The Road Trip Rewind

Chapter 10 - Rocco

Chapter 10

Rocco

Wednesday, December 29, 1999

Anight out in 1999 LA. So many possibilities.

We need to blow off steam—in a controlled way that won’t implode our futures, of course, no big deal. But maybe a night of letting loose will clear our heads by fogging them first. Help us figure out what the hell is going on.

Bea is lying stomach down on my bed, Aero gear on and one vanilla vodka deep, her arms propping up her head like a kid in a commercial. Legs in the air, ankles swinging back and forth. It’s cute. Makes me want to flop down next to her. Whisper all my secrets.

The vodka must be getting to me.

And the Bath and Body Works goods. The smell of that place always did feel like a special kind of drug.

“So,” I start, taking a step back from whiffing range, “there were a lot of music scenes birthed from Los Angeles, but in 1999, swing was king of the small clubs. Maybe we grab dinner, then drinks at this cool place called the Mint, let some zoot-suited musicians time travel us back to 1940s LA—seems in theme, right? Maybe some Big Bad Voodoo Daddy?”

Bea gives me a bewildered squint. “That’s the person living or dead you’d invite to our bizarre ’90s-themed dinner party? Eh. I’m more Miles Davis Quintet than Glenn Miller.” She pauses for a beat, tugging at a stray orange thread from the comforter, then continues, more softly this time. “My dad was such a Miles fan. If I’d been a boy, that would’ve been my name.” A new Dad fact, unasked for. Major headway. A win that has nothing to do with the movie and my role, and everything to do with Bea. “I’m not so sure about wasting my epic ’90s Night Out on Big Bad Crash-Test Voodoo Dummies or whatever.”

Or . . . maybe not so much headway then.

Fortunately, another idea strikes: “Let’s call a cab and head over to Saddle Up Bar on Sunset. It’s a gem I discovered while watching the New York Giants get shellacked in the Super Bowl. Bad memory, awesome place, a real Western rock-and-roll bar. They’ve got surprisingly decent cowboy munchies, and most importantly, a mechanical bull—provides loads of entertainment, trust me. We start there and evaluate. That is, unless you have any better suggestions.” Bea rolls her eyes, but it feels more playful than angsty. Or equal parts both, which is still a win with her. “Besides, my Kid Rock wig will fit right in there, a perfect disguise.”

She cracks a small smile, just briefly, before it flatlines. “Oh, I’m familiar with the place. An old roommate was hired there, then got fired her first night for telling off a very drunk man at the bar who just so happened to be the owner. I never went because of it, roommate loyalty and all that. But since you’re paying, I have always wanted to be a voyeur there. Watching the high hopes and whiskey courage crash and burn headfirst off that bull.” She smiles again, a wider, lingering one this time. She looks awfully gleeful at the prospect of seeing people fail at the bull. Downright giddy.

It’s kind of sexy, if I’m being honest. Trixie—I remember her being pretty tough. But Bea? She’s made of even tougher stuff, and is a constant surprise. More of a good surprise than I could ever have anticipated.

“Done!” I say. “Ribeye, cocky bullshit bull riders, and maybe a swing nightcap if I get my way. Excellent night!”

“We’ll see.” Bea’s smirking, but it’s a more pleasant one than usual. Like a Smirk Lite.

“If nothing else,” I say, reaching out to help her stand up from the bed, “the best drink deals we’ve had in seventeen years. That I can promise you.”

* * *

This place does not disappoint.

The whole bar centers on the bull pit, a large fenced-in circle carved out into the ground, tables set around it for spectators to have a close-up view of the action. I was only here once—part of why I felt comfortable enough choosing the spot for tonight—and the kitsch was too much, in the best way. Extra heavy on the Western vibes, with a side of ’90s grunge.

Tonight, me sipping a can of Red Dog beer while Bea drinks a Zima, we’re fully embracing 1999. I don’t think we’re ready to try the Alize, though the ads are tempting.

A yell cuts through the bar—a loud, drunk cheer to mark someone’s fall. I turn to see it, glancing down from our ringside table: SLAP! A man goes face first into the mats, and 2.7 seconds lights up in red on the scoreboard. Bea and I clap as the man slowly stands on wobbly legs, and then we return to hashing out, yet again, the pressing question of every hour: How the hell are we sitting in 1999 Saddle Up?

“If we were dead,” I say, “I think we’d have some signs by now. I mean, ’99 LA as our purgatory? There’s enough good and bad energy alike that I suspect purgatory wouldn’t have. Too much for the in-between, if that makes sense. And shouldn’t purgatory be something unique, not actual real life down to every last detail? It just doesn’t add up for me. I vote . . . time travel.”

Wow. I really just said that. And meant it.

