The People We Keep(62)

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There’s a guy in this audience who doesn’t quite fit. Younger. More brown than grey. He wasn’t here the last time I played. His glasses are retro, black-framed, army issue. He has one of the flyers for the show in his hands. He rolls it tightly and lets it go, over and over through the whole first set.

We are both waiting for the bathroom at the break. There’s only one room with Hommes et Filles painted in gold script on the door. The door is thin and the knob hangs loosely in its hole. We could look in if we wanted to. The person we are waiting for pees and we can hear. It’s uncomfortable.

Flyer Guy smiles at me and squeezes his paper tube. He looks through it like it’s a telescope and he wants to see his shoes better. We listen to the woman in the bathroom wash her hands. She coughs before she opens the door. She squeezes past us, giving me a forced smile.

“Go ahead,” Flyer Guy says, pointing the paper tube at the bathroom.

“You go,” I say. “My seat is safe. You’ve got competition for yours.”

He asks if I’m sure. I hold my ground. It’s awkward to stand there, trying not to listen to him go. I look at the black and white photos on the walls. Pretentious and purposely quirky. Nothing like Decadence. Pictures of fruit, dripping with dew and sexuality, posed on a rough wood table like they’re having conversations with cruel, comical vegetables. In one picture, I swear a pepper is telling a peach she has a fat ass.

I hear the toilet flush, but he doesn’t come out yet. I walk around in little circles and think about the riff for one of my songs. I’ve carried it with me in my head since Ithaca, unfinished. Something’s off about it. Missing words, missing notes. I haven’t figured out how to fix it yet. Someday.

Flyer Guy comes out as I’m mid-circle, thinking about the fingerpicking rhythm. I’m moving my fingers like they’re on the fret board. I must look a little nutty.

“Lost in thought?” he asks, grinning. Behind his glasses, he has these really nice brown eyes. They’re so alive.

“Thinking about a song,” I say, feeling my cheeks get hot.

“Like a skier who has to visualize the mountain before he gets off the lift?”

I laugh. “Something like that.”

“Good luck with your next set,” he says. “Break a leg.” I like his smile.

I walk in the bathroom and latch the door behind me. I don’t even have to go. I just need a moment to myself so I can catch my breath. I hold my wrists under the water and imagine my fingers turning into icicles, then I turn the water to warm. It’s procedure.



* * *



I’m almost done with the last song of my second set when Flyer Guy stands up. He weaves his way around the chairs and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket when he reaches the door.

He doesn’t come back. I give the crowd a good scan while I’m signing CDs and think maybe I will spring for a motel tonight. Then there he is, in the doorway, smiling at me. I smile back.

He waits as the coffeehouse manager pays me in crumpled ones and fives. I wad up my money and shove it in the inside pocket of my bag.

“Let us know next time you’re headed this way,” the manager says. “We always get a good crowd for you.” And it feels good to hear him say that, to know that Flyer Guy heard it too. I built that crowd from nothing. I had to beg to open for other singers. I played for meals or free coffee. I fought hard for every bit of ground I’ve covered, and to have a notebook full of places that will book me—it means something.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Flyer Guy asks as I walk toward the door. “There’s a bar across the street.”

I usually try to grab one of the older guys. Divorced, with a kid who’s probably only five or six years younger than I am. The kind of guy who wants me but feels bad about it. I can go home with him and stretch my arms out, say I’m tired and thanks and he’ll let me sleep on his couch. Or he’ll sleep on the couch and let me sleep in his bed like some kind of penance for his dirty thoughts. I know him. I’ve met him in more than one town. He’s a type. He’s easy.

This guy is different. He’s probably in his late twenties. He’s cute. He knows it. He wants me. I know he does. If I go home with him, I won’t crash on his couch. But sometimes, maybe I can just try to be a normal girl and go on a normal date, even if it’s only a drink in a bar. Sometimes I can have something that’s mine.

So I say, “Yes,” and get jitters, actual jitters, so much so that I even stop thinking about how I’ll describe them in a song. I just enjoy being a girl out with a guy.

We walk across the street together. He’s quiet. His hands shake a little while he fumbles with a cigarette. It’s cute, makes me feel shy too.

The place he takes me to is next to the train station. It’s dark. Neon and worn out wood. Almost empty. We sit at the bar. He orders Jack on the rocks. I order a Coke. I don’t drink with strangers, and my fake ID isn’t that great. I only use it when I absolutely have to.

“So, April,” he says, when our drinks come, “where are you headed next?”

“New Jersey,” I say.

“Uch, Jersey,” he says, wincing, and I feel like I have to defend my tour schedule and maybe all of New Jersey.

“Red Bank is great,” I tell him. “I play at this place called The Downtown. Good crowd. I have a guy I record with sometimes when I’m there.”