Memories rush back, revealing Carlos really did once treat me right—times when he thanked me for cooking and then showed that gratitude by doing the dishes, and the stormy night he braved driving to get me Pamprin because pain pills weren’t giving me the relief I needed. While his past actions no way justify the bad things he has done, they show the man he used to be.
Carlos is like a document put through a shredder, and in reconstructing the strips I am starting to see the full picture—the job offer for less than he was making; the women who are not only young, but who also make themselves look younger still; wildly spending money on good times—these are all signs of a mid-life crisis. I see it because I am having one myself. Something about pushing your half-point mark affects us like no other time in our lives. We all go about changes, and you can either fall prey to fear, or you can dare to explore the possibilities.
Nearly forty years into my life, I am still learning who I am and what I need. If you are only old when you stop growing, I just might still be a teenager.
With The Wind And The Rain In Your Hair
DALE
Warmth coats me as clouds break and sunlight beams down. A robust breeze rushes over me, rippling in my ears. There are a million things I need to do for work today, yet here I am, fully suited and uncharacteristically strolling through the park on a Monday afternoon. I feel out of step with the world.
I scarcely slept a wink this weekend after seeing how, despite having lost everything years ago and still being without prospects, Brandon dares to dream. His job can’t pay worth spit. If he is raking in the bucks, he’s the humblest person I know. Me? I’m itching for my promotion to come through and would jump ship in a heartbeat for a few extra grand a year.
When I dropped Brandon at the airport this morning, the part of me hating how he makes me face myself was glad to ditch him. The lonely sod in me wanted to stow away in his bag and go home. However, my runner side wanted to pop onto a random flight and flee everything. Filling my bed has always meant filling a void. If I stick to my guns and change my ways, what new diversion won’t send me down another counterproductive road?
Roaring water enters my ears, drawing my feet in a new direction. Given how many times I have dashed past this place while grabbing lunch, that sound shouldn’t be foreign.
Around the bend, water falls off the tier of a fountain and crashes into the surrounding basin, splashing droplets into the wind, and spraying my face. Memories of Abby in the rain darken my heart. Though I’m quick to step back and protect my suit from the spray, my newfound acceptance of who I am has me halt in front of the demon instead of running. The fountain faces me like a challenge, calling on me to shed my fears like it releases water.
“Step into the rain,” it says. “I dare you.”
Wind gusts and water sprays down, barely misting my shoes.
My distance reflects a lie. I’m not protecting my suit; I’m protecting my heart. Not only is it time to face my pain, I’m damn tired of running from reminders of it. As much as Abby and I dodged those drops, every pelt made us feel more alive than ever. I don’t fear rain; I fear feeling. No longer succumbing to being a playboy is one thing, but daring to feel again—daring to have hope like Brandon—is the real step.
A year ago I met with a psychic. When I played with my wine glass, I could swear it screamed Live! Memories of that tone inch me forward, catching the spraying water on my face. The cool drops shock and thrill as I inch closer, refusing to let anything overcome my determination to dive back into life. The spray tickles me like I am a child. Melancholy turns into chuckles. For the first time in years, I feel life bounding into me—wet, stupid, and free.
With the toss of my head, the sun blesses me with warmth—a captivating reminder of a universe outside of my own. My world has been a minuscule place filled with grief, and I’ve let myself drown. It is time to break the surface, so I stick my head under the tier—right into the downpour of life. Water rushes over me, and again my laugh builds while I relish in another sensation long forgotten—hope. It grows so fast my emotions cause me to burst aloud, “Come on, hope! I dare you to return! I choose to live!”
Joy builds along with an image of Gene Kelly in Singing In The Rain, dancing and splashing without a care.
Oh, why not? Kelly was in a suit, too.
I jump in and relish in my baptismal. How the water only reaches my ankles makes me feel I have conquered the rain. Stomping and splashing—slapping my feet and bursting into song like Kelly did, I beg the drops to reach my face.
