Bar Crawl(12)

“With a degree in…”

“Computer Science.”

My mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding,” I said flatly.

He shook his head, his eyebrows lifting as his mouth formed a tentative smile.

“So then, what…” I wasn’t prepared for questions of this nature. I wasn’t prepared for CJ to be anything other than, well, CJ.

“So then what, what?” he teased. “The work on my computer right now is contract work for a software company a buddy of mine runs. They’re branching out into other markets and needed me to test a few things. What? You look…confused.”

I must have. I just couldn’t marry the bar-hopping, neck-kissing, tattooed drummer with whatever visions I’d had of Computer Science majors. Which were none of the aforementioned things.

“You don’t really look the part, I guess.” I shrugged and sipped some more of my latte. “So who do you work for full time?”

“I don’t.” His playful eyes egged me on.

I sighed. “You don’t. Okay. So, drumming, then, pays your bills?” His ability to confuse me through conversation alone was a far cry from anything I’d previously given him unjust credit for.

CJ looked down and chewed his lip for a moment, as if he were considering how to place his next words.

“In college, I was part of a group of guys that helped get this social media site off the ground. It was a shitload of work, but worth it. We were demigods.” Suddenly all of the words he said sounded smarter. More articulate. Had he just used the word demigods? “Anyway,” he continued, “two years ago I cashed in all of my shares and walked away from the job.”

“Why the hell would you cash in your shares? And, wait, what social media site? Is it still around?” I was trying to keep my voice down, but sensed I was failing as CJ shifted his eyes from side to side.

“I wanted to be free from all of it. The programming stuff isn’t even what I wanted to do with my life, Frankie. It’s just what I was good at. I promised my parents I’d go to school for it, and get a job, so they knew I could take care of myself financially. When I cashed in my stocks I reinvested chunks here and there… It doesn’t matter. The point is, I did what I’d told my parents I would do so that way I could do, finally, what I wanted to do.”

I nodded, still taking in this dramatic shift in his character. Maybe it was just a shift in my perceptions.

“And what is it you want to do? Play drums?”

He shook his head. “Write.”





CJ




I said it. I said the thing I never tell anyone to the one girl who wanted nothing to do with me. Even though she had agreed to coffee.

“You…what?” Frankie sat back, then sat forward again, raking a hand through her hair and leaving it on the side of her head as she rested her elbow on the table. “No.”

“No?” Now it was my turn to lean in, confused.

“That’s not…h-how? What are you writing?” She put air quotes around “writing” as she sat back, crossing her arms in front of her.

“A book,” I admitted. I was already in this deep—might as well go all the way. “That look on your face isn’t really what I expected.” She was staring at me like I had three heads, rather than the excitement I’d assumed awaited me. The least threatening thing about me—according to someone like her—left her looking at me like that? I was in deep shit.

“Well, this whole day isn’t what I expected, CJ. Jesus. I thought you were some…playboy drummer. In the span of five minutes I find out that you’re a computer genius, probably rich thanks to this mysterious social media deal, and—the kicker—you’re a writer?” Her eyebrows came together in what looked like irritation.

“So,” I prodded, “you judge books by their covers?”

She snorted. “I guess that explains the Frost…” she trailed off, ignoring my question, then she shot her eyes up to mine. “What’s the book about? Ha! Listen to me, that’s the shittiest question to ask an author and here I am, asking you. What…Jesus…what genre?”

I shrugged. “We’ll see how it shakes out. Fiction, but that’s all I really know for now. I’m kind of doing research as I write.” My palms began to sweat. I felt more exposed in that moment than the time I was caught having sex in the storeroom at Dunes. “What was that about Frost?”

Frankie seemed to regain her composure. Color returned to her cheeks as she cleared her through. “When you stalked me at work yesterday. You pulled that Robert Frost book down from the shelf. What poem did you look up?”

I shifted in my seat, habitually flicking my eyes around the room. I didn’t really know anyone in Hyannis anyway, but I still checked. “‘Fireflies in the Garden.’ It’s not what I was looking for, though I do love that poem.”

“Don’t you think it’s kind of a snobby poem?”

I sat back in my seat, trying to contain my shock. “No way. It’s sad.”

“Sad?” Frankie’s eyes looked up and she seemed to be reading the poem on the ceiling. “Sad,” she repeated as though she were considering it.

“Yes. Any time someone is trying to emulate someone or something else, they’re going to fall short. That’s one piece I’ve always taken away from it. Not that Frost talked to a firefly to see if emulation was its plan, but, if it was, it will fall short. Always.” Excitement formed in the pit of my stomach. It’d been years since I talked poetry with a woman.