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I look into your eyes
See you standing by the
bar
Wonder if you’ll have
the time
To dance with this young
rock star
-“Nights of You & Me” by J. Nolan
My alarm clock was
beeping and squealing as sunlight joined a wailing car alarm outside my window
shades. When I glared at the clock, it read 7:23 a.m. Again.
The day was
Monday, which was nowhere near Friday. On Fridays, I could slip out after work
for an exhale away from the job, away from home. At the end of the week, McGinty’s Pub on Swan
Street featured five-dollar Miller Lite pitchers to accompany its world-class
jukebox, full of rock legends and undiscovered Canadian guitar magicians. But
Monday was not Friday. The frustration of this reality brought my palm down
hard on the clock, which silenced the cacophony and elicited grumblings from my
wife, Dana.
“Why do you have
to smack the shit out of that snooze every morning?”
I caught my first
glimpse of a tanned twenty-one-year-old named Dana Morelli a little over four
years ago, back in the thick of my Nighthawk residency. I remember exactly what
she wore that night. I remember the way her raven hair hung past her emerald
eyes and over her shoulders, covering the first and last letters of “CBGB”
across the chest of her tight black T-shirt. I remember how she moved and swayed
a few rows back from the front edge of stage. I even remember her vodka tonic and
how she held her straw during every sip. Most of all, I’ll never forget her sharp
green gaze, a look that didn’t burn as much as it warmed. When a look like that
connects, it’s like a lightning bolt that staggers before it injects a dizzying
sense of drug-free alteration. It’s hard to shake off, harder to forget. Still,
I gathered myself, let that look wash over me. Once stable, I returned a glance
of my own, one that connected and locked before I spoke up and took a chance.
“For my last one
tonight, I want to take a request,” I said into the mic, looking right into her
eyes. “How about you, miss? You in the black tee. Do you have a song you want
to hear?”
She smiled,
embarrassed at the attention.
“How about ‘American
Woman’,” she asked. “Do you know that one?”
“Do I know it?” I
asked, adjusting myself on the stool. “Sweetheart, after this rendition, you’re
going to think I wrote it.”
Laughs, claps,
hoots from the floor joined her smile as she took another sip from her drink. After
my left hand was set on the guitar neck and my boot soles were planted
comfortably on the stage, I began finger picking the loose strings, plucking
lightly to incite the emanation of a sultry blues walk-down to a G. After I
repeated this progression a few times, I replicated the humming and the
doo-doos famous in the song’s introduction. I soothed out lyrics about an
American woman and how she can mess your mind before I spelled out “American” letter-by-letter.
The crowd swayed
in anticipation of what was coming—the visceral thrust forward that followed
the tame picking and humming and singing. When I hit the last string of the
lead-in, I paused, looked at her again. She was waiting. I pulled an orange pick
from my pocket and stomped my black Doc Marten boot on the stage four
times—THUMP, THUMP, THUMP, THUMP—before thundering down on the heavier acoustic
strings to reach the power of the song’s electric guitar work. My fingers slid
up and down the neck, through the frets, changing chords and manipulating
strings to stir patrons into a head-bobbing lather. I continued to stomp the
stage planks and replicate a beat in the absence of a bass drum.
I leaned into the
mic to wail out the opening lyrics about an American woman, how she should stay
away from me and let me be. This song wasn’t exactly conducive to what I hoped
to achieve with my request solicitation. As the divisive lyrics hit her ears, I
hoped she didn’t get the wrong idea. Even though I didn’t know anything about
her, I knew I wanted her to stay. But she requested the song, so I played the
shit out of it, regardless of the nasty lyrical connotations. Strumming and
singing, I caught sight of her again. She was rocking back and forth, flailing
her wiry arms above her head and calling for more, loving every second of it.
