!!!!1*****WORKING DRAFT*****!!!!!
After we hung up, I wondered, as I had several times before, if those were the last words we’d say to each other. Images flooded my memory, and I knew I had to turn them off, or at least turn away from them. With Howard gone, I’d have to face it on my own. A growth opportunity, I decided.
Grabbing a piece of stationary, I began to write whatever random thought angled through my mind. “Everything that happened was supposed to happen.” And, “Everything that was supposed to happen, did.” A start, I thought, but what am I supposed to learn from this, from Howard leaving, from Michael Harrison poised towards an unknown future, a continent away? Someone down the hall put on a Rolling Stones record from long ago. After a primitive 3-note riff from Keith Richards, Mick Jagger’s 21-year old voice, muffled by the walls between us, began to sing. Whoever had put on this scratchy old album turned up the volume, just in time for me to hear, “Well, this could be the last time, this could be the last time…”
Oh, right, I thought. That’s all I need. I grabbed my coat, stormed out of the house, and walked the 20 minutes to Marcia’s. Along the way, Mick’s refrain morphed into my own inner drumbeat. Left foot, Howard; right foot, Michael. I almost saw their faces in the jagged concrete sidewalk as I marched along. My own face must have frozen into a mask of determination, as Marcia said when I barged in on her, “Whoa! What fired you up? What’s going on?”
I had my speech ready. “Marcia, that’s the last time I let a man, let love or sex, or feeling safe, protected, try and meld with me. Let one rule my feelings or my life. They get to to do what they want, go wherever. Why not me? Why not us?”
“What brought this on?”
I fumed, “I called him up.”
“Mike? You didn’t call him up, after I told you not to…?”
I clenched my jaw, and said, “Sorry, but I had to. I had to find where he’s at.”
“So how’d it go?” she asked
“During the call, pretty good. Not scary. It was like we fell right into to talking, sharing. It was like we were trying to rhyme with some other time.”
“Rhyme with another time? Past, or future?”
I frowned, “I’m pretty it’s not the future. He’s staying in LA, four more years.” I sat down disgustedly. She disappeared into her tiny kitchen, returning with two glasses and a half-full bottle of Pinot noir.
“I know you don’t drink, but, Sarah, you need to drink. Here.”
I didn’t question the suggestion. After the initial fire going down, an after-taste remained, soothing both my tongue and nose. Within minutes, my head felt light, my shoulders lost their tension, and I fell back into the easy chair. Marcia smiled. “Thanks,” was all I said.
Three weeks later, Marcia called, saying, “Sarah, how’ve you been?”
“Oh, all right I guess.”
“Getting out at all?”
“Honestly, no. But it’s good, I’ve gotten all caught up on classes. Even found out where I’ll be for clinical. Beth Israel.”
“Yay?” Marcia asked.
“Yay,” I answered. “The best place. I’m ready for the next steps.”
“Well, listen, I think you should get out…”
“I told you, Marcia, I’m done. For now any way…”
She interrupted, “No, not that. Girls’ night out. Remember that girl, freshman year, Bonnie, always playing the guitar and signing in the lounge? Well, apparently, she’s making records now. On tour. She’s going to be at the Harvard Square Theater next Thursday. Let’s go see her, OK? It’s $4, I think they still have tickets.”
“When?”
“Seven for the first show, then another one at 10, I think.”
We got there in time to see the opening act, a scruffy-looking multi-racial crew who opened with an extended piano solo, almost classical, by the suave, be-spectacled black piano player, backed by a long-haired white bassist. The black drummer hunched over bongos, softly underscoring the quiet but insistent beat. Off to one side, the white organist dreamily filled in with ethereal chords, while a large black man nodded his head, his saxophone appearing impossibly small in his giant hands. Then, the spotlight followed a skinny dark-haired boy, sporting a scruffy beard, who carried a worn electric guitar over his shoulder. For the next ten minutes or so, he hummed and sang his way through lyrical images about Sandy, a fish-lady, and some junkman.
At the end, puzzled, I turned to Marcia, asking, “I thought this was a rock and roll show?” Before she could answer, the singer broke into a self-satisfied grin, saying, “How you all doin’ out there? These guys, they’re my E Street Band, and I’m here to tell you a little story, about a girl I went out with a while ago. She took my heart, for a month or so, and then gave it back to me, all battered and bruised. Right, fellows?” The rest of the band murmured assent, not unlike a congregation doing a call-and-response with a gospel preacher. He launched into a ’50’s do-wop number, called I Sold My Heart To The Junkman. The show went on like that for 90 minutes, see-sawing between gritty urban vignettes and rousing, foot-stomping odes to the vicissitudes of youth, ending with a tribute to “a girl I once knew,” Rosalita.
Bonnie’s set was more straightforward, bottleneck blues, country-tinged laments, tight, professional, ending with the complaint, “how the hell can a person go to work in the morning, come home in the evening with nothing to say?”
When the applause died down, I asked Marcia, “She was good, sounds better than when we heard her out in the quad. But that first guy – what was his name?”
“Bruce-something, I think.” Marcia responded.
“Anyway, he’s intriguing.” I looked around, trying to see if we could avoid leaving, and found a hidden nook near the back. “Let’s stay, and see the second show, OK?”
Marcia shrugged, saying, “What else do I have to do, except get up at 5:30 to go to the hospital?” We both laughed.
Bruce-something played for two hours in the late show, packing even more energy into his songs. Half-way through, he said, “Here’s a new one, if you wanna get up and stomp your feet…” The drummer started off with a blazing tom-tom riff, arms moving faster than a hummingbird’s wings. The entire ensemble played at full throttle all the way through, a working class paean to cars, amusement park rides, chilly nights on the beach, and romance – “I wanna die with you, Wendy, on the street tonight, in an everlasting kiss…together we can live with the sadness, I’ll love you with all the madness in my soul…someday we’ll get to that place…” By the time he got to Rosalita again, the whole crowd was swaying, clapping, insisting he continue. So he came back out and did Twist and Shout, saying, “my doctor told me not to sing this song again, my heart can’t stand it. But you guys are worth it!”
Finally, outside, Marcia asked, “What did you think?”
“I liked him, I really did.”
“Why?”
“He gives me hope. For the future.”