.

  “Your band?” the girl asked, apparently in no hurry to attend to her few other patrons.

  “We’ve been on a little hiatus,” Charlie said. “Thinking about getting back together.”

  “Oh, you should,” she said, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

  “Do you think so?”

  “Well, I mean, I’ve never heard you but, yeah. Why not?”

  “That, indeed, is the question,” Jeff said.

  “Okay, well, you boys let me know if you need anything,” she said, turning and bouncing back towards the bar again.

  “If you got your little students to be our groupies, gigs would be a lot more fun,” Jeff said, watching her walk away.

  “Shameless self-promotion in the classroom. Good thinking,” Nathaniel said. As long as they were already on the topic of the Latecomers, Nathaniel figured there was no point in delaying the real reason he asked them to go out tonight. “But seriously, what do you guys think? Don’t you miss playing?”

  “That’s not really the question, is it?” Charlie said. “It was never about if playing was fun or not. It was about time, effort, and money.”

  Charlie and Nathaniel had met in college. They were roommates their first year. In a lucky coincidence, they both loved classic rock and played guitar. They played for hours in their dorm room, driving their neighbors nuts. They started playing parties and gigs around campus, and Charlie took up the electric bass to fill out their sound. They played for tips and for the love it. After college, they both stayed in Boston and they kept playing, open mics and off-nights at bars. Jeff saw them one night and offered to add his talents to make the duo a trio. He played keyboards and sang back up. In the beginning they’d all had stars in their eyes, but as years passed, it got harder and harder to justify the time it took to book gigs and rehearse when they were playing for change in deserted bars on Tuesday nights. It was cool to be a broke musician when they were twenty-two. At thirty, it was far less appealing. Other priorities crept in and they played less and less. It was only when he sobered up after his dad died that Nathaniel finally realized that his music career was going nowhere. Without the assistance of alcohol, he couldn’t see their efforts as band as anything but pathetic, and so he quit. Without a front man, Jeff and Charlie gave up. They, too, it seemed, had realized they were all getting a little old to play rock star. But now, after a few years of not playing out, private parties didn’t sound so bad to Nathaniel. Neither did playing for tips. It had taken him this long to realize that maybe making music didn’t have to be in the pursuit of fame and riches. Maybe it could just be about having fun.

  “I’d rather have fun and not get paid than only ever play to my TV screen,” Nathaniel said. “I’ve been working on some original tunes again.”

  “I just don’t think I have the time. I mean, I’m already working my ass off all day for shit pay,” Charlie said.

  Before Nathaniel could say more, the waitress returned. She placed three shots on the table in front of them. “You guys were starting to look a little too serious,” she said.

  When none of them reached for the glasses, she added, “On the house.”

  “Do one with us,” Charlie said.

  “Not while I’m working. But I think they’re gonna let me off early tonight. Not much of a crowd,” she said, scanning the nearly empty room.

  “What time?” Jeff asked.

  “Elevenish, I think,” she answered. “What do you say, Professor? Have a drink with me after my shift?”

  “Yeah, why not?” Nathaniel said, hoping his willingness in this regard might appease Jeff and Charlie. When she walked away, Nathaniel turned to them and said, “One gig. That’s all I ask. One gig, a mix of the old stuff and some new original tunes. Then, we can quit forever, if that’s what everyone wants.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Jeff said.

  Charlie shrugged. “If he’s in, I’m in.”

  Nathaniel raised his shot glass and proposed a toast. Jeff eyed him suspiciously, but when they set the empty glasses back on the table, Nathaniel knew they’d agree.

  As promised, the girl appeared at their table few minutes after eleven without her little waitress’s apron on. “What do you say we head down that street to that new place?” she asked.

  They settled the tab and followed her outside. Nathaniel realized that as some point he was going to have to fess up to that fact that he did not know her name. H
e wished she’d just introduce herself to Jeff and Charlie and save him the trouble.

  It was cold on the deserted street. Nathaniel stuffed his hands into his pockets and fell in behind the others. The girl walked between Jeff and Charlie, her arms looped through theirs. Why doesn’t one of you ask her name? he thought miserably. She led them to a bar around the block, a trendy spot with a modern aesthetic, where she refused Jeff’s offer to hold the door for her, preferring to wait for Nathaniel.

