Chapter 2 #2
“I suppose that’s a bad thing?” she spat. “I’d rather he be too sensitive than heartless!”
I’d heard enough, so I shut the door as quietly as I could and put my damn headphones back on.
“Here’s what I’d suggest,” Dad says now, arms crossed. “Think about who you’ve got leading the media department. Maybe it’s time for a change, to find someone who really knows what they’re doing or who can better adapt to your leadership style.”
“Is there something wrong with my leadership style?”
Dad shrugs. “I think we can all agree that you’re not quite as driven as your siblings.”
I scoff. Neither of them would last a day in the stores.
“Maybe you need to… speak with a team captain from another store. Someone ready to take the next step in their Hometown career.”
I shake my head. “Aurora knows what she’s doing.”
Mostly. I’ve got a list on my notepad that suggests otherwise. But that’s my problem to solve, not his, and poaching someone from another store isn’t cool. It happens, but it’s not cool. And I’m not going to fire Aurora to create an opening.
“Stubborn,” he mutters. “Like your mother.”
It’s a punch to the gut. Don’t bring her into this, I think, but I don’t say it.
Too sensitive. Too emotional.
I’d like to think I got the best parts of her, not only her stubborn streak. Her attention to detail. Her compassion. Her laugh, her smile. It’s been too long since I’ve heard that laugh. It’s been too long since I’ve had a reason to smile.
“Get your act together, Wil,” he spits, “or you’ll find yourself back at the inventory desk. Permanently.”
At that, I turn and walk out of the Dugout. I’ve heard enough.
Sam picks me up at 7:15.
“You’re late,” I say. “I hope your lucky parking lot isn’t full. I don’t want to miss the opening act.”
He dismisses my comment with a wave of his hand. “Of course my lucky parking lot won’t be full. That’s why it’s lucky. Have you even heard of the opening act?”
“I have not. But that doesn’t mean they won’t be good.”
“I’m less optimistic,” he says. “Also, the baby was sleeping. What was I supposed to do, not pleasure my wife when I had the opportunity?”
“Gross. Don’t talk like that. I need to bleach my eyes.”
“That makes no sense. You’re just jealous because you haven’t gotten any since… what? Ninety-three?”
“Ha ha,” I say, but he isn’t far off. It’s been over three years since Candy, my college girlfriend, dumped me after nearly four years together.
Much later, I heard that she was only in it—our relationship, that is—for the money.
Which I don’t have. Sure, I don’t have student loans, but I’m also still driving the same used Acura Legend I’ve had since the summer before college.
“So, Jeff.” Sam changes the subject so abruptly, my head spins.
I’d rather talk about my nonexistent sex life. “What about him?”
“I heard you got the bait and switch from Jeremy, and Jeff was waiting for you in the Dugout. What did he say?”
“The usual. Empty threats.” Except they’re not empty. He could block me from every GM spot or any job at corporate. It’s his company, and it doesn’t matter to him how much of my life I’ve already dedicated to it.
“You’ll figure out a way to prove him wrong,” Sam says.
“Do you ever think that things might not work out?” I scowl. I already know the answer. Sam’s the kind of guy who doesn’t worry. “Why worry about it and live through something bad twice,” he likes to say, “when it probably won’t happen the way it’s happening in your head, anyway?”
“Why would I think that?” He signals his turn off the freeway.
Hennepin Avenue’s busy but Sam gets all green lights. His lucky parking lot has one open spot. And, because he was fifteen minutes late picking me up, doors are open and there’s no line.
“Huh, whaddaya know,” he says as the bouncer checks his ID. “No line.”
“Yeah, yeah. Get the beer. I’ll grab the spot.”
We’ve been to enough shows at The Golden to have figured out the optimum general admission placement.
We’re not about to fall for the idea that you should crowd in as close to the stage as possible and then have to fight your way back when it’s time for another beer.
If, instead, you stand near the front but off to the side in a small alcove below the stairs, not only can you see the stage clearly (at an angle, but clearly), it’s easy to get in and out and head straight up the stairs to both the restrooms and a bar.
This place is one of the coolest music venues in the Twin Cities, and that’s saying something.
It’s not as legendary as First Avenue, but it’s got its own history of iconic acts.
I’ve probably seen a hundred shows at The Golden.
It’s dark and bright at the same time, colorful stage lights cutting through the heavy, hazy air.
I’ve been drunk here, I’ve been sober, I’ve laughed, and I admit, I’ve even cried.
Once or twice my soul has completely left my body, I’ve let the music carry me away, I’ve been lost, and I’ve been found.
All my life, music has gotten me through it. My mom’s old records—The Monkees, The Beatles, The Supremes, Otis Redding. The first cassette tape I bought with my own money, Van Halen 1984, launched a massive collection.
You can’t always count on people, but you can count on the music. The music doesn’t change, and it never lets you down.
I take that back. The opening act’s music is letting me down.
Sam was right. It’s a Nirvana-wannabe band out of Iowa; the lead singer has the same shaggy, dirty-blond hair as Kurt Cobain and wears a tan cardigan over a T-shirt.
During the break between acts, Sam says, “After that, I definitely need another beer,” and heads to the bar.
That’s when my eyes land on a woman near the front of the crowd.
A clear plastic cup in her hand, she’s turned with her back to the stage to face the woman she’s with.
She’s slender, with a heart-shaped face.
She flips her long brunette waves over her shoulder.
Her black Soul Asylum T-shirt looks worn and well-loved, faded and soft against her curves.
She’s gorgeous.
But it’s more than that.
Something sweeps over me and settles in my bones. An ache, the chills, like I’ve got the flu or I’ve been out on the ice rink too long for a pond hockey tournament in subzero weather.
What is this… feeling?
I don’t believe in love at first sight. I’m not looking for a girlfriend or even a one-night stand or a fling. Candy did a number on me and besides, I’ve got my career to worry about. Especially after today. But that doesn’t mean I’m oblivious.
There’s something about her that draws me in.
The way she holds herself, maybe, tall and confident.
The way she leans in and gives her friend her undivided attention.
The way she smiles and laughs—it lights her up.
She takes a drink, her deep maroon lips pressing into the plastic. I want to be that cup.
“See something you like?” Sam’s back with our beer.
“Remind me that I don’t have the time or energy for a relationship,” I choke out. I can’t take my eyes off her.
“Huh? Do you know her?”
I shake my head.
“Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?”
“Ha ha.”
“She’s cute,” Sam says. “Go talk to her.”
“You’re supposed to tell me to not talk to her.”
I’m saved from doing something stupid when the guys—and one woman, the drummer—of HollowPoint come onstage to an uproar from the crowd.
The woman in the Soul Asylum shirt turns to face them, her hands in the air, her back to me.
Still, I can’t take my eyes off her or that lipstick stain on the cup, now raised above her head.
“Hey, Minneapolis!” the lead singer yells into the microphone after the last notes of their first song crash to a loud, screeching halt. “Here’s an old favorite for all our fans in our hometown.”
The guy on electric guitar lays into the familiar opening riff of their first big hit, “Shattered Love,” and the crowd goes wild.
Nobody’s got time for this shit anymore, shattered love scattered ’cross the floor. Don’t play the part, you don’t need another broken heart.
Exactly. Exactly what I needed to hear. It’s like he’s singing it directly to me.
Still, I can’t take my eyes off the woman with the dark lipstick as she drinks and dances and sings along.
Everything else falls away—the crowd, the music, the eval, my father’s unending disappointment—and there’s only her.
And when she moves through the crowd toward the stairs, her drink above her head again, I move, too.