Bea sips her Zima. Sighs. Sips again. “As totally batshit kooky as it feels to admit aloud, yes—I think we’re back in time. I . . . agree with you. Besides, if I was dead, why would I be spending eternity with you? Let’s be real, if I could’ve had my pick of ’90s crushes, I would absolutely be pounding Zimas with Joseph Gordon-Levitt right now.”

She laughs so I laugh, too, because it was, admittedly, a pretty good dig. I think—hope—it was a joke.

“Damn, Bea, even for you that jab was freezing cold.” I reach out and touch the underside of her wrist, like I’m feeling for that cold spell she just delivered. It’s the opposite, though. Warm and soft. I consider trailing my fingers farther up, but she pulls away and goes for my hand, and a good old-fashioned round of swat-and-grab ensues. Our palms continue to brush as we slowly lower our arms back to the table.

“Well, it’s settled then.” I rest my hand next to hers, not touching, but our pinkies only a hairline away. “We’re operating under the pretense that this is officially a time travel incident. I’ll curb the afterlife talk and go right to Michael J. Fox.”

“Of course, yes, bring the time travel talk back to the biggest franchise there is. Seems par for the course with you, Mr. Franchise King. Personally, though, I’d be happy with the Bill and Ted time travel. Carlin and a phone booth? Sign me up.”

I laugh. She’s right—it would be much cooler to see the space-time continuum flashing by while traveling in a phone booth. All we get is a breakthrough frame jump cut in Back to the Future. But we didn’t exactly get to choose our mode of the impossible.

“Can we talk about something else now?” she asks, taking the last sip of that Zima. Her right eyebrow does a full inchworm move. High and tight. “Wasn’t the point of tonight to lose ourselves in ’99? Let’s just . . . enjoy the evening together.” She crosses over that fraction of space between us, grabbing for my hand.

“So, you’re telling me that going to a Western dive bar and seeing some fine swing music is your time travel wish after all? I nailed it?” I try to raise an eyebrow, too, give a playful wiggle, but the effect is likely more earthworm dying in the sun. I am, unfortunately, not a brow raiser, just a furrower. Unlike Bea, a Brow Queen. Part of her smirk appeal.

Bea raises her free hand, extending her pointer finger to try and push my left brow up. To no avail.

“Congrats. You’ve now discovered my rather unfortunate Achilles’ heel. Do you know how many directors have been bummed that I couldn’t produce the eyebrow raise?”

Bea laughs and pulls her hand back, her finger still pointing at me. “No superhero movies for you then! Damn, a whole genre of franchise movies lost. And such a perfect Celebrity Jeopardy! fun fact.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, since you think I’m special enough to make it onto Jeopardy!. The celebrity edition, anyway.”

The waiter comes over, and I motion for another round.

The conversation and the newly amped-up flirting—or whatever this is because it’s confusing as hell and impossible to neatly label—continues.

Perhaps a second round before food was a bad choice.

Or maybe . . . not so bad. Because to be honest, I like this. Our energy, Bea and me. Like the old times, but also not at all. Something completely new. It’s interesting, and I’m not often interested. Very rarely so, in fact.

So, is this the grand reason? Are we back here to be the love story?

Except . . . my life is great as is, right? So why would the universe scoop me up and deposit me here, just to fall in love with someone? Why Bea, why now? And have I been saying this all inside my head while she’s just sitting there, staring me down?

“Earth to Rocco, where the hell did you go?” She makes an amazing polyphonic spaceship sound with her mouth.

“Whoa. Cool sound effect.”

“Thanks. I did voice-over once for an alien video game, a favor for a friend, that was really just Grand Theft Auto with aliens. That was the whistle to command their flying saucers. I don’t think the game saw the light of day because, well, it sucked, quite frankly.”

I try to hold in my snort, not wanting to seem insensitive, but it slips out. Loud and honking. We both laugh. We can’t stop laughing. Crying, shaking, grabbing at one another to stay upright. Like nothing in the world has ever been funnier than this right here. The drinks, the night, the . . . extenuating bizarre circumstances. Whatever the reason, it just hits. And it feels good. Really damn good.

“I know, I know!” she starts, gasping for air. “I’m meant to work behind the scenes. But I couldn’t afford to be picky back then! It’s . . . different now. Which is why it’s frustrating we were pushed back into each other’s orbit just as my life felt so good. So stable. Like everything was finally coming around for me.”

Her eyes start watering again, though not for hysterically happy reasons this time. It’s a rapid-fire switch. Alcohol is one hell of a drug.

“I had my dream movie fall into place,” she continues, “after years of fighting for it. And then you became attached, of all the father-aged men in Hollywood. Your presence on set every day chipped away at everything I’d worked so hard to build, to create for myself. Brought me back to this place. Here. Now, quite literally. And it’s infuriating.”

