After what seems like forever, we finally arrive at the apartment complex. By now I’m feeling incredibly tired, but I can walk by myself. Doc says he’d be happy to drop Amy off wherever she lives, so Tommy and I get out of the van and take the elevator up to my floor. Tommy unlocks the door and switches on the lights. I stumble inside, crashing down onto the couch; five minutes on my feet has seemed to renew my weakness. I am so hungry…
Tommy gets some eggs out of the fridge. I watch him through half-closed eyes as he heats up the frying-pan, cracking the eggs on the edge and letting them spill into the skillet.
“Couldn’t you get me something faster?” I mumble.
“I think you should be careful with what you eat in the next few hours,” he explains. “Eggs are easy to digest, they should be a good start.”
I silently agree. As the eggs fry, he pours a glass of milk and brings it over to me. I take a long gulp, but start coughing again as the liquid comes into contact with my raw and aching throat.
“Take it easy, Andrew,” Tommy advises. “Just sip it.”
I do as I’m told, and slowly the milk goes down. I put the glass on the table, and take off my puke/sweat-stained T-shirt. Tommy brings the eggs over on a plate along with a fork and a knife. I eat slowly and deliberately, chewing each petite mouthful with care.
Eventually the plate is empty. I thank Tommy before stumbling into my bedroom and lying down on the bed. I’m asleep before my head hits the pillow.
-----------------------
Sunlight is shining through the window and on my face when I wake up. I feel a million times better than I did last night, but I am filthy; there seems to be a layer of dried sweat encasing my entire body, and all I have to do is breath in hard and I can smell my own reek. I calculate that I do, in fact, have enough energy to take a shower. Grabbing a towel, I take a quick look around the flat: Tommy is nowhere to be seen. Ignoring this, I put on a pot of coffee before stepping behind the curtain.
As the stream of hot water hits my face, I close my eyes and try to replay last nights events in my head: it all seems rather blurry, and I have trouble differentiating between what I remember myself and what I was told. The whole ordeal is like a thick fog; some places are clearer than others, but overall it’s very blurred and confusing. I try to ignore the memories of my own feelings, and think about the gig: it went pretty well, didn’t it? I remember people cheering, even screaming. Lots of screams. Ecstatic, one might say. I remember falling over, people touching me.
I finish showering, dry off, find some clean clothes and get dressed. I look at myself in the mirror: the shower and fresh clothes help, but I still look like a mess. My hair has gone from the comb-over shag I’ve had for a while to being a mesh of chaotic strands. My eyes are red and sunk in, underlined with puffy bags. My three-day moonshine has now become a full-grown beard: I haven’t bothered shaving for a few weeks now. I consider shaving it off, but decide that it would be far more starving-artist-ish to just leave it. I’m surprised: it’s quite a handsome beard, if I may say so myself; clean, smooth and thick.
Next I find a rag. Soaking it in hot water, I scrub my face vigorously until my skin hurts. My eyes seem better now. I spent a couple minutes rummaging through drawers before I find a comb. I run it through my hair, ripping out a few strands in the process, and examine the end result in the mirror: not half bad, considering everything.
As I pour myself a cup of coffee, there’s a knock on the door. I open up, and to my delight, Amy’s standing in front of me.
“Hi there,” I say enthusiastically.
“Hi, how are you doing?” She has those Mother Goose eyes again.
“Surprisingly well, in fact,” I respond, “come on in.”
She comes inside and gives me a little hug. I’m not sure how we got into this comfortable social situation, but I’m not complaining.
“Make yourself at home,” I say, “want some coffee?”
“Sure, that would be great.”
I watch her as I pour the coffee. She immediately walks over to my basses and amplifier, inspecting the brands. She flicks the amp on, listening to the hum for a moment, then switches it off. Next she scrutinizes my CD-collection. After inspecting the rows for a minute, she fishes one album out and puts the CD in my stereo. I can’t see what album it is, but as I hand her the cup of coffee, I immediately recognize the first few bass notes of “So What,” first track off of Miles Davis’ “Kind of Blue.” One of my few jazz records. She takes the cup and sips the drink.
We sit down next to each other on the couch.
“So, what did you think of…” I get cut off with a shush.
She mouths the words: “Just listen.”
I do as I’m told, leaning back and letting the music flow over me as the song takes shape. Amy closes her eyes and puts on a relaxed smile. I want to close my eyes too, but I can’t. Instead I just watch her; her right hand hits two imaginary piano chords on every beat, in time with the song, her foot tapping the rhythm. We sit there together, listening to one solo after another, appreciating the legendary composition. The song comes to an end and she smiles at me, and I smile back. Then I kiss her.
