Lucian Divine(3)

“I don’t think so. You hungry? Want to go to 4505?”

“Yeah, let’s do it.”

4505 Burgers & BBQ on Divisadero was a casual meat-fest. I had a root beer float, and Beckett and I shared a half a platter of ribs. There was meat and BBQ sauce in his beard through our entire meal, and it didn’t bother me one bit. I found it charming. Again, all new and shiny feelings. I had only slept with two guys in my entire life and neither was memorable at all, so at twenty-four, I felt inexperienced. But Beckett was sweet and easy to be around.

Afterward, walking toward my apartment, we popped into a local hole-in-the-wall bar to grab one last drink before I invited him up, though he didn’t know yet that I had planned to finally have him over. It was only eleven, and I knew Brooklyn would be out until two in the morning at least.

The bar—which by the way had no name—was a cool little place to get in one last drink. The bartenders dressed up in Star Wars costumes… always. It was just their thing. Tonight the bartender was Han Solo. When Brooklyn or I referred to the bar, which only had a neon sign with bright yellow letters reading Cocktails, we called it the Star Wars bar.

Beckett and I sat at a table across from the bar top. I ordered a glass of wine.

He, of course, ordered the hoppiest IPA then said, “Hoppy makes me happy.”

I laughed as the bartender walked away.

“Bad joke?” he said.

“I’ll let it slide.”

Only a few loners were sitting at the bar, but the music coming from a jukebox in the corner was really loud.

“They should turn it down, huh?” I yelled.

“You want me to ask?” Beckett yelled back.

“Would you?”

“No problem.” He got up and headed toward the bar.

I saw him exchanging words with the bartender, then a man sitting at the end started talking to Beckett as well. I stared down at my drink and wondered if more alcohol was a good idea. When Beckett came back, the music was still hauntingly loud, playing “Bad Love” by Eric Clapton. I felt as if we were in a cheesy motorcycle movie. Beckett was bobbing his head to the beat and smiling. His demeanor had changed.

“What did they say?” I yelled.

“He said it’s a fixed volume. They can’t change it!”

“What? That’s insane! I’ve been in here other times and the music wasn’t this loud!”

“But it’s Clapton.” He was still bobbing his head.

I appreciated his enthusiasm, but I didn’t feel like yelling over Clapton while I was trying to get to know Beckett. “What did the other guy say?”

“The guy at the bar?”

“Yeah!”

We were still yelling across the table, ridiculously.

“He was wasted. He said these were his picks and to fucking leave it, and then he rolled his eyes at me and said something like, ‘Elders are gone from the gate, young men from their music.’ He touched my forehead. I almost fucking slapped him.” Beckett looked at the ceiling. “The music is good though.”

He must be kidding. “Is that a biblical reference?”

“This song?” he asked, pointing up to the ceiling again.

“No, what the guy said.”

We were missing the mark. Our conversation was becoming more and more awkward by the second. The date was going downhill fast. All the smitten, shiny feelings were beginning to dull. This always happened to me.

He shrugged. “No clue, man.”

Did he just call me “man”?

The next song came on, a slower, quieter acoustic ditty sung by a familiar voice. Beckett pointed at the speakers yet again and shouted, “Fuck yeah, Tom Waits!”

It was the song “I Hope That I Don’t Fall in Love with You,” and Beckett knew every word. He serenaded me with his hand on his chest while I looked around for a hidden camera.

“Am I being Punk’d?” I asked.

“What?”

“It’s just that you’re pointing at me and saying you hope you don’t fall in love with me.”

He shook his head as if I were confusing him. “I’m singing. What’s the big deal?”

“Never mind!” I yelled. “Do you want to go to my apartment?” The music came to a screeching halt while I was mid-sentence, basically broadcasting my proposition to the entire bar.

Beckett looked affronted. First time I’d offended a guy by inviting him over.

“But the music is so good here,” he said.

A moment later, the music was back on, and I swear it was even louder than before. I nodded, although I had never been so dumbfounded in my life. “Okay.”

I finished my wine and watched Beckett continue, song after song, to flip out in excitement over the music.

One o’clock and three glasses of wine later, the jukebox was still blaring random selections, even though I hadn’t seen anyone go near it. There were four barflies on stools and Beckett and me at a table, while the rest of the place was empty. My mind was clouded by his strange behavior, and my patience was growing thinner by the second. I had had enough.

“I’m going home!” I yelled.

When I stood, he smiled. He didn’t bother standing. He held up his hand and waved.

“See ya!” he shouted over “Sad Angel” by Fleetwood Mac.