In one last grand stand, I stick my head directly under the falling water, letting happiness reign down on me.
Drops fly as I flip my head away and plop down on the edge of the fountain. I must look a fool—a damn, free one. I scan the park in hopes this idiot in the water has brought smiles to others as well. In the distance, I catch sight of Fedora Guy providing me with another first. Not only is he waving, he is wearing a readable expression—a smile mirroring my own. Why is he suddenly making some kind of effort to communicate? He’d did it the other night at the bar too, when he tipped his hat right after Brandon straightened me out.
Could it be that in his own way, Fedora Guy is acknowledging my learning to fly right?
He turns to leave, and my feet hit the ground in a mad dash. “Hey, wait!” I scream.
I sprint, each step giving a resounding slosh that leaves a trail of water. No matter how fast I run, he outpaces me. People stare as I dash down the block and into the shopping area while screaming at what they perceive as nothing. I’m almost caught up when Fedora Guy ducks into a record store. I burst inside soaked, huffing, and panting.
Despite the florescent lights, the store is dim to where it seems only illuminated by the front windows. Bright posters dot red walls, but the colors bring little to life. Row upon row of CDs and records fill the store, yet the only sounds are middle-of-the-road pop and the clinking of customers flipping through jewel cases. A moment ago I was bursting with life; now I feel the plug has been pulled. Fedora Guy is nowhere to be found, and people are milling about as if a crazy man in a wet suit hasn’t burst in. It’s so damn dull in here I pat my body to make sure I still exist.
Water sprays as I hit flesh and bone, proving I am real.
In the corner, a hint of gold sparkles into sight. A poster of four guys with Chilliwack printed across the bottom sits under letters of gold saying, In Memory of Glenn Miller. Pressure hits my temples as I approach the display and catch a whiff of lime and musk.
My eyes lock on a large black and white photo of a lanky, long-haired man playing a bass guitar—an infamous man from this city who had his own accomplishments, yet someone else tried to claim the glory. How wrong is it we spend so much time building our lives, and in the end, we have little control over how people remember us?
I look away, unable to face the person who has almost been a running joke to me.
What the?
Teal sits near my feet, and I’m quick to pick up the feather.
There is more for me here, and I am missing it.
My eyes drift back over the display. Apparently I am not the only one amused by Mr. Miller’s name. Equally represented is the Glenn Miller most people know—the man who voluntarily gave up his high-paying civilian life to join the Army so he could up morale by leading a modernized army band. Ultimately, that decision led to his death. If I had seen this display a year ago, I would have snubbed my nose at the other Glenn, but now I have to wonder; was the rock and roll Glenn Miller as valiant as the orchestra leader? Or does it even matter because the masses only care that he was impersonated? It’s not unlike how my friends miss the core of who I am because they see me as a sleazy salesman and playboy.
Buying a Chilliwack CD and letting the lesser-known Glenn Miller shine again seems the respectful thing to do. As I reach into the bin, shock races through my system at the sight of another album—one from the orchestra leader. Sitting behind Glenn as he blows his clari
net is a face I’d know anywhere. He may be missing his signature look, but there is no mistaking that balding, dark-haired man with the saxophone is Fedora Guy.
Like lightning, that CD is glued into my hands. The back shows nothing but a track listing. Inside, not a single mention is made of the guy with the sax.
Just who the hell is he?
The Coffee Song
BAILEY
A cool breeze brushes over me as the theatre’s air conditioning system kicks in, nudging me awake. It is amazing I can relax at all, given the padding in this seat probably lost its cushiness some time in the twentieth century.
Although The Kingsway has seen better days, its quaint, old charm is always a comforting reminder of my younger days. Growing up, Darla, GranGran, and I spent countless hours gobbling popcorn in many of LA’s old movie theaters. Also, right now The Kingsway holds the bonus of being a pleasant contrast to the current state of my home. Between my frustration with Carlos and the mess I have made while executing step one of my escape, I can’t stand to be there anymore. Besides, I’d rather do just about anything than breathe the same air as that two-timer.