At the end of the song, I struck a string so hard it snapped and curled up the
neck, effectively ending the performance. When I stood to take a bow, sweat
dropped from my shoulder-length black hair and stung my eyes. After I rubbed
them dry, I opened them to see Dana, smiling and clapping. She waved me over to
the bar, so I stashed my guitar before stepping off the stage. When I reached her,
she already had a bottle of Budweiser waiting for me.
“For my request,”
she said, holding out the beer to me. We did introductions. I was Johnny. She
was Dana.
“Interesting take
on that song,” she said. “I saw Lenny in concert last year and he doesn’t
perform it like that at all.”
“Lenny?” I asked.
“Lenny Kravitz?”
“Of course. Who
else would sing his song?”
I turned my head
to the side and took a long, deep swig. Annoyance, confusion and irritation were
all simmering. I tossed strands of my sweaty hair away from my face.
“Kravitz’s version
is a cover,” I said. “It’s originally sung by the Guess Who, from Canada.
You’ve never heard the original version?”
She paused,
perplexed.
“I guess not,” she
said, looking a bit embarrassed. “When I think of that song, I think of the
video with Lenny, the American flag, and Heather Graham gyrating on the roof of
a school bus. He doesn’t do a bad version, though, right?”
It was the worst
cover. Ever. Worse than Madonna’s cover of Don McLean’s “American Pie.” Worse
than U2’s cover of the Beatles’ “Helter Skelter.” This was fact, not opinion,
but I still shrugged with indifference. Damn those eyes of hers. Every time I
locked with them, that radiating euphoria returned to my head and chest.
“This is my first
time here,” she said. “My friend has been begging me to come with her for
weeks, and she finally broke me down. She’s over there, at the high top with
that guy.”
I turned to see a
mass of snarled dyed blonde hair being cradled and led by a tattooed forearm. The
girl’s lips were mashed into the face belonging to the inked forearm, and the
pace the two moved with was aggressive and impressive. Even prudes throughout
the barroom had to be inspired.
“Couple?”
“No,” she said.
“They just met a little while ago. She’s quick like that, I guess.”
“Decisive, for
damn sure,” I said, smirking before I took another swig. “You two don’t go out
much together?”
“Not really. Like
I said, this is my first time here. After seeing you perform, though, maybe
I’ll be back again. You play every Friday?”
“You got it. I tend
to attract the heaviest drinkers on the scene, so that’s how I nailed down the
Friday slot,” I said. “It’s not CBGB’s, but it’ll do.”
She looked at me,
perplexed again.
“CBGB’s? Is that
another rock joint around here? I don’t hang around this area of downtown too
much.”
“Are you kidding?”
I said, looking down and pinching her shirtsleeve. “You’re wearing the bar’s shirt. You didn’t know what this shirt was for
when you bought it?”
“Not really, no. I
got it at Urban Outfitters for twenty-eight bucks. It fits nice, looks cool.
Don’t you think it looks good on me?”
And I did. I liked
how tightly it fit over her breasts, how cool it looked with her skinny-legged
black jeans, her black strap heels. I liked the depth in those emeralds, the
style of her raven hair. The way her scent intermixed with the Nighthawk’s
tobacco and Southern Comfort-tinged interior breeze; the way her delicate hand grazed
my arm to send soothing warmth through my chest. I loved all of it.
Later that night, we
sat outside the bar and shared a few cigarettes before we made out against a
parked Honda. I kissed her left cheek before she pulled back and told me she
had a boyfriend. I told her I didn’t care. She smiled at my confidence, then
leaned toward me so I could move my lips down to her neck. I worked up to her
mouth as she slid her fingers across the ink sleeve of Celtic knotting over my entire
upper left arm. At four in the morning, we hiked up to my place on Allen Street
and made love on the kitchen floor. She broke up with her boyfriend the next
weekend.
