Chapter Four
Phoenix
“Bon Jovi? Seriously?” I ask as my face scrunches up in surprise and skepticism. “Isn’t he, like, ancient?”
“Eh. He is getting kind of old,” Jackson replies. “Doesn’t mean his music isn’t still awesome.”
With nothing to while away the time as we wait for whatever the next phase of our mutual captivity is, we’ve started covering basic get to know each other topics. Favorite color. Mine, the bright green of new leaves. Jackson’s, cliched and boring sky blue. Pets are a no from both of us, although we both expressed the thought that having a dog would be nice, if a lot of responsibility.
Listing off our favorite foods is probably a bit masochistic since we’re stuck with the unappetizing gloop we’re fed twice daily. Nonetheless, we go there. And while I can’t see it, I can hear the horrified and disgusted tone of Jackson’s voice after I tell him that I rotate between a couple of different sushi places in my hometown of Westerly, Rhode Island, and know exactly which roll is better at one place over the other. On the other hand, I have to agree with Jackson’s opinion that a good, thick, juicy steak, cooked to a perfect medium rare, is an absolute mouthwatering thing of beauty.
Surprisingly, tossing out our favorite movies leads us incredibly close to the land of politics and the philosophical debate of whether you could, or should, separate a piece of art or culture from the person who created it.
“Ugh. I know, I know,” Jackson says. He sounds grumpy enough that I have to wonder if he’s pouting.
What would that look like on his face? Hard to know without knowing what the other man looks like. Does he have fuller lips that tend to naturally pout anyway? Are they thinner? Do they normally crook and curl into easy smiles? As much as I try to conjure an image of what the man looks like based on his voice alone, there’s just no way to know how close I am or not to what my brain came up with.
“I know I shouldn’t watch the movies anymore. And I get it. I know J.K.—"
“Uh uh uh,” I interrupt, before he can say the name of the author who should no longer be named. And yes, I’m aware of the irony.
“Anyway. I know I shouldn’t watch those movies anymore. But they were always my favorites when I was younger. I just can’t make myself give them up.”
“But watching them is like a tacit acceptance of the shit their creator spews out.”
“Or…or…it’s me showing my love and support for the actors in the movies? They all seem like nice people.” Jackson pauses for a moment before he adds, “Besides, they were such a part of my childhood. And there’s something…something… magical about those movies." He huffs out a self-deprecating laugh. “And the idea of an ordinary kid, that nobody seems to like or appreciate, finding out that he’s actually one of the most important, pivotal people alive…that’s just the stuff of every kid’s longings and dreams, isn’t it?”
I want to argue that whatever magic Jackson and other HP fans found in the book and movie series is false and corrupted due to the root of foulness it sprang out from, but there is such a wistful, sad tone to Jackson’s voice that I can’t bring myself to do so. I have the sense that hammering away at him from some philosophical soapbox would inflict needless wounds to a man whose heart didn’t need them.
Keeping my own tone light, I comment, “I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree. But when we get out of here, don’t expect me to sit down to a movie marathon with you. Not unless I get to pick the movies.”
He still sounds a little mellow, but Jackson agrees easily enough. “Yeah. Alright. Movie picks are on you. As long as you’re not picking out some weird, foreign language, intellectual mind-fuck of a movie. Movies are for fun, not for thinking and reading subtitles. If’n I want to read something, I’ll pick up a danged book.”
We moved onto a discussion of what sort of music we liked to listen to. Bringing me back around to Jackson’s unexpected revelation that he enjoys listening to a band whose song catalogue had largely all come out before either one of us had even been born.
“Where did you even... Is that what your parents listened to when you were little? Is that the kind of music radio stations play down in...wherever you live? How in the world did you start liking Bon Jovi?”
“Naw,” Jackson replies, his southern accent slow and syrupy. And fuck, but my brain couldn’t help but get stuck on the notion that a man who sounds like Jackson did must also look as equally delicious. “My folks mostly listened to country. And that’s what’s on like 80% of the radio stations pretty much everywhere all over the south. But Chattanooga, where I’m living now, being in the same state as Nashville—the heart and soul of country music—is no exception to that. No, a couple years ago, I ran across this old cassette tape of Bon Jovi songs in a thrift shop, picked it up for fifty cents because it was a band that I’d at least heard of before, and I’ve been listening to it ever since.”
“Oh, my God,” I comment, an incredulous laugh escaping me. “Are you fucking kidding me? How old are you? Should I call you grandpa? A cassette tape?”
“What?” Jackson’s own light laugh let me know he isn’t upset at my teasing. “My car has a tape deck and you can get cassettes for really damned cheap. It’s hard to find ones you’d actually want to listen to, of course, but they’re cheap. And I’m only 24, so no cracks about my age if you please.”
“Ah, I see. It’s just your car that’s a relic then.”
“Yeah. It kinda is.” A sigh proceeds Jackson correcting himself. “Er, or it was.”
“Oh, really?” That sounds like there could be a story there. And since we have plenty of time for Jackson to regale me with all the stories he could… “It was? What does that mean? Is your car no more?”
“I mean, it, like, still exists and all. I just don’t have it anymore.”
“Oh.”
Jackson says it matter-of-factly. Much the way he did with his previous mention of shopping at a thrift store.
“Yeah, a couple weeks ago, it just didn’t want to start. And then before I could get it in to get checked out, there was this massive snowstorm. Chattanooga was dumped with like six inches of snow, which is normally more than it gets in an entire month during the winter. I needed to move my car so they could plow and… Well, it got moved. When a city tow truck towed it away. So, anyway. I’m working on getting it back. I mean…I was. Before all…this.”
Again, Jackson’s tale was so far outside the realm of my own personal experiences. I don’t know how to respond. I don’t want to sound pitying or patronizing, but that’s how anything that came out of my mouth would probably come across.
Obviously, I’ve had car troubles before, too. But when I did, I just switched over to using one of my other cars. I have three. Two I keep in the city—a Mercedes for everyday use, plus a convertible just for the hell of owning a convertible. My third vehicle is a permanent fixture at our family’s mountain vacation home. And if I somehow couldn’t use one of my other cars while I had a car in the shop, I’d just rent one or borrow one of my parents’ spare vehicles. Since the age of sixteen, I’ve never been without easy access to my own means of transportation.
“Oh. Er. That…uh…that sucks,” I finally stammer out. The whole statement is completely banal and stupidly underwhelming.
“Meh. It is what it is.” While his words seem pragmatic and accepting, Jackson’s voice drops back into melancholy. “But if it’s all the same…” Is he sniffling again? It’s hard to tell, especially as he attempts to cover up the telltale sound—if there had indeed been anything to cover up—with a hoarse cough. “You know…I’m kind of tired. I think…I think I’m gonna take a nap now. Okay?”
“Yes. Of course, that’s okay,” I immediately reply, my own voice soft and gentle.
Is it the circumstances we’re in or something about the other man that has me reacting to him so carefully and tenderly? It certainly isn’t at all reflective of my usual, everyday treatment of everyone else in the world. Not that I consider myself to be a raging asshole or anything. But I usually don’t have much patience for other people’s feelings or problems. All adults have them and I expect them to deal with them themselves, the same way I do with mine.
But Jackson…I want to soothe him. Comfort him. Take care of him until his sad moods lift and he’s back to being unexpectedly cheerful and friendly.
“Go ahead and have your nap,” I tell him. “I’ll be here when you wake back up. Obviously.”
I hope to get a teasing echo of my last word sent back to me but, once again, Jackson is silent.