The People We Keep(70)
“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.”
“Anytime.” He winks and shoots a finger gun in my direction.
I clink my bottle with Justin’s and go up to start my second set. A song from my first CD. Angsty and fierce. Snakebites and heart attacks. I’ll never make you mine, go back. People sing along. I finally feel like I don’t have to think about anything but lyrics and chords and the faces in the crowd. Like things can be simple for a moment.
* * *
After my second set, Sam has disappeared. Justin waits for me. He hangs around while Arnie counts out the register to give me my cut.
Arnie slides beers down the bar to us while we wait.
Justin rests his hand on my thigh and drinks his in big gulps. I don’t know anything about his real life, what he does when I’m not here. He’s grown into his looks, less awkward. He should have a girlfriend, but he always seems to be available when I roll into town. We never talk about it. And the things I do know, I forget. I can’t remember what his major is, or where he grew up. I can’t remember his last name.
Arnie slides a wad of bills across the bar to me. “You are a little bit of magic, I think,” he says. “Good haul tonight.” I hop up to sit on the bar so I can give him a hug.
“Thanks, Arnie,” I say, kissing his cheek. He blushes a little.
“Don’t be a stranger,” he says softly, looking me in the eyes, sizing me up. “Okay?” It’s his way of taking care of me. “Okay?” He’s making sure I’m not falling apart. That my bruises will heal. It’s his way of saying something without saying anything specific, and I love him for it.
“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”
* * *
Justin’s new place is two streets over from Main. We’re both too drunk to drive, so we leave my car at Arnie’s and walk over. Justin carries my guitar for me. There aren’t many people left walking around. It’s still cold and crisp and the puddles ice over at night. Binghamton won’t see the last of the snow for months.
I shower when I get to Justin’s. I’m in wash when you can mode. It doesn’t matter that I just showered at Arnie’s. I smell like bar and smoke and I’m sweaty from playing.
Justin’s shower isn’t too gross. The house is big and empty. It’s just me and him and it’s sweet, because of all the people I know, of all my pockets, Justin is my favorite. He’s my marker. I count time against him. I’ve watched him grow up. He’s older than me, two years, I think. So, he must be twenty-one now, but it feels like he’s a kid and I’m something else.
I tie my hair in a knot and pin it with some bobby pins I keep in my bag. I wrap myself in his towel and walk down the hall to his room.
Justin lit candles while I showered, the globe kind with psychedelic patterns that glow as the wick burns down. The candlelight reflects in the sheen of his Sports Illustrated posters. Patchouli clouds the room, but it doesn’t mask the fact that he’s stoned.
“Wow,” he says when he sees me. He already has condoms out. I can see the shiny wrappers next to a skull candle on the shelf over the bed. Three of them, lined up like a goal he’s set.
“What happened to your hair?” I ask, rubbing my hand over his head. The wax he slicked it with makes my palm sticky.