Bar Crawl Read online

“You’re kidding?” she asked, still looking mortified.

  I nodded as I stood, still laughing. “I’m kidding. It’s not Carol, but the look on your face was priceless.”

  “You’re an asshole,” she mumbled as we cleared our plates and made our way to the door.

  “Eh, I’ve been called worse. Hey, I’m playing at Upper Deck tonight. You should stop by.” I know how lame it sounds to ask a woman to come see me play. Really I didn’t care if she was there for the set at all, I just wanted to talk to her afterward. It was obvious I couldn’t tell her that, though, because she wasn’t likely to believe me given my usual activities after my sets.

  Frankie looked into the sun, squinting her grey eyes. “Maybe. I’ve got papers to grade.”

  “What kind of papers?”

  “Short stories on their feelings about heading into the next school year.”

  I nodded. I wanted to ask about ten more questions, but I didn’t want to give myself away. “Well, consider it. We don’t get to play outside much because of all the racket.” I put on my best old geezer voice. “But it’ll be fun.”

  “I’ll consider it,” she agreed as she opened her door. She granted me a polite smile before ducking into her car. “Thanks for lunch.”

  “Thank you.”

  I watched her car drive away before I turned for mine. I drove to the warehouse where we practiced and beat the hell out of the drums all afternoon to try to work out exactly what it was I wanted…from Frankie and myself.

  Frankie

  The wind ravaged my hair as Bradley and I walked up the wooden steps to the … upper deck of Upper Deck Bar and Restaurant. I told myself I didn’t care.

  “So, let me get this straight,” Bradley half-shouted over the wind, “we’re here to see Last Call play.”

  I nodded as we moved toward the bar. “Yep.”

  “Because CJ asked you to.”

  “Yes.”

  “When he stalked you at work and then demanded you have lunch with him.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.” The shock of CJ’s face appearing amongst the books in the library and again out in the parking lot was fresh in the flutters of my stomach.

  “But,” he continued, ignoring me, “you don’t care about him.”

  “Right.”

  Bradley twisted his lips before ordering something that sounded as impossible to make as it was to say. Turning to me, he shook his head. “Okay, whatever you say.”

  Bradley rarely conceded on major issues regarding me and men. I knew that wasn’t his last word. I ordered my vodka soda—the least calorically expensive thing that wasn’t crap beer—and put my hand on my hip. “Just say whatever it is you meant to say instead of okay.”

  “He likes you.” Bradley wiggled his eyebrows up and down.

  “He likes everyone.”

  Bradley retrieved our drinks from the bartender, handing me mine, which I sipped gratefully. “Then why are we here?”

  Truly I was stumped as to why, really, I found myself drawn to CJ’s request to see him play. It’s not that he had a ton of mystery to offer—he seemed to lay everything out for anyone who would look. Still, my mind kept wandering back to earlier in the day when he plucked that hard-bound, second edition Robert Frost collection from the dark wooden shelf, and his lips moved around the words. I didn’t know which poem he’d read from, but that almost didn’t matter. It was Frost, for God’s sake.

  “I told you about the poem, right?”

  Bradley nodded. “Twice. Once this afternoon and once on the drive here. Well, three times, now, I guess. How do you know he was even reading from the poem? Maybe he was just mouthing random words to make you think he was reading it.”

  I twisted my lips. “Don’t think I hadn’t thought of that. It’s just…”

  “What?” Bradley grinned as his eyes lit up.

  I sighed. “He looked at a specific page, you know? He didn’t just randomly open the book… he’d held that book before, I’m sure of it.”

  “Well,” Bradley sighed, “you are the book whisperer.”

  It was true. Ever since my first job stocking shelves at a national bookstore, I’d learned how to match people with their books. Sometimes it was tricky—like when an uptight classical musician holding a historical novel on cellos also grabbed a graphic novel with superheroes on the front of it—but I learned the signs eventually. There was always a “tell” people had that led me to the books they’d choose. The young mom in expensive yoga clothes, sporting a nose ring, wouldn’t be in the Health and Fitness or Children’s sections, for instance. You’d find her in Self Help.

