Opening Act Page 11
She was interrupted by the arrival of their tea and espresso—which the waitress set before them as though it were the last act she would commit before her own bitter obliteration.
When she’d gone, they took a few self-conscious sips. Then Shay said, “You know a lot about songwriting.”
She shrugged, licking her lips. The tea was too hot. “Just as an end-user. A listener. I know the good stuff when I hear it.”
“What’s the good stuff? For you?”
She thought for a moment. “Okay. You know Cole Porter, right?”
He cocked his head. “Kinda. Old musicals and shit?”
“Old musicals and shit that we still listen to today because he wrote the high holy fuck out of them.” If he was going to try to intimidate her with profanity, she’d hit him right back, double-barrel.
He slowly turned one of his espresso cups with his fingers. “Example.”
“All right. You know the song, ‘Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered’?” He looked uncertain, so she sang a few bars, and he said, “Oh, right…yeah. Everybody knows that. Right.” He nodded in acknowledgment. “Great song.”
“Great song. And it’s a love song, right? How many love songs do you think Cole Porter churned out in his life? Dozens. Scads. So he gets to this one, and the bar is set pretty high. What’s he got left to say? How does he convey the feeling of falling in love, again, without going back to all the ways he’s already conveyed it? So—it’s fairly genius—he takes these three unrelated words—bewitched, bothered, and bewildered—each of which had a completely negative connotation in the era where he’s writing. I mean, before the 1940s, if you said someone ‘bewitched’ you, it was not a compliment. It was an accusation.”
“Seriously?” he asked.
“Seriously. Anne Boleyn got her head cut off, because King Henry VIII accused her of bewitching him. It was all he had to say to get her sentenced to death.” She screwed up her mouth. “Well…okay, not all. But it was one of the biggies.”
“But, it means something else entirely today.”
“Because of this song,” she said. “Because Cole Porter put those three negative, unpleasant, uncomfortable words together, and he made them work together to express the disorienting, dreamlike, delirious feeling of being in love. He actually changed the way that we think of those words, changed their meaning after hundreds of years, just by the way he used them together. Shakespeare did this, too. Shakespeare did it in his sleep.” She closed her eyes and recited, “ ‘Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed / The dear repose for limbs with travel tired; / But then begins a journey in my head / To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired: / For then my thoughts—from far where I abide— / Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, / And keep my drooping eyelids open wide, / Looking on darkness which the blind do see.”
She looked back at him and caught him staring at her. She blushed self-consciously. “Don’t get me started on the sixteenth century,” she said. “We’ll be here all day.”
She thought for sure he’d make some double entendre quip about that, but instead he sat silently, seemingly lost in thought. Then all at once he finished off his first double espresso in one big gulp and moved on to his second. Loni had barely sipped her tea. It was still too hot.
“It’s not easy to do,” she said, unnerved by his silence. “It’s work. But we’re here, in the twenty-first century still talking about Shakespeare, still talking about Cole Porter, because of it. Right? You want them to be talking about Shay Dayton in sixty, seventy years? Or four hundred?”
He gave her an oh-hell-yeah look.
“Then you’re going to have to have something new to say. Wait…no. There really isn’t anything new to say. What I mean is, a new way to say it. And good luck with that.” She was about to mention the struggles she’d encountered in her own poetic endeavors but decided against it. She wasn’t ready to reveal that to anyone. “This is a very noisy era we live in. Everyone’s talking at once. Hard to find anything new for your own voice.”
He sighed deeply and finally said, “You’re supposed to be helping me.”
Her shoulders slumped. “I’m just managing your expectations.”
“I feel like canceling the whole goddamn tour.”
“No, don’t do that,” she said, with a little edge of urgency in her voice that caught her by surprise. What did she care if Overlords of Loneliness went on tour or not? She wasn’t even a fan. “Look,” she said, “let’s try an experiment. Tell meeee…tell me what it’s like to fall in love.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Um. It’s…” He scratched his head and winced, as though he were uncomfortable with being put on the spot. “Like, it’s dizzying. You feel all upside-down and everything. And yet it’s like the world was meant to be upside-down.”
She nodded, gently encouraging him. “Fine. But…not entirely original. What else?”
“Also…kind of like, I dunno.” He took a deep breath, then let it out all at once. “An illness. A fatal illness.”
She vigorously shook her head. “Been done. Been overdone. Try again.” She leaned across the table and looked him square in the eye. “Think. Not about being clever. About being in love. What does it feel like?”
He gazed back at her for what seemed like far too long a time. She wondered if other people in the café were watching them but didn’t dare break her eye-lock with him to check. Finally he said, “It’s like being naked.”
She sat back again with a disappointed sigh. He was back to sexual innuendo. Too bad. She’d had a little tingling of hope for him.
“No, not naked,” he said, remaining very still—like he was in the grip of his thoughts. “Invisible. Like…like everyone can see right through you. See everything inside you and behind you. It’s like…like you’re just wide open. And you don’t want to be. But you are.”
She perked up. “Go on.”
