Jesse's Girl
Page 32
“I always say go big or go home.”
I stretch out my legs and wiggle my toes, drying them in the sun. “Do you still love singing and playing guitar?”
“More than anything.”
“So what are you gonna do when you retire?”
He looks to the opposite shore. “No idea.”
“Then why would you quit?”
“I don’t have a choice, Maya. I can quit or never have a real life. Right now, I don’t have anything but my music. Not friends, not family.”
“Haven’t you ever tried to make friends with other people in the industry?”
He nods. “It’s hard though. You never know if someone likes you for you. I used to spend time with Candy Roxanne, you know, the country singer? Then I realized she never wanted to hang out at home, watching a movie or listening to music. We always had to be seen somewhere together, like at a party or a restaurant, and people were always taking pictures that ended up in People and Us Weekly. It was never about friendship. She just wanted to be seen with me. And you know what happened with my ex, Stacey.”
“But not everybody will use you. Some people are good, Jess…”
We sit, listening to birds singing, to wind blowing through the trees. To the beautiful song of Tennessee.
“Marco,” I say.
“Polo.”
I tentatively scoot his way. “Marco.”
“Polo.”
I crawl over next to him, touch his forearm. His brown eyes look so pretty and warm in the late afternoon sun. He touches my dress, twisting the black tulle in his hand. “I ruined your outfit.”
“I know.”
“I’ve liked getting to talk to you today. You’re different.”
“So are you.”
His lip upturned, he leans back onto his hands, squinting at me, and I pull my eyes away from the line of water trickling down his flat stomach into places I still shouldn’t be thinking about.
He catches me looking. “Sure you don’t wanna have sex?”
I slap his arm. “Would you behave?”
He grins. “So what’s up next?”
“As soon as our clothes are dry, I’m driving your Harley.”
• • •
Jesse tells me that his favorite part of being a musician is writing. It makes him feel calm and excited all at once. Calm, because it’s quiet, and he gets the opportunity to think. Excited, because he never knows what might come out of his pen onto the paper. I’ve never been much of a writer, but I love that feeling of success, like when I figure out how to play a particularly hard transition.
“So you do all your writing at your Pa’s fishing hole?” I ask.
“I’ve got a few other places too. My studio is one. The other is a secret.”
“Tell me!”
He grins. “Are you serious about driving my bike?”
“You better believe it.”
“I trust you after seeing you drive that red car earlier. You know the way back to Second Avenue in Nashville?”
As I climb on his Harley, I feel like I’m hitting a high C, the note that, as an alto, I always have problems singing. With Jesse securely behind me, I kick-start the bike and carefully steer it back onto the road. It’s a lot bigger than my Suzuki, but I manage it okay. I head toward downtown Nashville at seventy miles per hour. Jesse clutches my hips as I speed through yellow lights.
Zooming down Franklin Road, we pass by Vanderbilt University and the Frist Art Museum. I honk and wave at the NashTrash Tour’s Big Pink Bus as I drive down tree-lined stretches of road, passing by Music Row and heading for the waterfront.
At Second Avenue, I pull over and park. Jesse takes off his helmet and sits on the Harley, panting for several seconds. “Good God, woman. Never again!”
“You’re just jealous I’m a better driver.”
He leads me to a Chinese restaurant, and I’m about to ask if he’s craving dim sum when I see a small sign with an arrow pointing down to a place called the Underground.
Is he taking me into the sewer? When we reach the bottom of the mossy, crumbling stone steps, he pushes open a door, and I gasp. A used record store. It’s totally hidden away. How has it stayed in business?
I feel like I’ve stepped into a time machine. Band posters and magazine articles coat the walls, and tables filled with used CDs, DVDs, magazines, records, VHS tapes, video games, and cassettes stretch the length of the room. Cardboard cutouts line the aisles: Eddie Vedder, Mariah Carey, John Lennon, Cher, Jimi Hendrix, Aretha Franklin, Jim Morrison.
