This time, I didn’t see just the green dress, but the way it peeled off her against the rock. The madness of that one night washed over me. I had trouble focusing on the song.
I shook my head and forced myself to make eye contact with the woman who’d asked for it. She and her man were cuddled close together, watching me. I had to make this good for them. I tried to picture their wedding day, probably a couple decades ago, judging by their age. This got me through.
When the song finally ended, the crowd really clapped. Quite a lot of people got up to put money in the bucket. A couple more requests came in. The night became a lovefest of romantic songs.
As the evening wound down, the owner came over. “You were a real hit,” she said. “I’ve been over there thinking, would you like to do this regularly? We could call it ‘Romance Night’ and they could make requests. I’m happy to pay you a regular wage on top of tips.” She glanced into the bucket. “Though it looks like you did all right. What do you think? Once a week?”
I packed my guitar in the case. I knew damn well I couldn’t sit there and sing love songs to happy couples all the time. And even the promise of regular money felt like a trap.
“I’m mighty flattered,” I told the woman. “But I’m only in Portland a couple more days. I won’t be around for anything regular. But it’s a mighty fine idea.”
She nodded, her lips pursed together. The fringed end of her scarf brushed against her shoulder. “You look like a boy who’s running from something.”
Did everybody have me pegged?
“No, ma’am,” I said. “I just figured it was best to hit the road before life tied me down.”
She settled back on her heels, arms crossed in front of her crinkly cotton dress. “Come over here,” she said, and sat at an empty table.
I latched my case and followed, sitting opposite her in a hard-backed chair.
“Give me your hand,” she said.
“You a fortune-teller?” I asked.
“Just give it to me,” she insisted.
I stretched my arm across the table. She flipped my hand over, opening my fingers.
“You aren’t just a guitar player,” she said. “You used to do manual labor.”
“Poured concrete,” I said. “Had to set a lot of forms.”
She nodded. “But you don’t have a lot of highfalutin aspirations.”
“I prefer to just get by.”
She stared a while, then let go of my hand. I wasn’t sure if she was a palm reader after all, or if she didn’t want to relay what she saw there. “You’ve been on the road a while,” she said. “And it’s about time for you to go home.”
I sat back in my chair. I guessed I was about to get a lecture. “Don’t reckon I really have one of those.”
I was ready to get out of there now. I’d found a $25 a night hotel earlier that day and was looking forward to sleeping in an actual bed. Today’s take was good enough that I didn’t have to feel guilty about it.
“Oh, but you do. You just don’t want to admit it,” she said. “Let me pack you a meal before you go. Collect your money. And the offer’s good if you want to come back. You were real popular with my customers. Several of them stopped me just to comment on it.”
“Thank you,” I said, and pushed away from the table.
She headed to the back and I returned to the little stage. I sorted through the night’s take, stacking the bills. I’d done all right by a long shot. Maybe I’d buy a bus ticket, go all the way across the country and start on the other side.
The more I thought about it, the more that sounded like a good idea. New York. The East Coast. Virginia. All places I’d never been.
I was a fool to think the journey was supposed to end in LA. Nothing had changed back home. I had made it this long. Maybe this was the life I was supposed to lead.
I picked up my case and my backpack, feeling real good about the decision. The owner came out with a box of food. I took it from her and thanked her one more time.
I headed out into the cool night air, ready to hoof it to the Greyhound station. There was no reason to change a thing. My luck was holding out, and a life on the road was turning out to be just about perfect.
No commitments. No obligations. No expectations.
All fine by me.
Chapter 23: Jenny
Wednesday and the doctor visit came around a little too fast for my taste.
But Corabelle had been right. Things were blowing over. I was just the flavor of the weekend, and thankfully, another actress had a meltdown and shaved not her head, but her boyfriend’s, in his sleep. And HE was a very prominent actor scheduled to host an award show this weekend.
Way more interesting stuff.
I had a love-hate relationship with celebrity gossip. I found it fascinating and endlessly entertaining as long as it was about somebody else.