* * *
Arnie’s place above the bar is old, cramped, and cleaner than you’d expect from a guy who’s always single and works until three in the morning. I’ve been here before. He lets me shower and use his phone to call ahead and book new gigs. I’ve crashed on his couch a few times when I rolled into town over summer break or Columbus Day or something. He’s never made a pass or even hinted he might want to. He’s old enough to be my dad, but that’s not always a limiting factor with guys. Some of them seem to like that more. Arnie is just quiet and easy and likes having company that doesn’t expect too much from him. There’s nothing there, but there’s nothing missing.
I shower, making the water as hot as I can stand, scrubbing every inch of my skin with a washcloth lathered with Arnie’s bar of Irish Spring. Sun streams through the frosted window in the shower, and I watch how it makes the water sparkle on my skin. I let myself cry. It’s safe to cry here. The water will run cold eventually. Arnie will come back upstairs to grab a CD or change his shirt. The sun will set. It will be time to play. It’s okay to let go when there’s an end in sight. When I’m alone, on the road, it could go on forever.
— Chapter 35 —
The last Friday night before spring break—I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. The place is packed. Arnie can charge a cover for me and I get sixty percent. It’s not a bad deal. Plus, it’s good for my ego. No one here will ask me to play Margaritaville or Free Bird or one of those awful standard covers old drunk people are prone to suggesting. They want me to play my originals. They know them. These kids are here because they saw the sign Arnie put outside. They came to see me.
Justin cut his hair. I wasn’t even looking for him and then there he is. He’s leaning against the wall, watching me play, holding a beer bottle by its neck. He smiles when I make eye contact. The last time I saw him, sometime in June, his hair flopped over his eyes and hung down to his shoulders. I remember it was thick and coarse between my fingers. Now it’s short and spiky and I almost didn’t recognize him in the crowd. He’s with a guy who has a mop of ringlets blooming from his head. They come up to the stage after my first set.
“Just-man!” I say as he kisses me on the cheek. “Good to see you.”
“You’re never here in March!”
“Good surprise?” I ask, wondering if he has someone now.
“Great surprise.” He smiles wide.
“I missed you,” I say, and while I haven’t thought of him much at all since the last time I was in Binghamton, seeing his face makes it feel true.
“I told Sam about you. We were gonna hit the bars on Water Street, but we saw the sign and I told him we had to hang here.” He gestures to his curly friend.
“Thanks for coming out, Sam.” I use his name while it’s easy, so later when I call him friend he won’t think it’s because I don’t remember. It’s my trick for dealing with too many names and too many faces.
“You were great.” Sam offers his hand to shake mine. His palms are warm and sticky, like a gum eraser that’s been kneaded a long time.
“Aw, thank you.” I’ve practiced my humble, genuine face in many a motel mirror. It’s an awkward thing to take compliments. It’s harder than you think.
“Can I get you a beer?” Sam pats his back pocket.
“Thanks, friend. Magic Hat. Tell them it’s for me.” I wave over to Arnie and point to Sam. Arnie nods. “House covers mine.”
Justin pulls on one of my braids. “Got a place to crash?”
I put my hand over his. “Do I?”
“I have a house this year with a few other guys, but everyone else left for break already.”
“Imagine that.” I smile. I can feel the current. He’s stuck in it, paddling like a puppy dog, his tail wagging madly. I know what this is. He does too. It’s our arrangement. He’s my place to stay. I’m his excitement. We have a history.
Someday, when he’s married and middle-aged, he will listen to my CD in his car on the way home to crockpot dinners and tricycles in the driveway. He will pull the jewel case out from the crack between the seat and the console at a traffic light, run his fat fingers over my picture, and remember what it felt like to cup my breasts in his palms while my hair streamed down his arms. There won’t ever be an us, but he’ll never forget me.
Sam comes back with my beer. I smile and wipe the rim off with my sleeve. “Thanks, friend.”