Scar Page 2

  “I totally forgot, sorry, man. I’ve been all fucked up lately.” This whole week has been more of a distraction than I thought. It’s like I checked out of reality.

  “Save it. We got a good thing going here; let’s not fuck this up too, okay?”

  “Yeah, I hear you.” He’s right. We’ve been steadily getting bigger and better gigs around Oklahoma City and Tulsa, and more often than not our shows are packed. “I’ll track down Jimmy, maybe he can spare some time from the Jimboree’s to bail us out. Besides, he knows most of our songs,” I say.

  “Okay, see what he says. I got someone in mind too. I have to work tonight and tomorrow, but let’s hook up tomorrow night. I’ll pick you up we’ll all have a few pitchers and talk about it?”

  “Why? Who do you have in mind?”

  “Just this dude. But promise me you’ll have an open mind.”

  “I’m not promising shit, Todd.” Thinking about the show this weekend and having to deal with reality again is souring my afternoon. I was really enjoying the shower fantasy.

  “We’ll talk tomorrow and sort it out, and then I’ll bring him over in a couple of days so Tonya can meet him. Deal? I mean if everything works out.”

  “Maybe. Why not meet her tomorrow?” I’m not digging the mystery here.

  “You’ll have to trust me on this one. I think she’ll go along with whatever you decide.”

  “Since when am I in charge around here?”

  “Since — fuck it. Work with me here, dude. I’m guessing Kevin’s practice kit is still there, so we can do a low key audition, and hey, we’ll even bring the beer,” Todd says.

  I grab a cigarette and spark it up, blowing smoke into the phone. “It’s still here. I doubt we’ll be seeing Kevin again any time soon. I’ll check with Tonya, but yeah, sounds cool, unless I get a hold of Jimmy first.”

  “Okay, deal. But, Connor?”

  “What?”

  “Get your shit together, man. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “No promises. Later,” I say and hang up.

  I turn around and lean against the little desk the phone lives on. I absently flip my Zippo open and closed with a forefinger snap. He’s right; I do need to get my shit together — in more ways than one.

  I’m wondering what to do with the rest of the day when I hear Tonya shut the water off upstairs. I listen to her walking around, but it doesn’t take long before I see her turn the corner at the top of the stairs. She’s wearing nothing but a Black Flag t-shirt that she must have borrowed from Carla and holding a blue and orange striped beach towel. Hanging over her shoulders, her chestnut hair is wet and glistening in the light from the upstairs window. It shines around her.

  She’s a fucking vision, like those close-ups in the old movies with the soft filters.

  And then I figure, why not? I don’t have to make any declarations of love to spend time with her, and withholding that fact that I know who she is isn’t really lying — not exactly. I’m over thinking this.

  “Tonya, you want to go out tonight?” I ask casually.

  “Like a date?” she asks, raising her eyebrows in amused surprise.

  Fuck yeah, like a date!

  “No, just as friends, but you know, just us.” Why did I say that? I’ve never been shy like this around a girl, but then Tonya isn’t any ordinary girl. She twists everything up in my mind.

  She tilts her head and dries her hair with the beach towel. “What do you have in mind?” She’s smiling and looks confident.

  “We need to find a new drummer and I think the Jimborees are playing tonight up at the Kamikaze.”

  “You thinking Jimmy can fill in for us?” she asks as she walks down the stairs. She never looks away from my eyes as she gracefully floats done the stairs.

  “Maybe. Todd’s got a line on someone too, but one way or the other we need a drummer for the Palomino show.”

  “So our first not-a-date, you know, just as friends — whatever it is thing,” she says with that smirk of hers, “is going out to see a show with a crowd of sweating, cursing and screaming-angry drunks? Isn’t that like going out for dinner at the office?” she asks, grinning.

  “You know, those repulsive drunks are our fans, but to be honest, I don’t think you’ll notice them over the stink of the bar.”

