by Susan Ward
As we walk, making our way past bodies and tables, Neil stops to slap a hand here and there, or to talk when his name is called. More than a few girls check him out and I stay close to his back, laying my cheek there when we stop in a this guy is mine kind of way.
Neil stops at the edge of the dance floor, scanning the room as if he’s looking for something. I see Josh Moss several feet away sitting at a table.
“Isn’t that Josh?” I ask, rising up on my tiptoes to speak into Neil’s ear.
He looks in the direction of my stare. He smiles. “Yep. Josh flew up this afternoon. He’s driving to Portland with me. I told him he could stay with us tonight if he didn’t have something else going on.”
My eyes widen in alarm. “You didn’t? That one is going to go over great with Rene.”
Neil grimaces. “Shit, I didn’t think of that when I said he could crash on the couch.”
I do an internally contained groan. “Terrific, Neil. She’s finally not pissed at me 24/7 and you invite Josh Moss to stay on the couch.”
We’re both laughing as we near the table.
Josh frowns. “What’s the joke?”
“You are, man,” Neil says, giving his friend a quick, hard hug.
“Hey, Chrissie,” Josh says.
“Hi Josh. Heard you’re staying the night with us.”
Neil pinches me in a place Josh can’t see.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Josh says.
Neil pinches me again. “No trouble, man. It’s cool.”
I sink onto my chair and Neil calls out for a waitress. After ordering a round of drinks, it takes only a few minutes before I’m completely forgotten by Neil and he’s laser-focused in a discussion with Josh.
They start arguing across the table over About a Girl and whether Nirvana is a commercial sellout or not. Crap, not this again. Josh doesn’t want to bastardize their music by doing something commercial.
“It’s not a commercial sellout,” I say to Josh. “It’s a popular hit. That doesn’t make it a commercial sellout.”
Josh sits back in his chair, giving me the what the fuck do you know about anything look. “Stay out of this, Chrissie. When we get to talking about the cello and symphony, we’ll ask for your opinion.”
For a guy determined not to be like the mainstream music industry, Josh is an elitist in his own way.
Neil leans across the table toward Josh. “Don’t fucking talk to her that way. She’s a brilliant musician.”
Josh backs off. “I’m just saying.”
Tempers are flaring too quickly tonight. God, what’s up with these guys? Road fatigue? Road disillusionment?
“It’s OK. I won’t say another word.”
Neil looks at me, shaking his head. “No, Chrissie. You say anything you want to say. Josh is a prick. Don’t let him shut you up.”
“I’m not. I just don’t want to be in the middle of a fight tonight.”
Josh laughs. “You think this is a fight? Christ, it’s a good thing you never go on the road with us.”
“No chance of that ever, Josh,” I say in a deliberate, heavily exaggerated way.
Neil stares at me and my cheeks flush. Crap, why did that one piss him off?
Before their quickly escalating argument can turn into what I fear is about to become a quickly escalating argument between Neil and me, the band breaks. In a matter of minutes, they’re making their way toward Neil and the guys sink down at our table, flooding it with beer bottles.
I’m given only a brief introduction as “Chrissie” before the laughter and talk swirls. In the fast moving conversation, I catch that the band is from Seattle and they’ve been crossing paths with Arctic Hole in cities for nearly six months on the West Coast independent tour venues.
Their lead singer stands up, clutching his beer bottle and pointing at Neil. “You’ve got to sing one song with us, man.”
Neil shakes his head. “No, I’m with my girlfriend.”
The guy looks at me and I shrug. Why do I always end up an issue when I’m out in guy world?
The singer points at Neil. “She said it was OK, man. Don’t hide behind your girlfriend.”
Neil laughs. “Do you mind, Chrissie?”
“Why should I mind? I haven’t heard you perform in a while. Go sing something for me.”
Neil stands. He winks at me. “One song, but only if I can do something commercial sellout-worthy,” he says, staring at Josh.
