Rocked Up

Switch, Calvi, Arnie, Lael, and I are all having breakfast at Café Du Monde. The humid air is warm and the sounds of tourists letting loose are all around us. There is something carefree about how they walk, how they sit in their chairs, how they smile. Music filled with horns, drums, and guitar is coming from a block away, and the thick air carries the sounds and smooths the edges, making the perfect soundtrack for my morning coffee in New Orleans.

There’s a scruffy dog under the table next to me that I’m having a stare down with as I sip my strong coffee. I put my mug back on the table, and my eyes meet Lael’s. She’s been watching my pleasant exchange with the little mutt, and we share an easy smile. There must be something in the way we look at each another because the rest of the table shifts uncomfortably in their seats, looking away like they’ve witnessed an intimate moment.

“Who is Jean Marc?” Lael does her best French accent to match Arnie’s.

“He’s the lead singer of Satellite of Mars,” Calvi says with his mouth full of food.

“I love that band!” Lael exclaims.

I know my bandmates love that she said that. But I hate it. Jean Marc is one of those oversexed, cliché rock stars. He never seems to turn off the act, and he sees me as his American counterpart. He’s constantly belittling in this bizarre French mojo kind of way. His Parisian crew seem to love it when he talks down to me, and my crew are often too bowled over with laughter that they can’t stand up for me. To be fair, my mates are usually laughing at how ridiculous Jean Marc is, his cartoonish delivery, and at his lack of humility. The fact that he doesn’t realize how silly he comes across makes for a hilarious situation.

There’s also a cultural difference between us that makes everything dreadfully awkward. He’s constantly trying to dominate me and I’m constantly trying to get away from him. My bandmates and manager have a habit of inviting him to my trailer for shits and giggles.

Lael starts singing a Satellite of Mars song quietly to herself, just loud enough for us to hear, and the boys exchange looks of sheer joy in response. Arnie chokes back some laughter and tries to shift gears.

“All right all right, it’s only for one show. It’s not like we’re touring with them,” Arnie says as he stands up and puts money on the table, his rather large belly sticking out as he puts his rather large wallet into his back pocket. Arnie always makes it seem like he’s paying with his hard-earned money when he takes care of the bill, which is definitely not the case.

“Don’t be late for sound check, boys. We are one of four bands playing tonight so it’ll be a tight schedule.” Arnie notices the little dog and gives him a wave on his way out.

Calvi and Switch also stand up. Switch pulls out a comb and pushes his hair back while Calvi somehow contorts and puts his blazer on without looking away from his phone.

“What are you guys up to?” I ask.

“We’re meeting up with some people from our Facebook group,” Calvi absently answers, still looking at his phone.

“Who is she?” I tease.

Calvi finally looks up at me. “I’m doing this for us, Brad. You have to stay connected. I’m almost offended.”

Switch is still shamelessly combing back his hair, looking at his reflection in an ornamental mirror on the restaurant wall.

“Who is she?” I ask again.

Calvi puts his phone in his pocket and walks toward the exit.

“Not she. There’s more than one. Courtney and Karen, and they happen to be twins,” Calvi says smugly over his shoulder.

Switch reluctantly puts his comb away and follows Calvi out the door.

Lael and I share a laugh. I sit back in my chair feeling more relaxed now that I’m solely in Lael’s company. A smartly-dressed server refills my empty coffee cup and I thank her.

“Are you going to eat that?” Lael refers to the bacon on my plate. I was, but I lie and tell her no. She stabs it with her fork and relocates it to her plate.

It’s refreshing how she doesn’t seem to show any signs of awkwardness or regret about last night.

I carefully sip my scalding coffee and watch her devour what’s left on her plate. I want to spend the day with her, naked on a hotel bed, with an open window letting in the warm New Orleans air and the sounds of the French Quarter.

Lael looks up and seems startled by my primal gaze.

I make an attempt at a joke to lighten the moment.

“Have you ever noticed eating a Caesar salad is like a game called find the bacon?”

She chuckles and sits back in her chair. With a deep breath she pans the restaurant and peers out the large French doors that open to a courtyard.

“I love it here,” she says, half to herself and half to me. Her eyes are thoughtful as she takes in her surroundings.

It’s interesting, beauty, how often times people are beautiful because of how they see the world rather than how the world sees them. I watch her take in the morning air and I can almost feel the calmness in her heart. With Lael, it’s like she can pick and choose the smallest, most beautiful things in a room, gather them all, and hold them inside her. She finds the beauty in everything, and in turn she becomes beautiful. From where I sit, I can’t see what she’s looking at but I can feel what she feels. Through her eyes, the French Quarter has never been so perfect.

“I love it too. You know, my father was born here. He made a living playing the trumpet and working odd jobs,” I tell her.

“Really? Very cool,” she says, shifting her attention to me. “I don’t think you’ve ever spoken about your dad.”

“Well, I can barely remember him. I was quite young when he went to prison.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“No, don’t be. It is what it is.”

We sit in silence, and her sympathetic eyes stay on me as she leans forward and delicately puts her elbows on the table. Her movements are slow and feminine—everything about her seems caring and thoughtful. She covers my hands with hers, her eyes narrowing conspiratorially.

“Let’s make a deal,” Lael suggests.

“A deal?” I question with a suspicious smile.

“I won’t talk about your father and you won’t talk about mine.”

“Your father wouldn’t be happy if he knew what was happening between us.”

“And what is happening between us, Brad Snyder?” Lael asks with a raised eyebrow.

I feel heat build in my chest like I just took a perfect drug. I boldly hold her gaze, neither of us looking away.

Lael doesn’t wait for my answer and breaks the brief silence. “You know…I hate to be so blunt and presumptuous but…whatever you want, I want. If it’s just a physical thing, then that’s fine. But if it’s deeper…”

“It’s deeper,” I tell her and my confession sends endorphins from deep in my heart to the surface of my skin making the hairs on my arm stand on end.

Lael’s intense gaze softens into a smile.

I can’t help it. I lean over the table and kiss her.

Her hands are still on mine and I can feel them tighten as our kiss deepens. Our mouths are closed, but there is an easy passion. I feel her smile and breathe in the subtle smell of her shampoo.

Lael eases back into her chair and pans the room, her body language says she likes it here but she’s ready to move on. I silently agree.

“I think I prefer it during the day, the French Quarter,” Lael says as we walk down the iconic Bourbon Street.

“Too many drunk tourists at night?” I ask.