7. Emerson #2
“A disco? What is this, 1978?” Bryce uses a small towel to wipe sweat from his red face. “Can’t you adjust your headset? ”
“My hearing aid? I could, but my other ear still works just fine. And it’s only partial hearing loss in this one.” I tug at my right earlobe. “I don’t know why you’re blaring music at full volume.”
“I’m practicing my steps,” Bryce says. “I have another round of auditions coming up this week.”
Watching him move, I’m surprised how limber and flexible he is. He kicks his leg up high. He twists around. Even though he’s a larger man like myself, he moves like he’s light as a feather. It’s quite astounding to behold.
“Well, I need you to practice with headphones on. I have to work on my next lecture.”
And I have to make sure that I don’t face-plant again.
God, I keep going over the class today. Not my finest hour. I really can’t be this nervous. I’ve given lots of lectures before. I have to show that I can handle this. That assistant professor position is in reach. I can’t mess this up.
I go to my bedroom, and of course, Bobo is sitting on my bed licking himself. Down there.
“Excuse me, didn’t we go over this?” I say to him. “Off.”
Bobo ignores me and really goes to town on his doggie business.
“Now I know why you don’t date,” I snark. I pat his butt and gently push him, but he doesn’t budge. “No bed.”
Bobo gives a heavy sigh and gives me the biggest look of sorrow as he hops onto the floor.
“It’s where he used to sleep before we were kicked out of our place,” Bryce yells from the main room.
“I wasn’t the one who kicked you out,” I say to Bobo as he leaves. He doesn’t look back at me, the ultimate power move.
I sit on the bed and lie back. It’s dark and cool in here. I close my eyes and start to drift off to sleep as the adrenaline finally leaves my body. But I bolt awake when Bryce’s music starts up again.
I march into the main room, and there he is, dancing again.
“Sorry, I thought you were sleeping,” Bryce says.
“So you turn the music up?”
“Now we both know what it’s like to be woken up with blaring music.
” Bryce sips from a water bottle. Sweat makes his black T-shirt cling to his torso.
“Look, I’m not good at practicing with headphones on.
I do my best work when the music is loud and ambient, and I can just kind of get lost in it, versus when it’s just stuck in my head. ”
“And your ex-boyfriend let you do this?”
“All the time.”
“And he didn’t go insane?”
“No, because I thanked him with the best sex of his life.”
I gulp a lump back in my throat imagining what, exactly, that might mean.
“Could you wait until morning? I’d like to relax in peace tonight. I don’t feel like listening to this music.”
“What do you mean by this music ? You had a tone in your voice.”
“I’m not really a fan of silly pop music.”
“Excuse me? It’s not silly pop music. This is ‘Emotion’ by one Miss Carly Rae Jepsen.” Bryce blanches.
I go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of wine.
“You’re a music professor, and you don’t enjoy music?” Bryce asks.
“I like quality music. Classical music. Some of the greats, you know—a great opera, or a great orchestra piece. Intricately constructed pieces. It’s not some disposable song composed of a mediocre melody and hackneyed lyrics about love.”
“Wow, Emerson. Do you ever get tired of being the life of the party?” Bryce chugs from his water bottle. “Carly Rae Jepsen is quality music. Have you ever listened to her? ”
“I don’t know. Didn’t you say she did some ‘Call Me Right Back’ song?”
Bryce breathes fire through his nose. “I’m gonna pretend that was a joke.”
“Pop music is a fun trifle, but it’s not real music. It’s a Ritz cracker, whereas a symphony is beef wellington.”
“Did you just compare Carly to a cracker? You would be kicked out of certain gay bars for such slander.”
I try to leave the kitchen, but Bryce grabs my arm and leads me to the couch. He sits me down and squats at my eyeline. Bobo lies near the window, staring.
“There’s an art to crafting a great pop song.
And yes, it is an art. Carly Rae Jepsen is an artist. She encapsulates the roller coaster of the entire human experience in three and a half minutes.
The highs. The lows. She’s an interpreter who’s able to take those feelings that bubble inside your heart, the ones that are so pure and visceral that they can’t be described with words, and she sets them to music.
She may not have a full orchestra behind her, but her songs burrow into your marrow and change your DNA.
They make you believe that loneliness is temporary, that love is forever, that we are worthy of real, actual, ineffable joy in our lives. ”
Bryce stares so intently at me, it’s like he’s reaching into places inside me where nobody is allowed.
I stand up. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“Look, I’m gonna play a Carly Rae song for you. You seem uptight. More uptight than usual.”
“I just—I had a rough day,” I say.
“When I have a rough day, I dance it out,” Bryce says. “You can dance it out to Carly Rae. You can’t dance it out to Mozart.”