Everyone laughs, I choke on my drink, but Josh glares.
I watch Neil go on stage with the band. He takes a guitar and launches into a conversation with the guys. Good, he’s going to play tonight.
Neil goes to the microphone, adjusts the stand and says quietly. “This is for my girlfriend, Chrissie. None of you fuckers boo.”
I watch more attentively after that and then he starts to play. It takes me a minute to recognize the song. It’s Elton John. It’s Tiny Dancer, and it’s fucking brilliant. The arrangement, down to the lyric changes, makes it completely relevant and current. The music is just edgy enough, with Neil’s rasp and touch of dark wistfulness. A haunting song now, instead of a sweet one. It brings to my mind shades of what Judas Priest did with Joan Baez’s Diamonds and Rust.
Only this is better. It’s pure Neil. And Neil is definitely doing this song for me… Blue jean baby. SB Lady. Lover of this man…. I listen with over claimed senses, my emotions running sweetly through my veins since it’s such a non-Neil-like thing to do to sing a song for me.
Then I look at the room. The way the girls are staring at Neil. He may be doing this as a goof because Josh pissed him off, but crap, he should record this cover.
The music finishes and Neil unplugs and is off stage, seeming oblivious that his joke was a performance he knocked out of the park.
He sinks down in his chair. He points at Josh. “That was for you, fucker.”
Josh gives him the finger.
He turns to me, a smile in his eyes. “Or was that for you?” He kisses me. “Did you like your song?”
When he pulls back, I stare up at him wide eyed. “Neil, that’s a hit. You should record it. Put it on the new album.”
“Are you fucking crazy, Chrissie?” Josh exclaims.
Neil frowns, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not recording Tiny Dancer. That’s your song.”
“When did it become my song?”
He kisses me again.
“About five minutes ago.”
“Then record it for me, Neil.”
Neil studies me, shaking his head like he can’t believe I mean it.
“You ready to hit it?” he asks Josh.
Josh and I argue about whether the band should record Tiny Dancer all the way back to the condo. Neil ignores us both. We enter the condo and he pops a CD in the player, grabs a blanket from the cabinet, and tosses it on the couch.
“We’re out of here, Josh.” He takes my hand and leads me to my bedroom. “Come on, Chrissie.”
Neil is on me the minute the door closes. I try to talk to him, but he’s unrelenting in kissing, undressing, and moving me toward the bed.
Later, quiet and spent, we lie holding each other.
He kisses my nose. “I’m going to miss you, Chrissie.”
“I’m going to miss you, too, Neil.”
“Did you like your song?”
“No. I loved it. You should listen to me. Record it.”
Neil laughs.
“I’d need to get the rights to do a cover, and the band would think it’s fucked.”
I kiss his sex-damp chest. “I don’t care. Do it for me.”
I tuck myself into Neil’s body and tonight we feel wonderful together.
~~~
I walk the guys downstairs to the van early in the morning.
Josh climbs into the passenger seat as Neil opens the cargo bay, tosses his bag in, and then slams the door.
He folds me in his arms against his chest. “I wish I didn’t I have to leave
.”
“I wish you could stay longer, too.”
“I’ll be back before summer,” he whispers, trailing light kisses across my face.
I give him a long kiss and go with him as he climbs into the driver’s seat. I smile up at him through the open window.
“See ya, Chrissie. I’ll call you tonight when we reach Portland.”
“See ya, Neil.”
I step back, and the old van makes a loud sound as the engine turns over, and then Neil drives away. I stare at the road long after he’s out of view. I feel really quiet inside as I stare at the empty road; none of that internally messy feeling. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing that I am with Neil.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rene sits on her knees, on my bed. She hops and then shakes me.
“Chrissie! Get up. Get dressed. Pack. Let’s get out of here.”
I grab the pillow beside me and cover my face with it. “I don’t want to go to Palm Springs. It’s got to be a ten hour drive each way. We’ve only got a week off. I just want to stay in Berkeley. Or maybe go to Santa Barbara. I can’t decide which.”