Over the next
year, we had some good times and survived some bad times. I took Dana to rock
shows at the Nighthawk, for strolls up Elmwood, down Delaware and around the
Erie Basin Marina. We went to Sabres games, grabbed postgame beers at the
Swannie House. When my parents died, she was there for the crying, the
depression and the hurt. She was there when I needed someone to take away the
pain, to coax me toward some path of relevance. About sixteen months after our
first night together, we stood in front of Uncle Finn at St. Stephen’s and were
married. At the reception, we danced to both the Lenny Kravitz and Guess Who
version of “American Woman,” our first necessary compromise as husband and wife.
A little over four years after I played that song for her at the Nighthawk, we
slept in the same bed—and dealt with drastically different schedules.
“Do you want me to
make you some coffee?” I asked. “I’m gonna go turn the pot on for myself.”
“Coffee?” she
grumbled. “I’m fucking pregnant. I can’t drink caffeine.”
“Right, right,” I
said. Of course she couldn’t drink coffee. “Well, you missed out on Brendan’s
party yesterday. Finn showed up with a cake, we had some laughs. Good times.”
“Look, I don’t
mean to sound like a total rag, but could you please make yourself silent? I
worked a double until two last night and my ears are still ringing from all the
yelling and screaming during the football game. This talking isn’t helping the
ringing.”
A little over three
months into her pregnancy and she was already irritable. I just shook my head,
set my feet on the cold hardwood and tucked the comforter tightly under a
shivering Dana. She rolled away from me to cradle a body pillow between her
arms and legs, cooing and moaning as she adjusted herself back into a sleeping
position. I stood there enviously watching her as she jostled about. I leaned
over and kissed the back of her head, pulled the window shades down and let her
be.
Our schedules
weren’t always so contrasting. When we started dating, Dana worked as a
customer service representative for B&B Collections, located in an office park
near downtown’s Amtrak station on Exchange Street. Every day, she went to her
desk, put on a headset and went down a list of residents who missed payments on
phones, cars, credit cards or student loans. She spent her mornings listening
to excuses and reluctantly enforcing penalties. Every day, she absorbed the
yelling, crying and pleading associated with problems considered bothersome one
day, life-threatening the next.
“I’m out of work,”
they’d say to her. “I’m still looking for work. The wife left me. My husband
cheated on me. The kids are in college. The kids are selfish brats. I need my
car for work. I need my car for fun. Mother died. Father died. Depression has
worn me down. Gonna get paid soon. Have to get paid next week. Give me another
week. How about another month? One more chance? Don’t you have a soul, you
heartless bitch?”
By the time we
married, this omnipresent flurry of resident fury buried Dana like a
lake-effect snowdrift. Every morning, she walked into work hollowed, numb. The
job transformed her, sucked out all that youthful exuberance stowed behind her
eyes when we first connected at the Nighthawk. In its place, it instilled an acceptance
of life’s brutal hand, a jaded attitude to combat a nagging empathy—and such
emotions were useless between nine and five. Feeling bad for people didn’t
relieve debt or remove boots from car tires. Sympathy didn’t dismiss the fact
that Dana was on the delivering end of a harsh reality. Every evening, she
returned to our Allen Street apartment depleted by the job, tortured with the
nagging whispers of guilt from the necessary actions of her days.
One day, she decided
to revolt.
Dana took her last
call at B&B on a Tuesday. After she hung up the phone, she took off her
headset, packed up her stuff, and walked right out the door. No goodbyes. No
two weeks’ notice. No consultation with a boss. She simply left and never went
back. She needed a change in her life before it was too late, before the
resignation that extinguished the hopes of her methodical coworkers had a
chance to douse hers. She wanted satisfaction, fulfillment and all that other
shit young idealists want to bask in. She wanted to escape Buffalo, to leave
behind the gray skies and long winters that could sap ambition. Dana wanted to
work a job she loved under perpetual sunny skies, in a place where overcoats and
tanning booths were unnecessary; where flip-flops were the preferable footwear.