My phone chimes with a text from Katherine. “Just got back. Want to grab some coffee?”
Oh, thank God. Not only am I bored out of my skull, if she didn’t get back to me, I’d have to ambush her in the parking lot tomorrow morning before anyone told her what was up. She may kill me for not calling the second I gave notice, but I’ve been a little tied up with racing out of here before Carlos catches on.
I respond faster than film flickers. “I’m at The Kingsway, escaping Carlos by watching a documentary on bowling. Tell me where you want me, and I will be there in a heartbeat!” My peep toe pump-covered feet are already stepping into the lobby.
“Carrie’s Café in 15?”
I return the text almost instantaneously. “I’ll be there in five!”
“Just coffee for me, please. Decaf,” Katherine says to the waitress. Not only have Katherine’s eyes yet to stop scanning the menu, they seem to do it with reverence for a lost love. Although hollow eyes reflect sleep may be in order, her Slayer T-shirt and flaming hair still scream vivacious rock star.
“Decaf for me, too,” I add, “but with two forks and a slice of cherry pie.”
“Yes!” Katherine exclaims, adding a fist pump. Though the woman has to watch her weight like a hawk, she is always more than happy to abide by our rule: she who orders ingests all of the calories.
“So, how was your visit home?” I ask.
“It was good,” blurts out with so much false cheer I don’t believe her for a second. Sometimes being with Katherine is like being with my sister. “Seeing my parents was great. Getting away was also good in the sense that, despite the fact my heart is on the fence, I have come to terms with needing out of my relationship with Jason. How I managed to come home after he left for a location shoot, and how I reworked my schedule so I now leave for Los Angeles late Wednesday night, before he gets back, shows where my head is.”
Katherine’s fascination with the single-serving container of jelly she picked up conveys she hopes it will replace whatever else her mind is locked on. “But there is more to it, isn’t there?” I ask.
She tosses the container back into the caddy, and I get spotty eye contact. “That conversation you and I once had about how the only friends we seem to have are each other got to me again. It reminds me of being a kid and playing Monopoly against an imaginary partner. Did you ever do anything like that?”
There is something disturbing in Katherine’s eyes. I recognize it because I have seen it in my own. Fatigue, openly denying your life is not the way you want, and popped on smiles reinforce it as well. Time and again Katherine has told me she is tired—of Jason’s bull, of long hours, and even though she has a legion of fans, of being alone. Her seemingly innocent question goes deep. When love has wronged you, you fear the person you could love forever is as real as an imaginary friend. If there were a doubt in my mind she and Jason are done forever, it’s gone now.
The waitress arrives and sets down our order along with the bill. Katherine cocks her head in wonder. She’s not the only one who feels told to shut up, pay, and get out. Still, my snicker is aimed at Katherine’s question. “With Darla around, I never had enough privacy to create a playmate. Although …” I shake my head. “I can’t believe I am admitting this. When I was about thirteen, I used to daydream I had a boyfriend with black hair, a gorgeous tan, and eyes dark as sin. I would often sit on a swing in the park and pretend he was swinging next to me. We had some of the best talks.” I chuckle over how sad it is to see how unrealistic my dreams were. “Yep, I had deep, meaningful conversations with a male member of the species. That alone told me it was fake. It sounds so weird now, but back then I thought of it as talking to the man I was destined to find.”
“Was destined to find?”
Katherine’s emphasis on my use of the past tense puts me in check, and I sigh out my annoyance over how lame I just sounded. “I’m determined to make better choices now, but even with my new attitude, negativity seeps through the cracks.” I’m fast to follow my words by grabbing my cup and sipping. Bailing on Carlos is the right thing to do. Moving and starting over are, too. However, that doesn’t make leaving Katherine any easier. She doesn’t just remind me of my sister; she is my sister in all the best senses of the word.
