3. Chase
For the first eight years of his life, Chase had lived in a three-bedroom Cape Cod in Chetek, Wisconsin. Many of his memories from then were spotty, but he remembered his childhood home vividly.
It used to be yellow, with white shutters and stepping stones leading up to the porch that had his and Lydia’s handprints in them. There had been a small pond in the backyard, where he first learned to skate, and a garden that his mother tended in the spring. She used to complain about the deer eating her petunias.
That was before his father’s promotion afforded their family a new construction on the West Coast, minutes from the beach, but two thousand miles from all the familiar faces and the little things that used to be important. Like when the ice would be thick enough to fish. Or which pies were in season at the bakery, and what time they would hit the display case straight out of the oven.
Chase hated Los Angeles. As a teenager, he didn’t care which team drafted him as long as it crossed state lines, and when he left, he never imagined he would return.
But life had other plans. Ones that catapulted him back to the city where the sun was always shining, parking was always a nightmare, and people were always hunting for the richest, the most famous, and the next best thing. Which posed a problem for Chase because he used to be the best at what he did. But these days he was something far more coveted than a success story: a tragedy.
Despite not agreeing to a single interview over the past year, his face was still plastered all over ESPN talk shows and season recaps. Anyone with an attention span of five seconds or greater could rewatch the worst moment of his life and air their opinions about it, and they often did.
Shit talk and speculation were as central to the sports bar experience as stale fries and flat beer, which was exactly why he hadn’t set foot in one since he moved back to the city. In fact, he rarely went anywhere. Being alone was easier than having to dodge unwanted exchanges full of pleasantries, condolences, and questions no one should feel comfortable asking a stranger.
However, there was one place he was willing to drive through traffic-packed downtown to visit, and that was Jerri’s Blues House.
Music had a way of transporting Chase someplace else, making him forget about the rest. And if he got there fifteen minutes late for the evening’s set, it placed him exactly where he wanted to be—between two strangers at the bar, as far from the stage as possible. Invisible. That was where he sat tonight, looking over the draft menu and wondering why the crowd was so mellow.
“Know what you want yet?” Jerri asked.
The question must have been a formality because Chase always ordered the same thing. “I’ll take a Dr. Pepper.”
“You can get one of those cheaper at the convenience store, you know.”
“I tried that last week. Turns out they only play Frank Sinatra piano covers there.”
The older man slapped a napkin down on the counter. He was helping out on the floor every time Chase came in, even though he probably had more important administrative tasks to take care of as a business owner. Seeing how much Jerri loved his job was a slap in the face every time, but it was past time for Chase to confront his chronic envy of everyone who wasn’t miserable in life.
“Hey, speaking of music, what happened to the rock band that played here a few weeks ago?” Chase asked after Jerri returned. He stared vacantly at the stage, where a two-man group on saxophone and trombone fired up their next selection for the night.
Jerri gave an apathetic pout as he sat the drink down. “Saint of Spades? Sad story. Their singer, Link, passed away the other week. Nice kid. Helluva voice, too.” He rested his fists on his hips and checked over his shoulder. “Wish I could’ve kept them on, but their music was always a little too hard for this crowd. Nobody would stick around to listen without the vocals.”
“I don’t know about that. Their guitarist seemed pretty talented as well.”
Chase took a long sip of soda, still processing the news. Much like, a few Fridays ago, he’d had to process the fact that Zak Parker was up there crushing it on the guitar with her band. Five years apart and a muddy history of not-quite-friendship was more than enough to shake his confidence in approaching her, his own issues notwithstanding, but this time he had resolved in advance to not be such a coward.
The plan was simple: show up, say hi, congratulate her on her success, and give himself a pat on the back for finally initiating a conversation with someone who knew his identity. If she didn’t immediately tell him to go away, which was likely, then he also would have bought a CD.
Only, it now looked like he wouldn’t have the chance to say anything.
“The girl?” A scummy smile crept up Jerri’s cheeks. “Yeah, you’re not the only regular that likes seeing her up there. Don’t know if talent matters. I’d keep her on if all she did was play blues scales for an hour.”
The strain of maintaining a passably pleasant expression dissolved.
“What do you mean by that?”
“It’s a novelty, that’s all.” Jerri gave him the good ole’ locker room chuckle. “There’s just something about a chick holding an electric guitar that gets a reaction.”
Jerri turned away to check on other customers, which was a blessing because Chase had nothing civil to say in response. And now, no reason to be here anymore.
He left without paying.