  “Sounds romantic.”

  2

  Kamikaze

  She passes me and walks into the kitchen behind the stairs and gets an Orange Crush out of the refrigerator. She takes a drink, tilting her head back, exposing her slender neck and I think about how sweet it would taste.

  Just friends, of course. Yeah, right. Friends don’t usually want to lick each other’s necks. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  Thankfully, she doesn’t appear to be buying my stupid friends comment any more than I meant saying it.

  “Hey, I need to get over to the laundry. I’m out of clean clothes again, and I’d rather not smell any worse than the bar,” I say.

  “Thanks — are you always this worried about impressing your dates, or is this just something you do for friends?” she asks, taunting me.

  “I, uh…”

  She grins. “You know what; after what happened the last time, I think I’ve had enough of Happy Time for a while. How about we just wash them in the kitchen sink? Probably run into fewer of your ex-girlfriends that way.”

  “I had no idea Debbie would be there. I’m really sorry…”

  “I’m just teasing,” she says, but looks at me funny just the same.

  “Her pouring paint into the washers sucked, but it was pretty cool when you punched her.” I can’t keep a straight-face as I think back to Tonya delivering that clean punch up against Debbie’s face. There’s definitely something wrong with me. Is it normal to find something like that cute?

  “I’m glad you’re so amused by it,” she says dryly.

  “No. I didn’t mean — you still going to help me?” I give her my best charming smile.

  “Yeah. Put a few chairs out front to dry them over,” she says with a grin before taking another drink of soda. “And wipe that smile off your face. You don’t need to keep selling me on the idea.”

  I shake away my thoughts of ravishing her long enough to grab a few of the folding chairs we’ve collected over the last few months and set them up along the front of the Garage. The afternoon has turned bright and hot.

  When I get back in she’s already dumped the garbage bag of my meager dirty clothes on the counter, filled the sink and added soap to the water. I walk over to the slop sink in the far corner, a relic from when the Garage was actually a garage, and turn off the water she has running.

  “Rinse water?” I ask.

  She nods and glances at my clothes. “You don’t think I’m washing them do you?”

  I laugh. “To be honest, I kind of hoped so, yeah. You said you’d help.”

  “You think I love you that much?” She pauses and looks away.

  I can’t read her tone, is there truth in the joke? “Maybe, but it doesn’t matter.”

  She cocks her head to one side with that look of hers and raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me — it doesn’t matter?”

  “It’ll take more than doing my laundry to get me into bed. Isn’t that what you said last week?”

  “Yeah, but we’re talking about you here, so I doubt that very much,” she says, rolling her eyes. Her cheeks blossom pink. “Need I remind you that, according to Debbie, you didn’t even date her? But that didn’t stop her from having quite the opinion of your, um — manhood.”

  “Hey, I can explain…”

  “I doubt that too,” she says with a mischievous grin.

  “Am I ever going to live that down?” I plead.

  “Probably not. How many other ex-girlfriends do you have running around out there for me to worry about?”

  “Uh, why should that matter? I thought we were just friends.”

  “We are, but that didn’t keep me from having to fight the stupid b
itch. You’re such a slut, Connor.”

  “Some women think that’s my best quality,” I say, as I put on my charming smile again.

  “Like Debbie?” she asks with a sarcastic nod.

  “Especially girls like Debbie,” I say, laughing.

  “You have a lot to learn about women, Connor,” she says flatly.

  “Okay, okay. I’ll do my own laundry. Get out of the way,” I say, motioning her off with a magician’s flourish.

  She leans back against the counter and watches me while she sips her soda.

  I dip my socks in the soapy water and then ring them out and head for the slop sink. Not the best wash, but close enough for government work as they say.

  “No, you can’t do it like that,” she says laughing.

  “Like what? It’s socks, who gives a shit?”