“I had…this is stupid.” He folded his arms over his chest, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing is stupid. Not in the creative process. You never know where it’s going to lead. Go on.”
“I had this aquarium, when I was a kid. One of the fish in it…its skin was—what’s the word? You could see through it.”
She almost said translucent, but she stopped herself. She wanted him to find it.
He did a little mental searching, then said, “Translucent, I guess.”
Bravo, she thought.
“Anyway, it would swim around, and there inside it, you could see its little heart was pumping and the blood was rushing through its veins. It was wicked cool.” He paused, then gave her an embarrassed shrug. “Like that. Being in love, I mean. Only…it’s not just your heart. Your head. Everything in your head feels like it’s exposed. To everybody. All the time.”
“And it’s terrible,” she said.
“And it’s wonderful,” he added. “It’s terrible-wonderful.”
They smiled at each other. Loni felt giddy, like she might float away. Then she got a grip on herself and cleared her throat. “Okay. Let’s try another experiment, based on that.” She took another napkin from the wire holder, then opened her backpack and pulled out a Sharpie. “I’m going to write a line. Then you write the next one.” She sat with the Sharpie poised over the napkin and thought a moment, then wrote:
I live in a glass house, and it’s not thrown stones I fear
She handed the napkin and Sharpie to Shay. He looked at it for almost ninety full seconds.
“Don’t overthink it,” she said encouragingly. “Go with your gut. You can always revise later.”
He gave her a wary look, then wrote something and passed it back to her.
She turned it around so she could read it.
But the hurled glances of passersby
She raised her eyebrows. Interesting. Not what she’d expected. But it worked. She pondered for a moment, then wrote:
My feet are its foundation, and its hearth becomes my heart
She g
ave it back to him. He swiveled around and read it. Then he looked up and said, “We’re not rhyming?”
“Worry about that later. Right now, let’s just go for imagery. And truth.”
He stared at it for a bit, then added something and slid it back to her.
Casting light on my folly in every part
She pursed her lips and looked up at him.
“Rhymed anyway,” he said. “Couldn’t help it.”
She took up the Sharpie and wrote the next line.
I live here alone, bathed by moon and burned by sun
She passed it back to him, he read it and added to it almost immediately.
Exposed to the world, yet truly seen by none.
“It’s good,” he said excitedly, not waiting to read the expression on her face. “It’s good, isn’t it?”
She cocked her head. “It’s not bad. There’s definitely something here.” She took up the Sharpie, ready to rise to the challenge.
But at that moment the waitress appeared again and placed their bill on the table, dolefully saying, “Sorry, I’m closing out now; the next server is taking over. You can stay, but you have to start a new tab.”
“Oh, let me get this,” Shay said, reaching for his back pocket.
“No, don’t be silly,” said Loni, plucking up her backpack.
But before she could open it, he’d already produced his wallet and slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the table. The waitress took it and walked away, heavy-footed, as though heading toward her own execution.
The interruption had killed the delicate creative magic they’d had going. Loni seemed suddenly foolishly aware that they were two grown people, in public, who’d been madly scribbling on a napkin. “Well,” she said, checking the time on her phone, “I’m not sure—I mean, about starting another tab…”
“No, no,” he said. “I understand. I’m really grateful. Thanks for taking the time.”
She tried to think of something else to say but couldn’t. The uncomfortable silence between them was fortunately broken a few seconds later when the waitress returned with Shay’s change. She placed it on the table and said, “Thank you, come again,” in the kind of doomed tone that made it seem as though she held no hope of seeing anyone again, ever.
Shay slipped the change into his wallet. Loni, embarrassed by his generosity, busied herself by gathering up her backpack again, not wanting to watch him handle his money.
“Thank you,” she said, as she got to her feet. “For the tea, I mean.”
“You hardly touched it,” he said, rising as well.
She took the cup and downed about half of it. “Mm,” she said, making a little agony-face as she put it back down. “Still too hot.”
He laughed, then said, “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”
“Oh, that’s so not necessary,” she said, not sure she wanted to spend any more time with him. They’d forged some kind of connection while they were collaborating on the napkin, and she wasn’t sure what it meant—or if it meant anything at all, other than how flattering it was to be taken seriously by a guy who looked like Shay Dayton.
“I insist,” he said, and he went to the front door and held it open for her.
When they were outside, Loni noticed the heavy cast to the sky. “It’s going to rain again. You don’t need to walk me home, honestly. You’ll get caught in it.”
“It’s all right,” he said, his voice sagging with resignation and dragging his feet. “Bound to happen.”
She looked at him, completely perplexed. What the hell was he doing, shuffling after her, suddenly so glum? “No, seriously,” she said. “You should go home.” She held out a hand. “I can feel drops already.”
“It always rains on me,” he said miserably. “I got struck by lightning once. It was awful. I lived.”
Suddenly he smirked, and she understood what he was doing; he was mimicking their woebegone waitress. He was “doing” her.
She laughed. “Idiot,” she said. “There’s no time to be stupid.”
“Oh, I make time,” he sighed, again channeling the waitress.