She wanted to move to Florida, a state her parents had already made home a
couple years back, right when we started dating. Every few nights after she
left B&B, she’d pitch a move. And every few nights, I talked her down. Eventually,
I defeated the relocation idea. I had no interest in leaving my family behind
to escape to the south; I didn’t intend to leave my birthplace. I wanted to
live in Buffalo, raise my kids in Buffalo and be laid to rest in Buffalo. Dana
still needed to find a new life path while she was young enough to abruptly change
course. So a year into our marriage, she decided to go back to school. She
decided to pursue an associate’s degree in the Eastern art of massage therapy.
While learning
this trade, she needed to work somewhere on the side, somewhere with a flexible
schedule and decent pay for someone absorbing the benefits of holism, Oriental
anatomy and physiology at the Western New York College of Massage. With these
considerations, Dana became a waitress at the White Room, a blues bar down the
street from the Nighthawk. The joint was known for its Wednesday karaoke night and
killer blues revues on Fridays and Saturdays. Also, according to the Buffalo
Gazette article framed outside their men’s bathroom, the White Room hosted
the city’s third best Sunday Night
Football party, making Monday mornings a bleary ordeal for the bar’s Sunday
evening patrons. Its battered wooden tables played lunch host for area Democrats,
salesmen and servicemen, dealing out large portions of crisp, sauce-soaked chicken
wings and pulled pork sandwiches, complete with the White Room’s own homemade barbeque
sauce. These lunch shifts were the safe play for waitresses. With the standard
wing and sandwich fare came few drinks and even fewer drunks, a welcome respite
from the rowdy biker crowds who frequented the neighboring whiskey dives around
Lafayette Square. If a waitress wanted to make some serious money, she’d have
to brave the dinner elements, which were fueled by a loud trio of large appetites,
leather-clad alcoholics and functional binge drinkers.
When Dana was
offered night shifts to balance with her daytime therapy classes, she went for
it. Her dark hair wooed older men into generous tips from dinner through the
wee morning hours. Her emerald eyes invited even more, ranging from whispered
pick-up lines by blue-collared union reps, to phone numbers from white-collared
suitors. When she would hustle her
delicate frame across the restaurant floor, these men watched and admired. Each
kept the wings and pork and beer and liquor coming just to earn a glance in
their direction, the same glance that hypnotized me. And Dana knew this. She knew
that, every time she grooved her hips from side to side and tapped her heels on
the tiles, the tips would pile up. Staged or not, she learned to like it. There
were no more repossessions to deal with, no more faceless tears over the
telephone. Anything was better than debt collection. Anything. Even working as
a waitress through her first trimester.
After I left Dana
to sleep that morning, I walked into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I
stepped into the shower and flicked on the waterproof radio, tuned it to 97
Rock and kept the volume low. I turned on the water and made it scalding hot,
let it fall down on my dark hair as I listened to three straight wailers from
Zeppelin. After ten minutes, I stepped out of the shower, humming the melody of
Robert Plant’s vocals on “The Ocean.” Once toweled off, I returned to the
bedroom to quietly grab a pair of navy blue pants from my dresser. Dana was still
clutching the elongated pillow and was curled up next to it while rhythmically
breathing. She had entered the heightened relaxation of back-to-sleep sleep, a
state that elicits the most vivid dreams, the most tempting fantasies. Those
were my Saturday mornings, the early hours I’d lie under the sheets and slip
into dreams until thoughts of coffee and a newspaper put my feet on the floor.
Watching Dana adjust herself under the sheets again, I wanted the rest she was
having, the sleep she was lost in. I delicately crawled atop the sheets to sit
next to her and watch her serene temperament until she felt my gaze on her
lids. Her eyelids fluttered open, wearily.
“What?” she
growled, her voice muffled as her face was still plowed into her pillow.
“I’m just watching
you sleep,” I whispered.
“Great. Have fun
with that.”
“Oh, I almost
forgot,” I said. “Finn’s band scored a spot on the bill for the annual Joe
Strummer tribute night and wants us to go.”
“Isn’t that show
around Christmas?”
