The People We Keep(63)
“The Downtown what?” he asks.
“Just The Downtown.”
“Like who’s on first?” he says, grinning. He crinkles his nose and his glasses go crooked. He has big teeth. I like them. I think about how I could paint his smile in a song. I realize I don’t even know what to call him.
“You never told me your name,” I say. “I’m at a disadvantage.”
“Ray.” He offers me his hand, and when I go to shake, he puts his other hand over mine, looks in my eyes, and says, “It’s really nice to meet you, April.”
We talk until last call. I don’t want it to end. I don’t want to stop feeling like I actually exist in the world. He tells me how he used to be in a band. We talk instruments. He says my guitar is a really good one. The way he says really makes me worry that my mother’s old ring wasn’t enough of a trade and maybe I still owe Adam something.
“I’ve been thinking about having an electric pickup added,” I tell him.
“Thing is, you’re better off just getting an acoustic-electric. Don’t start cutting into your guitar. You’ll kill the soul. I mean, this is what you do for a living, right? You can have more than one guitar, you know?”
“Yeah, I guess. I’m so bad with the gear side of things,” I say, pushing my hair out of my face, letting it fall back where it was. “I should probably get my own PA too at some point. I could play in so many more places, and the sound would be consistent.”
“Why don’t you?”
“It costs. And it’s a lot to learn—all the different techie things I’d need to know before I could figure out what to buy.”
“You know what? Come home with me.” He’s shredding his wet bar napkin into tiny pieces. I like that I make him nervous. I like that he has jitters too.
“I don’t know,” I say, “I was going to hit the road and drive to Red Bank. Pull an all-nighter. I have a place to crash there.” It’s always better to make them think it’s their idea.
“You have a place to crash here,” he says. “I’ll show you my guitars and amp. You can play them, so you’ll have a point of reference when you’re ready to buy.”
“Are you sure?” I say. “I don’t want to put you out.”
“Not at all,” he says, and just like that, I have a place to sleep tonight. I have someone to talk to. Maybe more.
* * *
When we get back across the street to our cars, he offers to drive me to his place. I tell him I’ll follow him instead.
“Alright,” he says, “be that way.” He says it like he’s joking, but there’s an edge. It kind of throws me off balance, but I’m so tired. My eyes don’t want to stay open. I get in my car and follow him. He drives hard. Squeals around corners, blows through stop signs. I have to work to keep his taillights in sight. I start to think that maybe I should just drive the other way, cut my losses and sleep in my car somewhere, but it’s one of those rock and hard place situations. Keeping up with him means I haven’t been watching the roads. I don’t know how to get back to where we started, so I just keep following.
He parks at the dead end of a dirt road. Ranch houses and double wides line the street. He lives in a ranch that looks like a gust of wind could smash it to smithereens. The front steps are decaying. The outside light is busted. The only light in the driveway comes from his neighbor’s house.
He’s already out of his car and opening the front door when I park. I bring my guitar and my purse with me. I never leave them in my car if I can help it.
“Come on in,” he says.
He has four guitars, a futon, a glass-topped coffee table, and a television in his living room. The TV is one of those ancient ones with dials on the front, and it has rabbit ears tipped with aluminum foil.
His house smells like old tires. Just this hint of it at the end of breathing in. I wonder how close we are to the highway. I listen, but I can’t hear road noise. I leave my guitar and my purse by the door.
“Okay,” he says, “you have to play the Martin first. That’s my favorite. That’s the one you should get if you have a windfall. I got it in trade a few years ago. Swear it sounds better the more you play it. It’ll cost you, but the tone is unreal.”
He checks that it’s in tune and hands it over to me. It’s much heavier than my guitar.
While I’m playing, he dumps a small baggie of coke on the coffee table and cuts it into lines with a guitar pick.
I try to ignore it and just keep playing. It’s not like I’ve never seen people do coke before, it’s just that I’ve never been so close to it. It was something I glanced from the other room at a party, or I saw people come out of the bathroom at a bar with white powder ringing their nostrils. I try to pay attention to my fingers and the way the stiff strings press into my calluses, but it’s so close. I feel like the dust will get everywhere. Tiny particles will cover my lips and get in my eyes.
He rolls up a five and snorts one of the lines and then another. It’s hollow and loud like his nose is a deep cavern. He shakes his head, blinks his eyes a bunch of times, and snorts again. His face is red.
“Oh, you know,” I say when he tries to hand me the rolled-up five, “I’m kind of tired. And I should hit the road early. I’ll just crash. I’m good right here.” I pat the couch.