She slipped her backpack over both shoulders and gave him a little wave. “I’m going to try to beat the storm. You should, too. Thanks for the tea.”
“Oh, no,” he said, snapping back into his own persona as Loni skittered away. “A gentleman keeps his word. I said I’d see you home”—he started galloping after her—“and goddamn it, I’ll see you home!”
They’d gotten about two-thirds of the way when the heavens opened and a really terrific downpour struck. The rain seemed to be beating the earth with watery fists. Within seconds, both Loni and Shay were drenched.
When they reached Loni’s building, they spilled into the vestibule and nearly collapsed with relief. They half laughed, half gasped, and leaned back against the walls, catching their breath. Outside, the storm continued its angry pounding. A peal of thunder sounded from somewhere far off.
“That was fierce,” said Shay. He looked so diminished, so bedraggled, like a puppy just out of its bath. She felt a twinge of almost maternal affection for him as she slipped her backpack off her shoulders. The rose, alas, had not survived the storm. It was no more than a battered stem.
“It was like being assaulted,” she said.
“Nah,” said Shay. “Not nearly that good.”
She snorted a laugh as she twisted the moisture from the ends of her hair. “You’re filth, you know that?”
He grinned proudly. “Sweet talker!” Suddenly he snapped to attention, looking worried. “Dammit,” he said, and he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out his phone. He fiddled with its screen.
“Is it all right?” asked Loni. She didn’t need to worry about hers; it was safe in her backpack.
“Seems to be. But I can’t risk it getting any wetter.” He looked at her and arched his eyebrows. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”
She was about to tell him no. That he could borrow her anorak, which would keep him and his phone safe and dry—well, safe and no wetter—all the way home. It was, after all, the ideal solution. It was like God had inspired her to put the anorak in her backpack just for this moment, since she’d never had cause to use it herself.
But somehow, crazily, when she opened her mouth to tell him this, what came out was, “Come on inside, I can throw your clothes in the dryer. Maybe by the time they’re done, the storm will have stopped.”
Loni gave him a fluffy pink terrycloth robe—another gift from her mom that she never, ever used—and he emerged from the bathroom with it tied loosely at his waist, so that his bare chest protruded. She was surprised to see that the tattoo that started at his wrist and ran all the way up his arm also splayed brilliantly across his pectorals. She didn’t know what was more titillating…the chest itself, or all that gorgeous ink.
He sashayed up to her like a runway model and dumped his wet things into her arms. His hips were practically in her face. Really, it was like he couldn’t help himself. In the meantime, she’d changed into a dry pair of jeans and a rugby shirt, toweled her hair dry and pulled it back into a ponytail. She hoped she looked severe and unfeminine enough to put him off a bit.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, and she left the apartment, scooted down to the laundry room, and threw his clothes in the dryer. It hummed steadily as she made her way back upstairs, where she found Shay seated on the couch, his bare legs stretched out and his feet on the coffee table, holding a bottle of beer.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he said. “Helped myself.”
She sat across the table from him. “Two double espressos, now a beer. And it’s not even three. You must have an interesting metabolism.”
“Oh, it’s up for anything,” he said. Then, with a wink, “Any. Thing.”
She couldn’t think of a way to respond to that, and she didn’t feel like sitting there with him, face-to-face, with the rain coming down like drumbeats. It was all feeling a little too intense…too primal.
She filled the kettle, set it to boil, and was just taking a ceramic cup down from a shelf when the whole apartment was shaken by a crack of thunder. It was so loud that Loni was startled into dropping the cup, which smashed at her feet into hundreds of jagged shards.
“Goddamn it,” she cried.
“What is it?” he called from the living room.
“Nothing,” she called back. “Just—damn it. What a freaking spaz!” The mess was between her and the kitchen door—and also between her and the broom closet. Since she hadn’t bothered to put on shoes, she couldn’t get out—and she couldn’t clean up, either. “It’s just, I’m sort of trapped.”
“What?” he asked.
She tried to tiptoe through the wreckage, but she was still too shaky from the incident and backed up again. What a stupid, girly predicament to land herself in!
Suddenly he was at the kitchen door.
“Oh, wow,” he said, looking at the debris all over the floor.
She pointed. “The broom’s just in there.”
He looked at the closet door, then back at her, and made a little face. “Sorry. I don’t do housework.”
She felt her forehead pinch in anger. “Then hand it to me. I’ll sweep it up.”
He grinned. “I have a better idea.” And he stepped forward, maneuvering his bare feet through the shards. “I’ll sweep you up.”
“Are you mentally defective?” she cried in alarm. “You’ll cut yourself to ribbons!”
“I have very tough soles,” he reassured her, and suddenly—so quickly she barely registered it was happening—he had her in his surprisingly strong arms, and his face was incredibly, disorientingly close to hers.
A moment passed. The beating of the rain was drowned out by the thrum of her heartbeat in her ears. He lowered her a little, toward the stove. “You might want to turn that off first,” he said, in a voice so soft, so gentle, that Loni thought she would’ve done anything he suggested. She reached out and flipped off the burner beneath the kettle.