“Chrissie.” That’s spoken as a growl. I lift the pillow and Rene stares down at me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I don’t want to go to Palm Springs for spring break.”
Rene is studying me in that hyper-analytical way she has as if she’s trying to diagnose my mood.
“I’m not letting you stay alone in this condo for a week and have another spring break meltdown. Get over it already. You act like you’re only girl ever to be dumped by a guy. Are you going to be a mess every spring break over Alan forever? Let’s go have fun.”
I ignore the insult because I never told her about Alan’s detour to Berkeley.
“I’m not mourning anything. I don’t want to go to Palm Springs and get wasted.”
“Then we won’t get wasted,” Rene says reasonably.
“We always get wasted when we go out together.”
Rene arches her brow. “I always get wasted. You’re always no fun.”
I throw a pillow at her, hoping she’ll go away.
She glares at me.
“If I’m no fun then why do you want me along?”
Rene pretends to think about it. “Because you’re fun when you’re no fun.” She collapses beside me on the pillow. “Chrissie, come with me. Is it Neil? Is he being a jerk? Does he not want you to go?”
“Neil is never a jerk. I wish you’d figure that out and stop being so shitty to him.”
Rene’s eyes round and her expression shifts into disgust. “Oh, and thanks a lot, belatedly, for the heads-up last week that Josh Moss would be sleeping on our couch when I got home.”
“Was it awful?”
Rene’s brows pucker. “Not awful. Sort of a weird. But weird in a good way. We talked for hours. It was kind of nice.”
I stare at her. Rene does not like intimacy with guys, and talking for hours definitely falls into the intimacy cubby.
“Talked? Are you saying you spent all night with Josh when he was here and you just talked?”
Betraying color creeps across Rene’s cheeks.
“I didn’t say I didn’t fuck him later. It was really good.”
“Slut.” I only say it because it’s a joke.
“Prude.” Fiercely back at me.
I lie back down on the bed, she copies my posture and I turn towards her. “Are you still going to Palm Springs?”
Rene looks startled by the question. “Of course. Everyone is going to be there. I want you to come.”
“Nope. Not doing it.”
Rene gives me a hard stare. “I’m going with or without you.”
“Then go. You’ll have more fun without me.”
Rene springs from the bed. She stops at the door and stares back at me. “You can still pack and join me if you want to.”
I nod. “OK.”
She closes my bedroom door loudly behind her. Message received, Rene. You’re pissed and you want me to know it. I roll over in bed and tug the blankets tightly around me.
Rene pops back into my room two hours later. I’m still in bed.
“I’m heading out now. Sure you don’t want to join me?” she asks.
“No. I’m pretty sure I’m going to go to Santa Barbara. I’m kind of homesick.”
“Can I still take the car or do you want me to leave it? I can hitch a ride down with friends.”
“It’s OK. Take the car.”
“You sure?”
She crosses the room and gives me a hug.
“I’ll see you in a week,” she says, rushing from the room.
Five minutes later I hear the front door slam. I feel completed deflated and I don’t know why. My emotions cascade over me in relentless waves. I roll over in bed, agitated in my flesh.
It’s been seven months since Alan was here. Not one call. I didn’t expect that, though I probably should have. Stupid, Chrissie. Almost as stupid as thinking spending two days with Alan would change anything in either of our lives.
I close my eyes and begin to drift. Yes, sleep will be good. Very, very good.
~~~
At 9 p.m. I’m still in bed where I pretty much haven’t moved from all day. I reach for the bottle on my nightstand, pour a glass of wine, and then stare at the tin containing Alan’s letters.
I lift the lid. I pull out the most recent one. Please call me, Chrissie…I stare at the number printed so precisely beneath his name. Jeez, it’s over a year old. Just because Alan isn’t touring again until May, doesn’t mean I can find him. The phone number is probably not even good anymore.
