“You can’t do that,” I scold, rather unconvincingly.
“That’s a word I refuse to acknowledge.”
“ButIhavecrabbutterbeer breath,” I mumble incoherently.
“And a perfect fucking mouth,” he whispers in reply, an admission that comes far too easily as his gaze lingers on said mouth. Retrieving his glass, he casually tosses back the rest of his beer, like he didn’t just assault me.
“Smooth,” he whispers as our waitress nears the table. “Rob Thomas and Santana.”
Easton breaks our stare off and thanks her, his long lashes flitting over his cheeks as he tips her and scribbles his signature. The sight of it has my stomach churning for an entirely different reason.
He kissed me.
He licked me.
I want a repeat, or at the very least, a do-over.
“Ready?” he asks as he stands and tucks his wallet back in his jeans. Feeling seduced for a plethora of rapidly accumulating reasons, I simply nod.
Instead of bringing me back to the hotel to change, Easton and I end up standing outside the entrance of the Museum of Pop Culture. I glance up at the structure of the connecting buildings, which look like nuclear plants smothered in colorful, ghost-edged blankets.
“You’re intent on making me a tourist,” I harrumph.
“Well, technically, you are, and this is an epicenter of a lot that interests you,” he shrugs as he pulls my hand into his warm grip. “Come on.”
Minutes later, we’re walking past a theatre-sized screen with an abstract reel playing as he guides me along highly polished floors. As we bypass a story-tall, inverted tornado sculpture made up of musical instruments, I release his hand and lift my phone to take a snapshot. Easton turns back and catches me, an amused glint in his eyes.
“What?” I shrug, “might as well go all in and finish with a T-shirt from the gift shop.”
Simpering, he jerks his chin in silent command. We soon enter a section of closed-off rooms with glass displays full of worn instruments and other paraphernalia, many solely dedicated to one music artist or band. A few minutes later, the two of us stand side by side, staring at Kurt Cobain’s green sweater.
“April 5, 1994,” I say, “one of the few entertainment headlines I can easily recall because it made national news for weeks.”
“One of the innovators behind what’s known as grunge, a title some bands tossed into that genre resent. Though, it was Mother Love Bone who really kick-started it all. When their lead singer, Andrew Wood, died of an overdose, the remaining members found Eddie Vedder, and Pearl Jam was born. Two months after Pearl Jam released Ten, Nirvana released Nevermind. What seems fated was Andrew’s roommate at the time of his death was Chris Cornell, the lead singer of Soundgarden, his eventual fate the same as Kurt’s,” Easton adds in a subdued tone, studying the Nirvana front man’s sweater. “They’re truly the ones responsible for putting Seattle on the map.” Easton’s eyes glide over the display thoughtfully. “Mick Jagger from The Rolling Stones called Nirvana’s music morose, but ironically, Cobain and the rest of the band were influenced heavily by The Beatles. If you listen to Nevermind, you can easily pick up some of the upbeat, catchy similarities in rhythm relative to The Beatles’ earlier works.”
We collectively gaze at the late singer’s sweater, knowing the tragic end of Kurt’s life was suicide. The circumstances of his death are still speculated by many, even forty-one years later.
Easton speaks up again. “Kurt’s one of many in the infamous 27 Club.”
“27 Club?”
“The age several prominent creatives died, many of them musicians, for some shitty reason or another. A lot of those reasons being drugs.”
“I think I read about it somewhere. Who else is in the club?”
“Shit, too damned many. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Brian Jones, Amy Winehouse.” He lifts his chin, “Some of them are in a few of the rooms here.”
I harrumph. “For someone so intent on keeping his own details so close to the chest, you sure seem to know a lot of the details of others.”
“I study musical evolutions, mostly by listening to their music. I don’t pay attention to the useless details so many seem to obsess over.”
“Yeah, well, as a human-interest writer,” I look back to the sweater, “I would love to know what was going on in his mind.”
“Pain,” he surmises easily. “Kurt and Eddie both notoriously hated fame and media, so if nothing else, we have that in common.” He flashes me a condescending, full-toothed grin, and I lift my free hand giving him the bird. He squeezes my other in jest before leading me to the next room. It’s when we reach the entrance that I see the reason he brought me here.