  “Here, let me,” she says and reaches into the sink, our hands brush against one another. A thrilling shiver shoots up my arm and grips my heart. It reminds me of the drive over to Happy Time last week when she had her leg over mine, bouncing her foot to the beat of the radio.

  I’ve been so blind.

  I’m suddenly filled with butterflies.

  She pulls the socks away and starts scrubbing them against one another. I reach over and take the socks from her, holding her hand for just a moment. She can’t seem to look me in the eye now. She steps back and her cheeks are still pink.

  It’s weird how sensitive I am to her touch, even a soapy hand fucking flips my heart end over end. I wonder if she’s feeling the same thing.

  I grin. “What, you done? This was your idea, you know?”

  I turn and flip water at her and she yelps and dodges, covering her face. “Stop it!” But she sounds like she’s only pretending to be upset.

  “Come help,” I encourage.

  “Sink’s not big enough for both of us,” she says as she picks up her orange soda and hops up on to the counter. Her legs dangle over the side and she swings her bare feet like a bored kid. “Besides, they’re not my yucky clothes.”

  I step over between her legs and slide the soda out of her hand. She looks uncomfortable with me being this close, but her eyes follow mine again and she doesn’t flinch.

  I take a long drink and set the can down on the counter next to her, never looking away from her. She seems like she’s trying to decide what to do and changing her mind every five seconds.

  “What do I have to do to get you to help me out here? You know I have no shame,” I say.

  She looks down and then back up with a slight cock of her head and a twinkle in her eye. She slips her fingers through my belt loops again.

  I lean forward slightly. I want to kiss her so badly.

  She quickly slides her hands back up my chest and pushes me away. “Fine. Help me down,” she says.

  I take her by the waist and steady her as she jumps off the counter. I gently lower her to the floor.

  “Fine, but don’t be copping a feel under the water,” she chides.

  “So, like, not under the water is okay?”

  “Just keep your hands to yourself,” she says tersely. But I don’t think she means a word of it.

  “The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” I quote, grinning.

  “Do you want me to help or not?” she asks in mock offense.

  “Okay, I’ll play nice.”

  “Well, that’s no fun,” she giggles.

  “Hey, no fair. Make up your mind. I’m just a dude. We’re not wired to understand that back and forth shit.”

  “Then what are you wired for?” she asks with a not so playful tone.

  “Don’t you mean who? I’ll give you three guesses,” I offer.

  “That’s not many and it’s a tough one. You still hot for Debbie? You still wired for her?”

  “Okay, you’re being silly. That guess doesn’t count,” I say.

  “How many guesses do I get again?”

  “I hope you won’t need more than one.”

  She glances at me and grins. “Let me think on it and get back to you. This could be tricky; you know an awful lot of girls. How should I know which one you’re hot for today?”

  “I don’t change my mind that fast,” I say defensively.

  “Yeah, you kind of do. This may take some time.”

  “Here I am trying to be all sweet and shit and you’re messing with me,” I say gently.

  “I thought that was what you liked about me. No? Did poor Connor get his itty bitty feelings hurt?”

  I walk over and grab the spray hose from the slop sink, but before I even turn the water on, she’s out the door and back into the front hall.

  “Don’t you dare,” she shouts through giggles.

  I spray water across the kitchen, but miss her on purpose.

  “I just put this on, please, Connor, don’t spray me,” she pleads, holding up her hands.

  I grin in acquiescence, shutting off the water. I hold up my hands in surrender.

  She glares at me, but not very convincingly and joins me back at the sink. We wash my clothes in silence, careful to avoid each other in the soapy water. We’re so aware of each other’s movements that we manage to avoid touching, our hands dancing around one another. But our hips rub against each other, which makes it hard to focus on anything else.

  Every bump keeps the butterflies churning.

  She tosses the last shirt into the rinse water and then turns toward me. “Let’s have the pants,” she says, pointing.

  “That’s the nicest way you can ask to get in my pants?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she says, failing to sound scornful and blushes again.