  I’d say I have a 90% success rate with reader-book match. One thing I knew for sure was that CJ had read from that book before, more than once. And, even if for no reason other than my own morbid literary curiosity, I wanted to find out why.

  Suddenly, the chatter around us—and even the wind, it seemed—snapped to a quiet with the clacking of sticks.

  “One, two, three, four!” It was CJ’s voice. Unmistakably. His voice carried the tinny rasp of a seasoned smoker, though I’d never seen him with a cigarette in his mouth.

  As the crowd hushed and jostled into position, I noticed the stage was set up slightly differently than it was at Finnegan’s. CJ’s drum set was a bit more forward, and he had a microphone in the center of it, allowing him more vocal options, it seemed. I’d only heard him sing once before, and that was the first night I’d noticed him several months ago—long before he’d hit on me.

  Honestly, I didn’t know a ton about music other than what I’d read in books. I appreciated music to listen to, but never had the urge to pick up an instrument. Musicians had always fascinated me, though, and one thing I did know was that it was rare to have the drummer sing much at all, let alone lead.

  Last Call seemed to favor ‘90s alternative, which beckoned an internal conflict against my preference for everything else from the ‘90s. While I watched CJ masterfully morph into Kurt Cobain with a drum set as he sang “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” though, I thought I’d better go home and update my playlists. ‘90s rock was sweaty and sexy, according to my inability to stop staring.

  I know we were there specifically to watch him play, but I was still struck dumb. I couldn’t stop staring at his hands as they seemed to move independently from his body, insanely rapidly across the drums. Then there was his mouth. Sometimes, when he held a long note, the edges of his mouth would curl into a wicked looking smile as he clenched his teeth and drowned out the note with a growl.

  Any time I managed to move my eyes to his face, I saw that he was rarely looking at his set. It was as if his hands told his eyes to take a break, and they took the lead. His eyes were constantly scanning the crowd, darting from one group of people to another. As he hit the climax of their opening number, his eyes landed squarely on mine, and that grin turned into a full smile, complete with a quick flick of his tongue ring before he put his head down and pounded out the rest of the song.

  “Well, that does it,” Bradley shouted into my ear as the crowd cheered deafeningly loudly. “He’s a goner.”

  As I clapped, I leaned my head toward his. “What do you mean?” I shouted.

  “He likes you.” Bradley spoke in a middle school girl-style voice and batted his eyelashes.

  “I’m not hi—”

  Bradley put his hand up. “Fuck! Stop saying you’re not his type. He was right when he told you he didn’t have a type. That’s not always a bad thing. He likes pretty people.” He shrugged, as if that settled it.

  As Last Call went headlong into their second song, I couldn’t help but look at the women around me. I was average size—smaller, if you look at national statistics—but it seemed the bar crowd was an anomaly. Through my eyes, it all looked like they wandered out of high school, leaving cheerleading practice before ordering a low carb beer. I liked the way I looked day-to-day. I had strong arms and legs, a flat stomach, and womanly curves. All of that turned
into a funhouse distortion when I was out sometimes. I didn’t internalize this as a means to tear up my self-esteem, but it clouded how I viewed men, and their intentions.

  All other men were temporarily free from my scrutiny as I set my sights on one man, and wondered just what in the hell his intentions were.

  CJ

  We ended the first half of our set with the smooth sounds of “Californication” by Red Hot Chili Peppers. I was grateful for the break. The drum beat is march-like and allowed me to practice my counting precision while giving me a slight break at the same time.

  She came. I can’t fucking believe she came.

  Part of me assumed that our lunch together was the last time I’d get to see her one-on-one. She’d seemed awfully skeptical of me—and my intentions. Though, who could blame her, really? I don’t exactly have the most upstanding reputation. I’ve never tried to have one that’s different.

  I like women. So sue me. They’re beautiful, intriguing, delicious, and, for God’s sake, could they smell any better? Jesus. It’s not always about the sex at the beginning, but I can’t help it if it ends up there.

