9. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Ash
W hile the day has been full of surprises, I’m really dragging as I head into my final date of the day.
When I signed up to be on this show, it was about half because my agent and studio partner, professionally known DJ Halcyon, said it would be good for me, a chronically in the studio hopeless romantic, to do double duty as publicity and a hell of a personal ad if didn’t find a match on the show.
While I’m successful and attractive enough, I’m also a packless delta heading closer and closer to 30. Agencies don’t love trying to place me despite my wealth and success, and I haven’t had much luck dating out in the ‘wild’.
I’ve now gone on more dates in the past eight hours than I have in the past eight months and I’ve got to say, I’m surprised that there’s been more than a few girls who I’m genuinely looking forward to talking to again.
There’s Brittney, who immediately started talking about her favorite club tracks as soon as I mentioned what I do for work. She’s more likely than not a seasoned party girl, which could be a turn-off for some dudes—but considering what I do for a living? It’s not actually a bad thing.
There was Suzi, the model—who had a super sexy accent. Brazil, Rio De Janeiro. We talked a bunch about how we love the beach, and how she’s always wanted to go to Ibiza to do a shoot so she can experience their gorgeous white sands and incredible nightlife.
Roxy, the pole and aerial artist, sounded cool—but like she’d eat me alive just as soon as going on a real date with me in the outside world.
I’ve written down the names and details of a few others, but honestly—I’m pleasantly surprised to be excited for a few second dates tomorrow.
I’m so checked out that it takes me a moment to realize that someone is humming on the other side of the wall. My last date has already arrived, and I’ve been so zoned out—still and silent, that she doesn’t know I’m here.
My name and introduction is on the tip of my tongue, when suddenly—the mystery woman’s hum opens into softly sung words,
“ Lullaby of birdland that’s what I—always hear, when you sigh ,”
she continues on singing the old George Shearing jazz standard and I can tell that she isn’t singing in her full voice.
On the contrary, she’s muted herself so that her understated performance is as demure as possible. Still, her voice has a resonant sweetness, sonorous and rich.
Leaning forward, straining to hear her better–I accidentally knock my water glass on the nearby low table with my knee–making a loud clattering sound. The mystery woman stops singing instantly.
“Hello? Is there someone there?”
Damn it! I broke the spell. I gave myself away.
“Uh, Hi–yes, hello!” I struggle to collect myself.
“Oh jeez, I’m always so embarrassing. Listen to me, sitting in here singing to myself like a little kid. I’m sorry you had to hear that,” she apologizes, obviously flustered.
“Absolutely not! You sounded great. A little quiet, but great!” I compliment her, hoping that a little flattery might ease the awkwardness.
“Thank you, that’s very nice of you to say.” She does her best to take the compliment, but it’s immediately clear she doesn’t have much practice with taking praise gracefully.
The little devil on my shoulder says something about how we could teach her to get better at taking praise, but I remind myself—and the devil on my shoulder—that I don’t even know her name. Even if my musician's soul is already most of the way to down bad just from that voice of hers.
“Where did you learn to sing like that?” I do my best to sound casual.
“Dad likes to play music. He taught me piano, and a little guitar. He loves jazz. I grew up listening to a lot of old standards and torch songs. I can’t even read music,” she answers without pretense.
“You sound great for someone who isn’t formally trained,” I lob another compliment in her direction.
“Are you a musician?” she handily sidesteps my admiration, deflecting to me.
“I am. A multi-instrumentalist and a producer. That’s all I can say for right now,” I offer cryptically.
“Oho, alright. We gotta keep it confidential for now, I get it. Still, that’s pretty cool,” she offers nonchalantly, but there’s an underlying tension to her clipped words.
“I’m not trying to sound like a showoff or anything. I realize it might sound like I’m being a bit of a dickhead since I’m like—being selectively vague about my job before we’ve actually introduced ourselves,” I find myself compensating to even out the emotional temperature in the situation. Classic delta M.O. “I’m Ash, by the way.” I wait, allowing her to make an introduction.
“I’m Ursula. Don’t worry about it—you don’t sound like a dickhead—if anything I’m the one who’s a little butthurt that I’m chatting with someone who has managed to make a career in music after I myself have been an abject failure,” she laughs.
I’m more than a little surprised by her confession.
“Sounds to me like you just didn’t get in front of the right people—with a voice like yours,” I do my best to make my words a balm for her wounded pride, but I’m not sure what else to say without possibly digging a deeper hole.
“How did you get into music professionally, Ash?” Ursula deftly takes another hard turn into what she obviously feels is safer territory for discussion. Or maybe she thinks I’m one of those guys who prefers to talk about himself.
I hope it’s not because she thinks I’m one of those kinds of dudes. “Uh, well–I kind of started DJing parties in college because I like to. I just kind of kept being in the right place at the right time—so my gigs suddenly started getting bigger and bigger until suddenly, a really big fish—like a fish bigger than the whole pond that I was livin’ in, showed up and asked me to work on their new single. They liked it, so that became an entire album and so on…” I trail off, realizing that my attempt at a humble explanation had somehow started to sound like a brag fest.