I reach for the phone. Lame, Chrissie, so lame to call him. But Alan deserves to know I got his letters…finally… shouldn’t I at least tell him that I got them?
I punch in the numbers and wait. Ring. Ring. Ring.
“Hello, may I help you?”
I can tell by the voice it’s not a residence of Alan’s, but an answering service.
“I’d like to speak with Alan, please.”
“Whom may I say is calling?”
Crap. I don’t want to give my name. Not to a service. And what if I’m not on the call list? There has to be an approved caller list, and that would be an emotional blow, too much with all I’m feeling today, to call Alan and not even be on the list.
“Miss, can I help you?”
I scrunch up my face. “Tell Alan it’s Chrissie Parker.”
Click. Static. Click. Did she disconnect me? Oh, this is wrong. Stupid. Pathetic. Why am I doing this?
I’m about to hang up the phone when I hear, “Chrissie?” on a low, raspy voice.
I put the receiver back up against my ear and close my eyes tightly. “Hello, Alan.”
Silence.
“I didn’t expect you to call,” he says.
Weird, blunt Alan honesty. I don’t know how I’m supposed to take that one. Happy I called or irritated? I can’t tell. Every muscle in my body tenses even more.
More silence. Longer this time.
“I didn’t expect to call. But I did,” I say.
Alan laughs.
“Yes, you called. A good thing. Otherwise I would be standing here talking to no one, looking ridiculous.”
I force a laugh that I can hear is a little rough and nervous.
“Are you OK, Chrissie?”
I hug my legs with my arms, pressing my cheeks against my knees. “I’m good actually. It’s just…”
“Just?”
I take in a deep breath. “I wanted to let you know I finally got your letters.”
Another pause.
“I meant every word I wrote,” he says softly. Then, a small laugh. “Except for the mean ones. I was angry some days.”
I laugh. He says that with just the right amount of elegant inanity.
“I liked the mean letters. Those are the ones that say you still cared.”
It takes a moment for my brain to catch up with my words. Oh crap! Why di
d I say that?
“Are you really OK, Chrissie?”
His voice is different this time. I feel my heart accelerate. I feel my limbs go weak, and I just want to bury myself under the covers and cry.
“I’ve already told you. I’m good.”
“What are you doing?”
“Sitting home, alone, during spring break with your letters.” Oh god, what made me say that? I force a laugh, praying he takes this as a joke. “Pretty pathetic, huh?”
He doesn’t laugh. Damn. More silence.
“I should let you go, Alan.”
I start to hang up the phone, when I hear his voice in the receiver. I quickly put it back against my ear.
“…don’t hang up, Chrissie,” he says.
I wait.
Nothing.
“Alan, I think this was a mistake for us both that I called. Do you want me not to call again? I just thought…”
I can’t finish. The even breathing growing louder with each word I speak through the receiver makes it impossible to finish.
“I should go,” I say.
“No,” Alan says firmly. “I’m in Southern California, Chrissie.”
“You’re not in New York? You’re not on the road?”
“No. I’m in Malibu. Working.” He inhales deeply. A long pause. “I’m alone. I told myself I wouldn’t do this unless you called. I’m alone, Chrissie. Spend the week with me.”
~~~
I pause at the drop-off loop curb at LAX, not exactly sure what to do next.
A car pulls up in front of me. A very sleek, black, foreign sports car. I move toward it and the passenger window rolls down.
“Chrissie. Toss your bag in the back. I’m not getting out of the car. It’s better that I don’t.”
I open the door, drop my bag on the floorboard, and then sink in the passenger seat beside him. Alan starts to speed out of the airport.
We sit in silence as our drive takes us through clogged, slow-moving Southern California freeways toward the beach. After what feels like a never-ending vacuum of quiet, Alan’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. “Was your flight good?”
I turn my face from the window and my eyes fully settle on him for the first time since I climbed into the car.
