Track 14 A Bar Song （Tipsy）
Track 14
A Bar Song (Tipsy)
Maggie
Maggie pedaled back to Ocean Beach, her legs moving as fast as the tears that streamed down her cheeks.
In all her thirty years, she had never felt so far from home. She missed Jason. She missed her own bed and the record store and her own bathroom. She really missed her own bathroom.
But that’s not why she was crying.
The truth was, although she rarely let herself go there, Maggie didn’t just miss her mother, she desperately missed having a mother. She missed talking to that one person in the world who cared about every little detail in her life, in her day, in her heart. And while she had billed this trip as nothing more than a fact-finding mission, she had fantasized that those facts would be conducive to finding something more.
When Maggie pictured meeting her birth mother and possibly her birth family, a PowerPoint presentation of possibilities had flooded her brain. Her mother standing on a rooftop screaming down at her sister to go fuck herself was not in the deck.
Suddenly she felt infinitely disappointed.
She crumpled onto the musty bed in her hotel room, curling up into as small a ball as possible—uber-aware of every point where her body touched the seedy bedding. If she were to abandon her plan, by tomorrow night she could be back home in her own bed. She was certain that was the best decision. There was nothing for her here.
Maggie dozed off, then woke up in a sweat and looked at her phone.
Jason was still in class, but she was desperate to hear his voice, so she called his cell anyway.
His nerdy message, which usually made her cringe a bit— It’s Jason, you know what to do —now tugged at her heart, reopening the watershed. Everything she was feeling, including the fact that she never wanted to leave his side again, spilled out into his voicemail. She knew it would break him to hear her like that, but she felt better after saying it all out loud.
She washed up in the sink in the hallway, threw on jeans and a coat of lip gloss, and hit the town in search of a comfortable seat at a bar for dinner. Hearing the unmistakable sound of Miles Davis escaping from a restaurant a few blocks away, the Salty Pelican, she ventured in.
The bar was empty, aside from a weatherworn bartender and a cute guy around her age with a subtle hipster aesthetic. He looked like he could be one of those dudes chilling on a hammock in an Airbnb ad. She sat two seats away from him on a barstool.
“Nice tune, Chase,” the Airbnb model with good taste in music remarked to the bartender. And even though she was intent on leaving the island the next day, no matter how much of a waste of money the trip had turned out to be, Maggie marveled at the fact that her birth mother may have sat in this exact bar and flirted with this exact bartender, though she hoped she had better taste in men than this guy. It was a mean thing to say, or even to think, but he reeked of has-been.
She ordered a much-needed vodka soda and busied herself perusing the menu. She had eaten little all day. Her stomach had been acting up, and today’s scene had put a whole new spin on the phrase inherited trauma .
“Do I know you?” the bartender asked. “You look very familiar.”
“I’ve never been here before,” Maggie assured him.
He set down her vodka soda and continued to stare at her quizzically.
Airbnb boy clearly interpreted it as lust, but Maggie didn’t get that sense at all.
“A little young even for you, Chase,” he declared, adding, “Watch out for this old horndog,” in Maggie’s direction. She laughed at the implausibility, but flashed her faux engagement ring, just in case.
“I’m engaged,” she said, exaggerating the truth just a little. Engaged to be engaged didn’t sound like as much of a roadblock.
“Congratulations,” said the Airbnb model, reaching out his hand in introduction. “I’m Matt.”
“Maggie May Wheeler,” she said while shaking back.
“So did your parents like the Faces or the Beatles?” he asked.
Both wrote songs featuring Maggie May.
Maggie laughed, “Faces, and I’m impressed. Most people say Rod Stewart, not his old band.”
The bartender was still hovering. It was strange to Maggie, but he seemed harmless enough. Matt kindly included him in the conversation since it was clear he wasn’t going anywhere.
“?‘Maggie May’ came out in ’72 and Stewart went solo in ’75,” he informed the bartender before turning his attention back to Maggie. “I’m a reporter for Rolling Stone .”
“Whoa—that is so badass. I sell Rolling Stone at my store, Maggie May Records. It’s in a small town in the Midwest.”
The bartender piped in with “ Just a small-town girl, living in a lonely world .”