She holds on to the kiss for a moment, more in surprise than in mutual feeling, then jerks away. A million thoughts run through my head, all saying the same thing: you blew it Andrew, what the f--k were you thinking? She stares at me for a few moments and I feel like crying because I know I’ve f--ked up so bad. Then she kisses me back.
I’m not sure how long we sit there making out, but we’re still going with “Blue in Green” in the background when Tommy comes in. We break it off hurriedly in embarrassment while he stares at us. I’m not sure what to say, I just feel my cheeks getting red. Tommy keeps a blank face for a few seconds, then grins.
“Looks like you’re feeling better, eh Andy?”
“Um, yeah,” I fumble, not sure what to do or what to say.
Why do I feel like a teenager caught by his dad while making out with a girlfriend? I’m a grown man, this is my home; I can do what I want. Why this embarrassed feeling? Maybe I’ve just known Tommy too long.
Amy gives Tommy a meek hello. I think she’s a bit befuddled as well. Tommy just stands there grinning.
“So,” I say, clearing my throat in a brisk manner. “Where have you been?”
“Helping Sam and Doc with the gear,” he responds. “We got paid as well, although I left the cash with Sam and Doc for divvying up later.”
“Sure, that sounds good,” I say.
Tommy looks at Amy. “No offence, but what exactly is she doing here?”
I look at Amy, not sure how to answer the question, so I pass it on to her: “um, yeah, why are you here, I mean, besides to listen to old jazz records with me?”
She laughs, which puts me slightly at ease. “I don’t know, I just thought you looked pretty miserable last night and thought you might appreciate me checking in on you.”
“Oh, I’m sure he does,” Tommy grins, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He sips it and makes a grimace.
“God, that’s stale.”
He puts the cup down, listening to the song for a moment.
“Shit, I haven’t heard this for ages,” he sighs.
This leads to us all sitting down and discussing music for half an hour. I like the relaxed atmosphere; just me, Amy and Tommy chilling together, talking about something we all enjoy. It certainly seems to ease the tension and lets everyone accept their relationships to each other. Eventually the conversation diverts to last night’s concert. Amy tells us that she heard a lot of people talking about it, and according to her, nearly everyone was pretty positive about it. We talk about arranging another concert as soon as possible, keep the ball spinning so to say, and write a few new songs to replace some covers.
Eventually Amy says that she needs to go, as she has a shift at the diner. She kisses me goodbye and heads out the door, leaving me and Tommy alone.
Tommy stares at the closed door Amy left through for a few moments, before turning to me.
“So, when exactly were you going to tell me about her?” he asks suspiciously.
“Well, there hasn’t been much to tell before now…” I stutter.
“Come on, Andrew,” he sighs, “I’ve been you’re best friend since high school: just be honest with me.”
“I am!” I say defensively, “I saw her at the diner, met her at the party, hung out with her for a while, we hit it off, what else can I say? This morning came over, I kissed her and she kissed me back. That’s really all there is to it.”
“Alright, alright,” Tommy says soothingly. “I’m happy for you. She seems really cool, certainly knows her music.”
“Yeah.”
Tommy gets that look in his eyes. “Maybe she could be our manager.”
I blink. “What?”
“Well, she seems to have lots of contacts, a lot of knowledge, maybe she can help us if we offer, say, five percent of the profits. She can help us book gigs, record a demo when we get that far…”
I think about it. “Not a bad idea, I suppose…”
Just then there’s a knock on the door. I open up, and my landlord is standing in front of me.
“Hi, Mr. Kowalzak,” I say cheerfully. “What’s up?”
Kowalzak has been my landlord for a few years now, and I’ve gotten to know him pretty well. He’s a jovial fellow with a passion for Tchaikovsky and an understanding of the student’s poor lifestyle. So to see him with such a grave expression on his face surprises me.
“Andrew,” he says solemnly. “I’ve been good to you for many years now, but business is business.”
I stare at him. “What’s wrong?”
“Your rent,” he sighs, “your behind by two months now.”
I feel a lump in my throat.
“I’m sorry Andrew, you’re a great kid. But this isn’t going to work anymore. I want you out by tomorrow evening.”
He gives me one last pitying look, then shuts the door in my face.
Robert Ippolito, September 2009
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