I stretch out my legs and wiggle my toes, drying them in the sun. “Do you still love singing and playing guitar?”
“More than anything.”
“So what are you gonna do when you retire?”
He looks to the opposite shore. “No idea.”
“Then why would you quit?”
“I don’t have a choice, Maya. I can quit or never have a real life. Right now, I don’t have anything but my music. Not friends, not family.”
“Haven’t you ever tried to make friends with other people in the industry?”
He nods. “It’s hard though. You never know if someone likes you for you. I used to spend time with Candy Roxanne, you know, the country singer? Then I realized she never wanted to hang out at home, watching a movie or listening to music. We always had to be seen somewhere together, like at a party or a restaurant, and people were always taking pictures that ended up in People and Us Weekly. It was never about friendship. She just wanted to be seen with me. And you know what happened with my ex, Stacey.”
“But not everybody will use you. Some people are good, Jess…”
We sit, listening to birds singing, to wind blowing through the trees. To the beautiful song of Tennessee.
“Marco,” I say.
“Polo.”
I tentatively scoot his way. “Marco.”
“Polo.”
I crawl over next to him, touch his forearm. His brown eyes look so pretty and warm in the late afternoon sun. He touches my dress, twisting the black tulle in his hand. “I ruined your outfit.”
“I know.”
“I’ve liked getting to talk to you today. You’re different.”
“So are you.”
His lip upturned, he leans back onto his hands, squinting at me, and I pull my eyes away from the line of water trickling down his flat stomach into places I still shouldn’t be thinking about.
He catches me looking. “Sure you don’t wanna have sex?”
I slap his arm. “Would you behave?”
He grins. “So what’s up next?”
“As soon as our clothes are dry, I’m driving your Harley.”
• • •
Jesse tells me that his favorite part of being a musician is writing. It makes him feel calm and excited all at once. Calm, because it’s quiet, and he gets the opportunity to think. Excited, because he never knows what might come out of his pen onto the paper. I’ve never been much of a writer, but I love that feeling of success, like when I figure out how to play a particularly hard transition.
“So you do all your writing at your Pa’s fishing hole?” I ask.
“I’ve got a few other places too. My studio is one. The other is a secret.”
“Tell me!”
He grins. “Are you serious about driving my bike?”
“You better believe it.”
“I trust you after seeing you drive that red car earlier. You know the way back to Second Avenue in Nashville?”
As I climb on his Harley, I feel like I’m hitting a high C, the note that, as an alto, I always have problems singing. With Jesse securely behind me, I kick-start the bike and carefully steer it back onto the road. It’s a lot bigger than my Suzuki, but I manage it okay. I head toward downtown Nashville at seventy miles per hour. Jesse clutches my hips as I speed through yellow lights.
Zooming down Franklin Road, we pass by Vanderbilt University and the Frist Art Museum. I honk and wave at the NashTrash Tour’s Big Pink Bus as I drive down tree-lined stretches of road, passing by Music Row and heading for the waterfront.
At Second Avenue, I pull over and park. Jesse takes off his helmet and sits on the Harley, panting for several seconds. “Good God, woman. Never again!”
“You’re just jealous I’m a better driver.”
He leads me to a Chinese restaurant, and I’m about to ask if he’s craving dim sum when I see a small sign with an arrow pointing down to a place called the Underground.
Is he taking me into the sewer? When we reach the bottom of the mossy, crumbling stone steps, he pushes open a door, and I gasp. A used record store. It’s totally hidden away. How has it stayed in business?
I feel like I’ve stepped into a time machine. Band posters and magazine articles coat the walls, and tables filled with used CDs, DVDs, magazines, records, VHS tapes, video games, and cassettes stretch the length of the room. Cardboard cutouts line the aisles: Eddie Vedder, Mariah Carey, John Lennon, Cher, Jimi Hendrix, Aretha Franklin, Jim Morrison.