They both laughed, more at him than with him. But it was OK because he clearly didn’t catch on. Maggie felt badly about it anyway and pulled out the standard ordering question.
“What’s good here?”
“I’m a big fan of the chicken fingers,” the bartender replied. “But don’t go by me. I’ve never grown up.”
Matt laughed. “I didn’t know you were so self-aware, Chase. I’ll have the fish tacos,” adding for Maggie’s benefit, “They’re arguably the best on the island.”
“Make it two then, please.” She smiled, handing back the menu.
“Blackened or fried?”
“Hmm, that’s a tough one,” Maggie groaned.
“Want to do one and one, and we can share?” Matt offered.
“Sure, sounds good,” she answered, impressed by the boldness of the suggestion.
The bartender headed to the kitchen.
Matt slid onto the seat next to her as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Maggie didn’t mind. After all, they were sharing dinner. Being without Jason on this crazy journey was starting to get to her. Not that this guy reminded her of Jason. They were opposites, physically. Airbnb guy had cropped light brown hair with ginger highlights and the perfect amount of grub on his face. Jason was more prepster than hipster, with the smoothest skin and dark brown hair cut in basically the same bowl-like style that he’d had as a kid. She loved that about him. Maggie wasn’t big on change, another reason to be true to herself and get out on the first ferry in the morning. She was self-aware too!
“My dream is to own a record store. That is so badass!” Matt marveled, interrupting her thoughts.
“I know nothing else. It was my parents’ store. I grew up in it.”
“Sounds like bliss.”
“It was,” Maggie says, with more than a hint of melancholy, which embarrassed her. She shook it off.
“How did you get into music journalism?”
“It’s kind of a funny story. The quick version is my parents got divorced when I was sixteen and my mom started dating this drummer in a heavy metal band. She dragged me on tour with him on weekends and vacations, and I started writing about it for my high school newspaper. My teacher turned one of my pieces in to Rolling Stone and they published me…at seventeen.”
“How Cameron Crowe of you.”
“Indeed. I’ve seen Almost Famous a zillion times—the best.”
“For me it’s Say Anything —you know, the boom box scene.”
“Sorry, but that may be the cheesiest music scene in movie history.”
“Try the most iconic music scene in movie history,” she said, sulking a little.
“Please, that dude—”
“Lloyd Dobler,” she interrupted.
“Excuse me, Lloyd Dobler, making a total fool of himself for that girl. So cheesy!”
“Try so romantic! If you love someone, you don’t care about making a total fool of yourself.”
Matt rolled his eyes. “OK, chill. It’s not like I dissed the greatest record store story of all time.”
“If you diss High Fidelity , I swear I’m not sharing tacos with you.”
Matt spun around on his stool and puffed his chest out like a rooster. He was wearing the same Pretenders T-shirt that Catherine Zeta-Jones’s character wore in the movie. They both laughed—really laughed. And then they laughed some more at how much they were laughing.
The bartender returned with their place settings and awkwardly waited for them to stop laughing. Which made them laugh even more.
Maggie thought about how good it felt to let go like that. It was the kind of comic relief that was so deep, it pushed any tension up and out.
“Your food will be out in a few minutes,” the bartender announced when they finally quieted. They both smiled and nodded, but he remained standing there with them like a third wheel. In all fairness, he and Maggie’s new companion had started out on an equal footing.
He turned to Matt. “Ready for the big wedding day?”
Matt shook his head and rolled his eyes simultaneously.
“Oh, are you engaged too?” Maggie asked.
“No, my mom is getting married.”
Could it be the wedding? she wondered. Things were suddenly getting more interesting. She dug deeper.
“So, you don’t like who your mother’s marrying, I presume?”
“Tacos almost ready, Chase?” Matt asked the bartender, clearly not wanting to answer in front of him. Maggie got it. She was from a small town too.
“I’ll check,” he said, and obliged.
“No. I like him plenty. I’ve known him my whole life. It’s his daughter, Dylan.”
“You don’t like his daughter?”
“No, I love his daughter.”
“She doesn’t love you?”