Bryce’s eyes widen with passion and fire—for Carly Rae Jepsen, of all people. But I can’t help but get sucked in.
“One song, Emerson. We can dance to one song. And if you don’t feel better after that, I will put in my earbuds, dance in my head, and keep things quiet.”
“Fine. One song,” I say.
Bryce puts on a song. The blips and bloops fill the room, and his eyes light up. He’s excited, like it’s Christmas morning. He shimmies to the center of the room.
“Okay, well, you gotta stand up, Emerson.”
I do a double take. He was actually serious about dancing it out. “I’m not a dancer.”
“Obviously,” Bryce says, “but everyone can dance. It’s what separates us from the monkeys.
” He turns the volume up. The singer’s voice is bright and luminous.
“And it’s been proven that dancing is like exercise, and exercise will make you happy.
And happy people don’t kill their roommates.
That was from Legally Blonde , which I’m assuming you haven’t seen, because it’s not about Tchaikovsky. ”
“Fair,” I say with a chuckle.
It’s hard to resist Bryce’s sunniness. It’s like standing by the edge of the pool. Eventually you’re just going to want to jump in.
So I stand up.
“Do I need to adjust the music because of your …” Bryce gestures at my hearing aid, then a look of remorse comes over him. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine. I can adjust it if needed.”
“Great. I’ve never known someone who’s hard of hearing. Were you born that way, to quote Lady Gaga, who I’m guessing you also aren’t familiar with because she’s not Mozart.”
I feel myself tense up as dark memories threaten this good time. “Let’s get on with it.”
Bryce grabs my hips and shimmies them back and forth. “The song is called ‘Body Language.’ You have hips, Emerson. Use them. ”
As soon as he moves my hips back and forth, they sink into the rhythm. Oh, this is interesting. Maybe I can dance?
“We’re just getting started,” Bryce says.
The emotion in Carly Rae’s voice builds and builds. Bryce dances faster and faster, almost like he’s a windup toy. And finally, the chorus comes on, and Bryce lets go and dances around the room. He dances circles around me, and I do my little—very little—shimmy.
“Okay, we’re—we’re getting there,” says Bryce. “This is good, okay. Well, next, you have to use your arms. Just imagine you’re harvesting corn.”
If I handled crops the way he’s throwing around his arms, we’d have nothing to sell at markets.
“They can’t just hang there like wet noodles.”
Bryce grabs my arms, and his touch sends electricity through my body. He lifts them up and waves them around. Bobo comes over, trying to join the action.
And that, plus the hips—I think I’m actually dancing. There’s a level of abandon. I’ve never been this silly before, for good reason.
“How do you feel?” Bryce asks.
“Quasi-coordinated!” I exclaim.
“Good.”
Bryce spins around and seems to lose himself in the music. He bops his head back and forth as if he has a long mane of hair that’s swishing around.
“All the Jepsies know this: Carly Rae is a joy detector.”
“The who?” I ask, my shoulders trying to find the rhythm.
“Jepsies. Those are her fans. They all know she finds the joy in our hearts and tells us it’s okay to believe in something. It’s okay to feel happiness.”
“Is she a cult leader?” I ask.
“Better.” Bryce moves my arms around with his assured strength, and the electricity between us continues to build. “Okay, last part of the song. We’re at the bridge. Emerson, do they have bridges in symphony pieces?”
“No,” I say. “They have movements.”
“For this last part, I want you to close your eyes.”
Finally, I give in and close my eyes.
“Now dance. Just let the music fill you.”
I can hear his voice, but it’s distorted. Like someone shouting under water. I open my eyes and look at Bryce’s full lips. “The music.” I take his chin between my thumb and forefinger and draw his face up. “I need to see your mouth with the music blaring.”
The heat of his skin sparks something in me, flaring from my fingertips down to the pit of my stomach. His lips are soft, parted slightly, like he’s halfway between laughing and telling me something important.
“Dance, Emerson. Just let the music fill you.”
His mouth … hypnotic, like it’s singing even when it’s still.
“Pretend like you’re possessed by the Canadian spirit of Carly Rae.”
And I do. My body goes haywire in all the best ways—arms flailing, hips moving, legs kicking out, and spinning around.
A wall knocks me off course, but it only makes me laugh as I keep dancing.
Carly Rae commands me not to overthink it, and I must listen.
The thought of opening my eyes crosses my mind, but if Bryce has videotaped me, there’s no coming back from it.
Still, there’s a freedom, an abandon that feels too good to stop.
All the stress from today melts away for a few glorious seconds, and Bryce’s joy overtakes me.
When the song ends, I collapse into him and open my eyes. I’m against his chest. Our gazes lock. There’s a charged moment that gives me goosebumps. Perhaps we’re both possessed with the spirit of Carly Rae—or something else.