  “You don’t know my name, do you?” she asked, walking in behind him. “It’s ok. I mean you have a lot of students. I’m Julie. Julie Daniels.”

  The name hardly sounded familiar. “Thank you, Julie.”

  “No sweat,” she said.

  This place was slightly more crowded than the last one had been, but there was room at the bar. Charlie and Jeff ordered beer. Nathaniel would have loved to join them, but he was out of cash.

  “Some of my friends are here,” Julie said to no one in particular and then she bolted across the room to a table of girls all similar in appearance and clothing to her.

  She returned a moment later with the three young, smiling girls in tow. Quick introductions were made, introductions in which Julie emphasized the words “musicians” and “band.” Jeff and Charlie had had enough to drink to find talking easy, especially when their own greatness was the general topic of conversation. Nathaniel had little interest in talking to the girls. They were young and silly, the kind of girls whose chief virtue is their firm little bodies, which is only a virtue of youth and does not last. At least Julie was his only student among them. Nathaniel drummed his fingers on the bar and looked at the big screen TV on the wall where a rerun of Seinfeld was playing soundlessly. By the time the bartender announced last call, Jeff had his arm around one of the girls and was practically begging for her phone number while she giggled and held out, although Nathaniel suspected she’d give in in the end. Charlie was giving dating advice to the others. Nathaniel was tired and whatever benefit he’d felt from his drinks at the first bar had long since worn off. Julie came to stand beside him, bumping him playfully with her hip and smiling.

  “So, we should get coffee after class sometime,” she said. “You know, or something.”

  “That’s probably not a great idea,” Nathaniel said. He still didn’t know which school Julie attended. The way he was always running from campus to campus, he rarely had time for a coffee break even if he wanted one.

  “Why not?” she asked, pouting. She placed one hand on the bar behind him and leaned in against him.

  “I don’t date students.”

  “Who said anything about dating? I just want to get coffee, talk more about philosophy, and stuff.” She batted her eyes. It astonished Nathaniel that girls actually did that.

  “Right.”

  “You know that Jack Johnson song, ‘Brushfire Fairytales’?”

  Nathaniel shrugged. He was out of touch with popular music, and proud of it.

  “Well, I love that song. The part of about Plato’s cave being full of freaks—I had no clue what he was talking about until I took your class! The Allegory of the Cave. So cool.” She smiled.

  “So you want help understanding pop culture?”

  “Maybe.” She put her free hand on his arm and tilted her face up towards his. Her little breast was pressed firmly against his chest.

  Her forwardness amused Nathaniel. “I’ll try to work some more into class,” he said, backing away. He stepped in between Charlie and Jeff. “I gotta go, guys. Let me know about the gig.”

  He pulled his coat around his shoulders and walked back out in the night. He had no idea what bus route to take from there. He walked up Newbury to the Public Gardens and then along Charles Street towards MGH. He thought he could get a bus there. He didn’t want to think about Julie and her nimble young body, but he couldn’t help himself. He was used to his female students flirting with him. Whether they thought it would boost their grades or they were actually attracted to him, he did not know. He did know that women were attracted to confident men, and his classroom persona was nothing if not confident, perhaps to the point of arrogant. He had a healthy disdain for his dull, unmotivated students. Philosophy isn’t a popular major at community colleges. His classes were full of kids hoping to take an easy gen-ed class to fill their humanities requirement.

  This semester, he’d picked up one class at New England University, and it was so much better than the three he taught at Old Colony Community College or the two at Minuteman Community College. With any luck, NEU would offer him more classes for the summer. Now that he had his foot in the door, he knew he needed to make the most of it. Especially since he was going to have to support a child soon.

  What the hell was he doing trying to convince the guys to get the Latecomers back together? He didn’t have time for that. He wondered if Abby would be waiting at his apartment when he got back. He half-hoped she would be. He needed to get his priorities in order, for God’s sake. But he also half-wished he was going home with Julie, instead of by himself.