“She loves me,” he laughed at her impatience. “It’s just, we had one of those ‘If we’re both single when we’re thirty’ pacts and…”
Maggie’s mind went from recon to romance.
“Well, you couldn’t have picked a better person to sit next to—I’m dating my childhood best friend!”
“You mean your fiancé?”
“Yes, yes. My fiancé. I just got used to dating him,” she giggled nervously. “You should go for it. It’s the best for so many reasons; it’s like a guarantee! There are no games; you can totally be yourself around them. You know each other better than anyone else, no surprises either. Oh, and their families—you already feel like a part of them, which is a real plus, for me at least, and for you too, I presume, given the circumstances.”
“Slow down,” he teased, “I have the opposite problem. I’m worried she will want to get romantic, and I think it’s a mistake—you know, because we will be like actual family after this weekend.”
“Oh, I get it. Well, that’s great too! You will always have her as your family. You’ll never lose touch, and when you marry someone else, they won’t be jealous or intimidated by her because she’s your sister.”
“You’ve really thought this through.”
“I guess I have,” she laughed.
“You make good points. Let’s just hope she feels the same.” He took another sip of his drink before asking, “So, what brings you to our little island?”
Maggie contemplated her answer. She was already certain she wanted no part of the crazy messy family she had witnessed earlier, but she was curious about whether this guy knew her birth mother, and if “his” wedding was the same one Beatrix was attending.
“Is your mom’s wedding on board a ferryboat?” she asked, clearly piquing his curiosity.
“Yessss,” he answered in that tentative way one does when waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Certain she was leaving the next day, she went for it.
“I’m here to find my birth mother, Beatrix Silver.”
From his expression, you would think a boot had dropped, and one of those heavy ones, like a size 11 Doc Marten.
“Whoa. Bea is your mother?”
“My birth mother.”
“Have you met her?’
“No, but I saw her in action today and it put a hard stop to my journey. It was…messy, to say it politely. I’m not into messy.”
“You saw that scene today, in Bay Harbor?” Matt asked.
“I did. Were you there?”
“Unfortunately, yes. It’s one of the reasons I’m sitting here at the bar alone. I needed to decompress.”
“Do you know if the old guy is OK?”
She was pretty sure the old guy was her grandfather but didn’t allow herself to really think about that.
“Shep? Yes, he’s fine.”
“Was it a heart attack?”
“No—it was more of an…episode, I’d say.”
“Like a mental episode?”
“No. More like a soap opera episode. He was faking.”
“Faking? So, he’s crazy too?”
“Certifiable, but he’s the only one who really qualifies. Beatrix was just having a bad day.”
“I’ll say,” Maggie joked, though she didn’t find any of it remotely funny.
“Shep and Beatrix Silver are two of my favorite people in the entire world, for real. Shep is the GOAT.”
It was a big statement—from a complete stranger. A complete stranger with extra points for wearing her favorite Pretenders T-shirt.
Chase returned with the fish tacos. He placed them down and pulled a piece of paper with his phone number written on it from his pocket, handing it to Maggie.
“If you need anything while you’re here.”
“Oh my God!” Matt jumped off his stool while swatting the paper from her hand like it was on fire.
“What the hell, Matt? Just being neighborly.”
“Maggie, I have to show you something,” he declared in a panicked tone. He must have realized that he was now acting crazy because he recalibrated his intensity and took it down a notch.
“Do you trust me?” he continued.
“Oddly, yes,” she laughed.
“Can you wrap these up to go for us?” he asked as Maggie made a quick detour to the ladies’ room. As she did, she heard Matt continue with, “And Chase, I’m not sure what you’re thinking, but trust me too, this girl is off-limits.”
Behind the closed stall door Maggie did a deep dive into Matt Tucker’s social media. He was easy to locate.
Matt Tucker Roving Reporter Rolling Stone
In between pictures of concerts and bylines were personal shots like a loving post dedicated to his mom for Mother’s Day and a recent picture of his pet cat, Houdini, with a sweet message about his passing. Even though her gut had told her Matt was harmless just from chatting with him, she was thankful that the internet confirmed it.
She fought the urge to express condolences for Houdini when she confidently hopped on the back of his bike.