  I look down and then back up at her as she watches. I wonder if she‘s even aware that she’s staring down at my buttons. I pop all of the buttons open with a single jerk and she cries out.

  “Connor!” She holds her hands over her eyes and quickly turns away.

  “No underwear, sorry.” I grin. “I’m not shy. You can peek if you want to.”

  She turns back and I make like I’m going to slide my jeans over my hips.

  “Connor, no,” she says and flees to the sanctuary at the far end of the kitchen.

  Shit, I was just fooling around. I wasn’t really going to strip in front of her. She looks kind of pissed.

  With her back to me, she takes the beach towel she was drying her hair with from the counter and holds it out to me.

  “Use this,” she says with irritation.

  I take the towel as I gently touch her shoulder. “I was going to…”

  She flinches, but recovers quickly and turns with a forced smile. “I know, silly. Go take a shower. I’ll finish up for you.”

  But her cheeks aren’t pink anymore and her eyes look troubled.

  She doesn’t look me in the eye.

  Too much, Connor.

  I cover myself with the towel and let my jeans fall. I step out of them and back away.

  “Yeah, okay. Thanks,” I say as I head upstairs.

  My butterflies have turned to worried anxiety.

  §§§§§

  It takes the rest of the afternoon for my clothes to dry, so I just hang out on the couch wrapped in another beach towel and drink beer and smoke. I play a new mix tape for company but I’m not in the mood for the Dead Kennedys, Black Flag or The Circle Jerks right now, so I turn on the KATT and listen to the radio. Journey is the first band that comes on, which makes me sad. It’s the same song that was playing the night I first saw her – Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’.

  If things had only been slightly different that night, like Dan-o not busting us, we might have been together even back then and so much would be different now.

  Everything would be different.

  Tonya doesn’t come downstairs again until it starts getting dark. The whole time I’m thinking I fucked up already — again. I didn’t expect her to react like she did when I was pretending to strip. I don’t know what I was expecting, I wasn’t really thinking
. But I didn’t expect her to be hurt or — afraid?

  Thinking that Tonya could ever be afraid of me makes me sick to my stomach.

  She’s wearing baggy, ripped and faded blue jeans, her chucks and the same Black Flag shirt. I brought in my laundry and folded it earlier, so I’m already wearing my black 501’s, with underwear this time, and one of the plain white t-shirts from the second hand shop.

  “Ready?” she asks, smiling like nothing happened earlier.

  Maybe nothing did happen.

  “Yeah,” I say and follow her out to the van.

  We listen to the golden oldies on AM while we drive across town. I just lean against the door, the wind in my hair and try not to stare at her. Her eyes sparkle in the glow of the dashboard lights and her lipstick is extra glossy for a change.

  “What?” she asks, glancing over at me.

  “Sorry about earlier,” I say.

  “For what?”

  “The jeans thing.”

  She doesn’t say anything and then smiles over at me like it was no big deal. But then why does it seem like a big deal?

  We were having fun. I’m not sure what happened. We’ve always been comfortable around each other, but an awkward silence returns and I’m not digging it.

  Maybe, I’m over thinking things again.

  We get to the bar a little past ten and the small parking lot is nearly full. It’s going to be packed inside. None of the bars we play in are terribly nice, but the Kamikaze is by far the worst of the lot — which is saying something.

  The whole place looks like it should be condemned. Chain link fencing covers the walls and the ceiling, like it’s holding the shell of the building back from collapsing.

  It’s dark and smells awful, stale beer, stale cigarettes and stale sweat.

  “You take me to the nicest places,” she chides.

  “Nothing’s too good for you,” I say as I hold the door for her.

  She ignores me and we step up to the doorman and I pay the cover. The opening act is already playing and the pit is in full mosh. The room is crowded and I take Tonya’s hand to guide her through the mob. She squeezes back gently and my anxiety evaporates. My toes are happy again, just like this morning.