“A little after
Christmas, at the Nighthawk. Finn would never do a show in the middle of Advent,
so I imagine it’s a few days after. What do you think?”
“What do I think? I
think it’s fucking October,” she said. “Ask me a little closer to the date,
preferably when I’m not freezing and telling you to leave me alone. If I was forced
into an answer right now, I’d tell you I have no interest in trudging through
the snow to watch Clash covers before another one of your uncle’s bass players
gets clipped by a shoe.”
“No, no. He said
this new guy is—”
“I don’t care,” she
interrupted. “Can’t you tell me this later? Also, why are you still here?
Aren’t you going to be late for work?”
“That all
depends,” I said. “Do you want me to go? I could stay home today, call in
sick.”
“Are you joking?”
she said, then turned over to yank the covers down to her waist. “Why the hell
do you want to stay home from work?”
“I haven’t seen
you in a while. I could stay in bed with you all day, keep you warm. Maybe you
can practice your massage techniques on me. What do you think?”
“What do I think?” she said. “I think you’re talking
like an asshole who’s thinking with his cock, not his brain. I’m a student and
a waitress, pregnant and attached to your health insurance. If you lose your
job, we’re completely screwed.”
“Dana, c’mon. You
think I could get fired for calling in sick? Guys in my building have been lighting
up their morning coffees with Jack for decades.”
“I don’t give a
shit about the old drunks in your building,” she said. “You’re the one I’m
depending on, so quit acting like a boy and think like a man, dammit. Get your
fucking pants on and get out of here!”
“Fine, I get it.
You’re in a bad mood.” I climbed off the bed and slipped into my pants. “You’re
overworked. You’re tired. You’re pregnant. Maybe you’ll feel better when you
give up some shifts at the bar. Did you tell them about the baby yet?”
“During
yesterday’s Bills game? No. If I had to break the news during that shit show,
my manager would have gone berserk. After we went down by three touchdowns, he
looked like he was going to stab himself. I’m lucky I’m not showing that much.”
“But you’re going
have to tell him soon, right?”
“This week. I’ll
tell him this week.”
“And then what? How
long can you wait tables pregnant?”
“A few more
months, I guess.” She pulled the blankets up to her chin and over her shoulders.
“I could probably do it for a little longer if I could get some proper rest.
Uninterrupted.”
“Fine, I’m gone,”
I said, clapping my hands while backing toward the door. “You need anything
else before I go?”
“My God, just go,”
she said, causing me to grab the bedroom door handle and exit. I had one foot into
the kitchen before her voice turned me around.
“Wait, John, hold
up a second,” she said, then sat up and let the comforter fall off her
shoulders and down to her lap. After she flipped the matted black strands of
hair from her face, she fluttered her eyelashes at me. “I’m sorry I’m being
such a bitch, okay? I’m irritable and spent. Plus, after working the last four
nights, my back is fucking killing me. I don’t mean to take it out on you; you
just happen to be here. You’re the one in front of me when I feel like this.”
“You know you can
quit, right?” I said. “I can go knock on some doors, get a job bartending
nights somewhere. I know it’s not ideal, but say the word and I’ll make it
happen.”
“I’m not letting
you do that. Just let me get a little sleep and I’ll be fine, okay?”
“You got it,” I
said. “And with that, I’m out.”
I shut the bedroom
door behind me and had a sudden urge to say one more thing to her, just three
more words before I let her be. After I turned the knob and poked my head back
in, though, I couldn’t interrupt the silence. Dana lay curled and serene,
utterly peaceful amid her rhythmic breathing. There was something about her
exhaustion I found oddly endearing. Whether it was how her black strands lay
strewn about the pillow or how she spooned with feathered pillows as if they
were people, there was something so alluring it sucked the venom from her
earlier attitude. Watching her slip into her therapeutic slumber, I could
surrender within this truth and note my attraction as an element of love.
(Interested
in purchasing When the Lights Go Out? Get it here.)
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