Katherine lets out a hearty exhale. “Don’t sugar coat it. Just spill it.” She’s quick to grab her fork and nab a cherry out of the pie.
For as resolved as I am, telling anyone shouldn’t be hard. In my head and in my heart I’ve already left Carlos, and I’m damn proud of the career I have built. However, I’m also ready to move forward and take another step. My cup thunks on the table, and I spill out my determination for a better tomorrow. “I gave notice at work.”
Katherine’s eyes widen and lock.
“I am moving in with Darla, taking over the job she is leaving, and going back to school. It is time to stop ignoring my dreams and regain who I am.”
Katherine’s gaze drops, cueing water to well in mine. Seeing she will miss me cuts into my heart, even though her quivering smile shows she understands. “I’m so glad you are doing what is best for you,” she says. “I’m gonna miss the hell out of you.”
I squeeze her arm, and she places her hand over mine. “I’m gonna miss the hell out of you, too,” I say emphatically while holding back tears. “But hey, it’s not as if you never go to Los Angeles.”
“True, and with Jason’s twisted logic about how success works, I’ll be jobless and back there as soon as this season wraps. His not so strategic career plans are totally going to tank the show.”
Katherine shakes her head like she is trying to clear that thought. It doesn’t seem to work, and she turns her attention to the pie. Suddenly she blurts, “Do you think there is someone for everyone?” She goes for a big bite of pie like she has earned it.
“You mean, like a soul mate? Similar to how I thought this conversation was headed earlier with you being vague and asking about imaginary people?”
Her gaze returns to the jelly caddy. “You really do know me well.”
Yes, which is why I am certain she has more than Jason on her mind. Something, or maybe even someone, is testing how she sees life. There is far more going on than she wants to admit. Her inability to figure it out, let alone talk about it, has her using odd words tonight.
I was raised to believe in so much more than I can see—a life beyond this one, our souls living after our bodies die, and even having bonds from the past carry into now, so why not soul mates? “Absolutely,” I say, answering her question, “and I wish he would show up. I’m tired of being at a carnival.”
Katherine grabs half of the last bit of pie, and I dig into the rest. “Do you think you might know him on sight?” she asks.
Well I’ll be. It sure sounds like another man is slipping into the picture.
No, if her co
ncern were that simple, she would tell me. The only time Katherine holds back is when she doesn’t understand something herself. As for my feelings regarding her questions, I have no clue where my words pop out from, but they feel right. “I absolutely do, but only if I don’t expect him to be perfect. Don’t you?”
“Not in the least, which means I have to be a lot more open-minded.” Suddenly she snaps back to attention and nabs the check. “It’s on me. You just did me a big favor. I owe you a lot more than pie.”
Yep, someone else is filling her thoughts, and it is messing with her head. My touch to her arm brings her back into the same world I am in. “So, you are telling me even though you have been on the evasive side, I managed to help you with whatever was going to keep you from sleeping tonight?”
“I don’t know how I am going to make it without you.”
Her earnestness has tears building again, for both of us. They release when I tell her, “I promise to never be more than a phone call away.”
With a sniffle, she grabs my hands in hers. “I’m sorry I’ve been in my head tonight. As much as I am fine with Jason and I being done, something I am not ready to talk about is messing with my mind.”
“I know you haven’t been cheating on Jason, but you are sure being pulled, aren’t you?”
Her smirk seems pained. “Honestly, I’ve no idea what is going on with my head, but when you said you were leaving, it was like I hit overload. Are you okay? Do you need anything? Anything at all? And please don’t tell me I am stuck with Elsie.”
I suck in a hiss and fake feeling bad just to watch Katherine’s eyes bug out, then I bust out with reality. “Oh hell no! Since she has a crush on the guy from Collegiate Inmates, I did us all a favor and got her another job.”
Once Upon A Midnight Page 144