  Still, as I watched Frankie through the slow end of the song, I found myself caring exactly where we’d end up. And that freaked me the fuck out.

  “Thank you,” I said into the microphone. “Back in thirty. Someone buy me a drink!” I winked at the giggles of a string of bleached blondes in the front row. Though, on second glance, I rationalized that I shouldn’t let them buy me a drink since I questioned their legal drinking status. And, really, their legal adult status.

  No one needs that headache.

  Sliding my sticks into my back pocket, I gave quick nods and smiles to the girls in the front row who tugged playfully at my t-shirt. Shaking them off was hardly an issue as I kept my eyes on Frankie and her obviously gay friend. He was always as manicured as the lawns on Nantucket. Bradley, I think I’d heard her call him before.

  “You came,” I said when I reached the bar.

  As she tucked her hair behind her ears, I allowed myself a quick look over her entire body. She had on a fitted tank top with thin straps. Hot pink. Her skirt sat just above her knees, flared out slightly, and was black with tiny white polka dots. Every piece of fabric on her body intentionally hugged her skin in all the right places.

  Sweet Jesus, those curves will be the death of me. Yes, please.

  “You’re staring,” she murmured dryly. Thankfully, she was smiling.

  I pulled out a playful grin as I accepted a Guinness from the bartender. “Can you blame me?”

  Frankie rolled her eyes. But she blushed. Thank God. “You sounded great.”

  Now it was my turn to blush, though I kept it pushed down. The thing was, I knew I was good. I’d spent my whole life playing and singing. But there’s something about when a girl knows it that catches your eye. When you realize you caught her ear…it must be what girls refer to as “butterflies.” I’d never say that. It’s just what they say.

  Frankie’s friend was peering mischievously at me from behind her shoulder. I decided to head that off.

  “Hey, man,” I extended my hand, “I’m CJ. What’s up?”

  He arched his eyebrow, a surprised smile on his lips. “Bradley. Great lineup. Best decade for music. So much of everything rolled into ten tiny years, huh? Got any Alanis? That’s Frankie’s favorite.”

  He laughed as Frankie smacked his arm. “Bradley!”

  She seemed mortified, and I stifled a chuckle. “There’s nothing wrong with Alanis,” I conceded. “You just don’t strike me as so…angry.”

  Frankie tilted her head and quirked the corner of her mouth. “And you don’t really seem like ‘The Road Not Taken’ type.”

  Frost.

  I’d been prepared to have her question me on the book I’d looked at when I found her at the library, but I hadn’t really prepared my response. I wouldn’t lie, but I couldn’t talk about it here.

  I took a deep breath and clanked my glass with of hers. “Here’s to impressions.”

  She allowed a soft giggle and sipped her drink. “I didn’t realize you could sing so well.”

  “Thanks…I think.”

  Frankie’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant…don’t drummers usually just…drum?”

  I nodded. “We do. Some of us get lucky, though.”

  The truth was, I knew I was lucky. Not only to be able to sing on a technical level, but to be part of group that didn’t mind an extra vocal lead from time to time. It gave us more depth, since we all sounded slightly different. And, frankly, it’s exciting to watch a drummer sing while they’re playing. I know this because when I was in high school and saw it myself at a Metallica concert, I quickly made a plan to learn how to sing. And well.

  Frankie looked over her shoulder and seemed to note, as I did, that her friend was engaged in conversation with another group of people. I watched her shoulders rise and fall as she took a deep breath before looking back to me. She didn’t seem like the kind of girl who needed social security blanket.

  Maybe it was me. I didn’t mean to make her uncomfortable, and I wanted to change that, but time was running short on our intermission between sets. “Come with me for a minute.” I nodded my head to the back of the deck.

  Frankie followed without saying a word until we got to the top of the stairs. “Where are we going?”

  I walked down a few steps and sat, patting the space next to me. “Here.”

  She looked back over her shoulder, biting her lip slightly before holding her skirt against the backs of her legs as she sat. “What’s up?”

  “Come have coffee with me tomorrow.”

