Buy the book at Amazon.com
Brown
“Have you had enough?” she
asked.
“Are you allowed?”
“I’ve done my duty.”
They slow-danced in a far corner of the Tacoma Dome,
having survived four hours of country music. The tickets came from Tacoma’s
boss. But her boyfriend’s sense of rhythm had been assaulted long enough.
They walked a few blocks to the Harmon Microbrewery,
where the cool, dark interior offered a nice escape from the humidity. Shawn
sipped at a wheat beer and noticed a billboard-size portrait of Woody Guthrie
at the History Museum across the street.
“Now there’s...”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry. It’s these goddamn ears of mine. It’s so hard
to be non-critical of someone in your own field. But I still can’t believe your
boss didn’t know who Asleep at the Wheel was.”
Tacoma smiled. “And this from a woman whose hair is so
authentically big, whose truck is so genuinely... huge.”
“And who hired three teamsters to get her into those
jeans.”
“Is denim an amazing material or what?”
“Well,” said Shawn, laughing. “I’ll give you the Dixie
Chicks, but the rest of those fakers are playing pop music with a twang. And
that one Generic Love Anthem they keep dragging out... Give me Buck Owens any
day.”
“Thanks for suffering with me, sweetie. So how was
yesterday’s excursion?”
“Oh! Let me tell ya. Pancho had a great time. They had
this incredible guitarist, young black guy. Pancho brought a pair of binoculars
so he could see how he fingered his chords. It was good for him to get away,
too. This responsible adult thing has been pretty tough.
“Poor Pancho. How was the drummer?”
“You know, Gatemouth is so straight-ahead, it was hard to
tell. He did this one thing with the snare, though, little drumrolls inside the
beat. I’m definitely gonna steal that.”
Shawn had done his research. But he could tell Tacoma
only so many lies before he exploded. He stared at Woody Guthrie’s rough-cut
face.
“Honey?”
“Oh, uh... yeah. Sorry. Tired, I guess.”
“I’ve got something to take care of that,” she said.
“Let’s go to my place.”
She was clearly intent on being nice to him. He was going
to have to live with it.
Lately, their sex was not as
exciting. Nothing terrible, just the leveling effects of Tacoma’s medicine, which
took out the peaks as well as the valleys.
That night, she was different – electric to the touch,
almost frantic. Every button he pushed brought a small detonation. The outfit
didn’t hurt, either: a lacy red and black number you might see in a western
movie.
This was the comfy cellar of pleasure that brought Shawn
to his reckoning. He lay at her side, tracing a finger along her shoulder
blade, and could no longer bear the distance of small deceptions.
“Honey, this is going to seem silly and stupid, but I
didn’t go to Gatemouth Brown yesterday. A couple months ago, I promised Angie I
would take her to a wedding. But I didn’t want to tell you. I just wanted to
keep my promise and be done with it.”
“So you lied your way around it,” she said, without turning.
“Yes. And I’m very sorry, I can see that I was being
selfish. And foolish – because you always know when I’m lying.”
She twisted around to face him. Her expression was hard
to read.
“I’m glad you told me before I had to drag it out of
you.”
“I know. I just...”
She put a finger to his lips. “Stop. Don’t ruin this.
We’ll talk later.”
She turned back around. A minute later, he ventured a
hand to tug at her hair – her favorite gesture. She gave herself to the
sensation and they made love, this time in silence. Then fell asleep, drifting
to their separate sides.
All the next day – Labor Day
– he waited for the hammer to fall. He woke up early and made breakfast, a
linguisa omelet followed by bowls of sliced mango.
They stopped at the Antique Sandwich Shop for breve
lattes, then headed south to the Nisqually Delta, where they walked a long bird
trail. Shawn was determined to spot a bald eagle, but had to settle for a pair
of great blue herons, sighted through Tacoma’s binoculars in the mudflats.
She spent the rest of the walk spinning out questions
like a talk-show host. Some of them seemed cold and impersonal, but he was used
to it.
“Do you see yourself as someone who needs to be the
center of attention?”
“No. But I don’t avoid it. Anyone who wants to jump on a
stage needs to have a bit of an ego.”
“So is the ego-trip the main benefit?”
“No. When I make the physical motions of playing the
drums, the creation is only halfway there. It’s only complete when someone
responds to it. Even better, dances to it. You wouldn’t believe the power, all
those butts and feet at the end of your sticks.”
They went on like that, a new question every few minutes.
Did he think his drumming would ever fit into a normal lifestyle? Had he ever
possessed an image of his perfect mate, and what were her characteristics? (And
no BS’ing the interviewer.) Was he spoiled as a child? Neglected? What was the
basis of his agnosticism?
“Lack of faith.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Such a negative phrase, isn’t it? But faith is a
thing you either have or don’t have. There’s no faking it, and you have no
choice in the matter. So my agnosticism is not, per se, a rejection of any
particular religion.
“Viewed another way, I have much more faith than a
religious person, because I am willing to live without guarantees, and to let
the mysteries of the universe remain mysterious.”
“Well,” said Tacoma. “I hope you’re right, honey. On the
other hand, I guess I don’t. Are those swallows?”
By the time they got home, they were both exhausted.
Shawn gathered his clothing from the day before, carried them outside in a sack
and turned for a kiss.
“I’m sorry. I can’t kiss you right now.”
“Why?”
“You lied to me, Shawn. No matter the particulars, you
lied to me. I’d appreciate it if we didn’t talk till... well, just let me call
you when I’m ready. I have to think about this. Besides, I’m very busy at work.
For now... please just leave. I’d prefer to kiss you only when I meant it.”
He tried to think of something he could say to heal this,
but he couldn’t.
“Good... Goodbye, Tacoma. I... Okay.”
He counted each tread on the staircase, raindrops
peppering his path. Then looked back for her face, could see only the palm of
her hand, flat against the screen.
Photo by MJV
No comments:
Post a Comment