  PART TWO:

  Nothing Like 9 to 5

  Maggie

  Finally, late in February, Maggie got a call for an interview. It wasn’t her first choice, or even her second or third, but it was a job, and she knew her mother was right: She needed to swallow her pride and take what she could get. At least she wouldn’t have to sink so low as manning a deep fryer at a fast-food joint—assuming the interview at Macy’s was mostly a formality.

  And it was. Once Sharon, the manager, seemed convinced that Maggie was well-mannered, could count change, and could communicate in English, the conversation shifted from if Maggie was right for the job to which department she’d be working in.

  “So right now the openings are in Misses and Childrens apparel. Any preference?” Sharon asked.

  “Misses,” Maggie answered without hesitating. Thank God she had some say in the matter.

  “And I see you have a background in art,” Sharon said.

  Maggie nodded.

  “Just between you and me, we’re going to need someone to take over for the display designer in a couple of months because she’s going on maternity leave. I know there are some other ladies on the floor who’d like that job, but I don’t think any of them has an eye for design. Do a nice job in Misses and maybe we’ll be able to give you something more stimulating, at least temporarily.”

  Window displays weren’t exactly what Maggie considered putting her degree to work, but it would definitely be better than stocking racks and ringing up customers all day.

  Maggie left the store feeling something between elation and shame—hooray for some income, but working at the mall had never been on her list of ambitions in life. In fact, it had been one of the things she purposefully avoided.

  She started the following Monday. Her co-workers were grouchy, gray-haired women who had worked at the store long enough that they sometimes still called it Filene’s instead of Macy’s. Some of them had even worked there back when it was in town, before the mall was built. They had their routines and weren’t excited to acclimate Maggie to the department. Elaine was the oldest, an overweight woman with a stooped back whose hands shook as she hung up clothes or handed customers their change. Maggie was amazed Elaine could work the full nine-hour shift and stay on her feet, but she did it day after day. Maggie tried to go out of her way to help Elaine—she couldn’t imagine doing this job at nearly seventy years old—but no matter how nice Maggie was, Elaine was generally rude in reply. All Maggie could think some days was, Please, God, don’t let me end up working here for the rest of my life.

  Cheryl, second in seniority in the happy little department, was only a few years younger than Elaine, but she was tiny, short and slim, with funky, spikey, short white hair and stylish glasses. She wore leopard printed sweaters, patent leather flats, and layers of
cheap jewelry. Cheryl was from Maine, and although she’d lived in Massachusetts all of her adult life, she brought up the Maine seacoast every chance she got, exaggerating her accent. Maggie never knew what to expect from Cheryl. Some days she was sweet and helpful; other days she’d snap at Maggie for the slightest error or perceived fault.

  All the shifts seemed too long. Hours would pass where there were no customers to ring up. Hours of rearranging items on racks to make sure the clothes were ordered smallest to largest or folding sweaters that shoppers had rumpled. The worst part was they were never allowed to sit down. It wasn’t just fear that a manager might happen by; there were security cameras in the ceiling everywhere, so if you decided to sit near the register and rest for a minute, you’d be caught on video. By the end of the day, no matter what shoes she wore, Maggie’s feet hurt, her legs ached, and her lower back screamed. Being under the fluorescent lights all day made her feel half-asleep, as if she never quite woke up.

  All morning Maggie looked forward to her lunch when she could step outside and get some fresh air and sunlight, and all afternoon she waited for her fifteen minute break for the same chance. Her coworkers thought she was a smoker, because only the smokers were so desperate to get out the door. Most people went upstairs to the lounge, which Maggie found utterly depressing. There were no windows, the walls were dark and dingy, and the furniture seemed designed to discourage relaxing. At the end of the day, she went home too tired to do anything but go to bed.

  Still, the paycheck was good incentive. It wasn’t a lot money, but they were the biggest paychecks Maggie’d ever had. A college education, a master’s degree—thirty-three years old!—and she was giddy when she opened her paycheck every two weeks. Of course that giddy feeling was always quickly replaced with self-pity over how little money she was actually earning. If she weren’t living with her mother, the money she brought in wouldn’t be enough to live on, not if she wanted to have her own apartment and afford to eat and put gas in her car. Cheryl worked part-time at Burger King in addition to working at Macy’s, and Maggie had no clue how the woman had the energy.