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous, but that’s really awesome.” Her compliment sounds genuine, if a bit strained.
“So, what kind of music are you into?” I ask, mimicking her hard redirection tactic to move away from talking more about myself.
“Listening-wise? Or what kind of music do I like playing or making?” she asks for clarification.
“Both.” I kick my legs over the arm of the sofa and lay down across the seat cushions, the overhead light too bright through my white blonde lashes—so I close my eyes and listen patiently for the sound of Ursula’s voice.
“As far as listening goes—it’s going to sound cliche, but I listen to everything. Classical, Pop, Blues, Hip-hop, Cambodian-Psychedelic-Rock, Nu-Disco you name it, I listen to it. Though, admittedly, I don’t listen to very much Country.”
“Cambodian-Psychedelic-Rock!?” I snort an incredulous laugh.
“Listen, I’ll make you a playlist. Ok? There’s no point in me trying to describe the quality of the absolute banger that is Sni Bong . You have to hear it for yourself.”
My heart flutters. A playlist, huh? For me, the exchange of a playlist, burned CD, or mix tape made explicitly for the recipient is a gift of incredible emotional intimacy. Something I’ve only done with my closest friends and my ex partners.
“Ok, but what about the kind of stuff you make?” I prompt her, quickly adding, “So that I can make you an appropriate playlist in return.”
“Jazz,” she says without hesitation.
“There’s something about the skill, the freedom, the depth of expression and the passion behind the feeling,” Ursula rhapsodizes, and I can feel my own breaths becoming quicker as I feel my own love of music—making it, living in it, lighting within me.
“When I get to push my voice to do exactly what I want it to do in that moment—”
“I don’t really make music much anymore,” she cuts off, my heart still a metronome picking up pace. She said it quietly, a deep current of sadness carrying her vulnerable words.
“Really? Sounded to me like you’re still doing it—and doing it well,” I am quick to correct. “You may not be gigging or recording, but you’re definitely still making music,” I add, to soften the mansplain-y vibe I’m worried I’m beginning to give off.
“Well, that may be true, but I don’t do much making music even by those standards. Mostly in the shower, or in the car, or the odd moment where I’m looking to just fill the silence,” she sighs. I can’t tell if it’s that permeating sadness, or the onset of exhaustion with me or a combination of the two.
“So what do you do instead of making music? What makes the money?” I do my best to salvage what feels like a spiraling first date.
“Makeup artist mostly, less frequently, a hair stylist,” she says on a bitter laugh.
I swing my legs back over the arm of the loveseat, planting my feet on the floor and sitting upright. I look at the wall, at the silly fake portal between our ‘bubbles’—currently glowing a shade of electric blue.
“Oh shit! Do you work out of New York or LA? I bet we actually have some professional overlap if you're on the west coast.”
There’s a lingering moment of awkward silence, and I worry that I’ve come off as wildly patronizing without meaning to.
Instead, Ursula handily redirects me, yet again.
“Hey Ash, what’s your favorite color?”
What? My favorite color? This feels like taking a few steps backward in terms of getting to know one another.
“Ha, I haven’t thought about that in a long time.” I’m admittedly suffering from a bit of conversational whiplash, so my response comes after a too-long beat of silence, and I don’t readily have an answer. I don’t want to be the guy who says he doesn’t have a favorite color though—it’s a fucking sociopath answer.
“No one has asked you that in your other dates either? Isn’t that funny? I feel like this whole situation is really interesting—because I absolutely would have had to fall back on some kind of small talk question like that on a real life date, but here—for better or for worse, we all seem to be cutting to the ‘deep’ stuff much quicker,” Ursula scoffs a little laugh before adding, “In case you were wondering, my favorite color is red—or possibly gold.”
I close my eyes again, blooms of color filling my mind’s eye—gilt and
crimson. As the colors fade—a new hue blossoms, I begin to describe to Ursula the first color that comes to mind, “I don’t know its name—but that color that’s like the underside of a rain cloud at twilight, the sheen of a rock dove’s wing, or a wet quartz pebble on an overcast day—not quite gray, not quite lilac, not quite smoke.”
“Oooh, what a romantic description,” Ursula purrs, and I feel more pleased with myself than I reasonably should.
“Finally, we get to asking the real questions,” I kid.
“You’ll have to wait to get the answer to my favorite flavor of ice cream until the second date, though,” she warns sternly.
“Alright, I can respect those boundaries. I expect that we’ll exchange our lists of top five favorite movies by date three. I’m not that old-fashioned.” I try to roll up my brimming excitement over her mention of a second date along with enough levity to cover any apparent desperation, into a coherent response.
“Fine, but no arguments over favorite French Touch albums until date four. I’m firm on that,” she jokes.
“Of course, ma’am. I am a gentleman after all!” I assure her.
She liked my joke, and she shot back with a ‘French Touch’ DJ reference? Don’t tell the angel or devil on my shoulders—because I might already be in love .