  Frankie gazed up at the stars, licking her lips as she seemed to consider my request. “No,” she said, looking back at me.

  “Wh—”

  “You come have coffee with me tomorrow. You’ve made an awful lot of plans for the two of us already today, wouldn’t you say?” She brought her lips forward, pursing them slightly in an apparent attempt to ward off a smile.

  I chuckled, realizing that I spent the day walking the line between demanding and desperate. “Fair enough. Where?”

  “Seaboard Coffee,” she said after a moment. “It’s down on—”

  “I know where it is,” I cut in with a nod.

  “You do? You don’t really seem like the coffee shop-going type.”

  I cocked my head back. “Yeah? And you don’t seem like the rock band-watching type.”

  Frankie pressed her tongue into the inside of her cheek. “I’m not.”

  I let out a full laugh. “Right. Except for all the times I’ve seen you rocking out over the last several months?”

  She winced, scrunching her nose, which made her freckles come together in an unusual pattern. “Several months?”

  I stood, offering my hand, which she didn’t accept as she stood. “I told you I remembered the first time I hit on you, Frankie. That wasn’t just a line.”

  She sighed. “Well, whaddaya know.”

  We were quiet for a few moments as we walked up the stairs and back onto the loud deck. “Well,” I stretched my arms overhead, “I’ve gotta get back to it.”

  Frankie nodded, crossing her arms in front of her in an almost protective-looking stance. “Play some Green Day.”

  My eyes widened. “All right. Which song?”

  She huffed and looked up for a moment. “Oh, I don’t know. That ‘do you have the time’ one.”

  I chuckled. “Basket Case.”

  “Excuse me?” she shrieked, only serving to make me laugh louder.

  “That’s the name of the song, Frankie. Basket Case.”

  She looked down, seeming embarrassed. “Oh …”

  I couldn’t stop myself. I reached forward and touched a very calculated spot on her cheek. She leaned into it for a millisecond. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe I dreamt it in my head. But I’m certain she leaned in.

  “You have a heart there,” I
said softly.

  She looked up, a confused glance in her eyes.

  I touched the spot once more. “There’s a heart-shaped freckle. Right here.”

  “Oh,” she said again, not sounding an ounce embarrassed this time.

  “See you tomorrow. Two o’clock okay?” I removed my sticks from my back pocket and spun them by my legs.

  Frankie nodded.

  “Great,” I winked, “see you then.”

  My mouth felt dry as I made my way back behind my drum set. As I sat, I had to readjust my jeans twice before I was in any condition to start the next song. As I tore into the Green Day hit Frankie had suggested, I realized that while I didn’t have to be fully honest with her about anything…I wanted to.

  Frankie

  I parked my car a block away from Seaboard Coffee and locked the door. I needed the block-long walk to steel myself. That sounds archaic and harlequin, I know, but I also knew that, once again, I could feel CJ’s finger on my cheek from the night before.

  That heart-shaped freckle had been there forever, and no one other than my grandmother and Bradley had ever pointed it out. Ever. This dynamic drummer seemed to have my number, but I wasn’t sure that I wanted his. I was slowly getting over the “but I’m not his type” thing, but there was more to it. I’d moved past my physical insecurities because, truth be told, I had seen CJ flirting with, kissing, and otherwise ogling women of all shapes, sizes, colors, and cup sizes.

  Regardless of if I was his type according to my looks, I was more uncertain about whether or not I was his type. We’d seen each other several times over the last few months and this would be our third non-date in thirty-six hours. Though I’m not sure stalking counts as a date, it was kind of sexy. Still, I didn’t know CJ to date, and we hadn’t done anything more physically apart from him touching my cheek a couple of times. Which was borderline Amish in the world according to CJ.

  As I rounded the corner and saw the coffee shop ahead, I wondered again what CJ expected from me. Was this just a long, drawn-out foreplay to him? I was too old for that shit. Yet, I showed up at the coffee shop on time anyway. Well, a little early, because I wanted to be able to pick out our seat and have a few moments to collect myself further.