She pauses, and I’m not sure what I should say, if there are any right words. Because I’d seen us, the way it had been. Carefree. Hopeful. That world-at-your-fingertips kind of feeling, and I messed it up. For what? To screw up both of our families? Hers permanently, her dad gone; and mine, Rudy and me, for too many years. Because I couldn’t help myself, couldn’t resist Piper. Chose her over everything and everyone else. Maybe this is my ultimate punishment—the powers that be, making me watch my biggest mistake play out all over again. It’s exactly what I deserve, isn’t it?

I put my hand out for her, initiating this time. Actions over words to start. But if she notices the gesture, she chooses to ignore it. I pull back, busy myself by spinning the soggy paper coaster under my empty glass.

“Clearly, you picked up on my vibe on set, even if you couldn’t understand the why.” She nudges her knee against mine. It feels like a peace offering. “I wanted nothing to do with fluffing your ego, didn’t want to give you another ounce of my time. But now, having to reflect back . . . we were both acting like dumb kids. How could I blame you? You did what you wanted to do, and I did, too. I wanted to be with you, soaking up the good and happy, so I could distract myself from the avalanche of guilt and grief that came along with facing my dad. You didn’t even know about him—didn’t know the decisions I was making. I chose to stay with you, Rocco. And you chose to be with Piper. We need to own those choices and move on. Stop letting what happened in ’99 the first time around dictate who we want to be now.”

Hearing those words, I feel a rush of something like . . . hope. Determination to do better. Be better, for this version of Beatrix—Bea. Lean into this redo the universe is granting us, the fairy tale of it all, at least while we’re here.

I drop the coaster and reach for her again.

This time, she reaches back. Holds on tight.

“Look, Bea, I really am sorry. What I did back then—it was a shallow, selfish move. I hurt you. I hurt my brother. Everyone got burned in the end, really. It’s difficult to explain why I did it exactly, other than that Piper . . . well, I’d believed she was the one for me for so long, like I was just biding my time for her to realize that, too. So that New Year’s Eve party, when Rudy was on another coast, and she gave me a window, alone together backstage . . . I jumped. Headfirst, eyes closed. Was too deep in the dream of it all to properly think through the reality. But that person, the guy who didn’t stop for a beat to consider anyone else’s feelings—it’s not who I am anymore, I promise.”

Just then, in the midst of my earnest little soliloquy, we hear yet another cocky patron trying to defy physics. SLAP! It both kills and lightens the mood all at once.

I take a beat to appreciate the drama of the fall and then resume my groveling. “I’m also sorry about pushing for more of a positive reaction to how I’ve been portraying your dad, especially knowing what I do now. I don’t think I could’ve put myself out there the way you do every day on set. You’re so much stronger than me.”

Bea smirks. As she does. Though this smirk, her red lips parted slightly as they twist up . . . it’s incredibly hot.

“Hell yeah, I’m stronger than you. You might have a freakish”—she glances down pointedly, squinting at my midsection—“twelve pack or whatever ridiculous number it is hiding under that shirt, but I’m deceptively wiry. Let’s settle this right now, why don’t we?”

I can see where this is going, and I don’t like it. Not one bit.

I am not getting on that bull.

“Do it,” she says, or more accurately, commands. “Get on that bull. It’s dim enough in this place, and your hat brim is low. I know you’ve been itching to hop on since we got here. Now’s your chance, cowboy.”

My stomach hurts, and I haven’t even eaten my way through the grease-saturated cowboy menu yet. Sure, I like surfing, but otherwise I’m not big on bodily risk. Plus there’s the fact that a whole host of strangers will be staring at me. Strangers from another decade, but strangers, nonetheless.

What did I say before about leaning into the fairy tale? Too rash, perhaps.

“Definitely no itching. You have to be a special kind of stupid to want to do that.”

Bea takes a swipe at my shoulder. “Talk all you want, Rocco, but if you really want to apologize like the big, reformed grown-up you are, you’ll have to show me. Prove yourself. With a final slap on the mat.” She smacks her hands together. Hard.

She means business, clearly.

Dammit. I’m doing this aren’t I?

I look at Bea. The bull. Back to Bea.

Yep. I am. “You know, I had to train to be a cowboy a few years ago for a movie . . . so I might not be the easy target you’re hoping for.” It’s both true and not true; I had a body double for the difficult bits, of course.

Bea laughs out loud and yells “Newbie!” at the top of her lungs. People at the bar turn their heads our way. My way, specifically.

“Damn, that was dirty, Bea!” I mutter a continuous string of profanities as I stand up and walk toward the sign-up sheet on the bar. I don’t have to turn back to feel the high-wattage glow of her victory grin. All names have been crossed out, so—no stalling.

The guy working the bull pit—a mulleted silver-haired dude in black leather everything, wearing massive Pit Viper shades, a total iconoclast—points me in the direction of the bull, as if anyone could miss the hulking mechanical beast set before us. I pull my hat down even farther, though the stares seem to have dwindled, temporarily at least. I’m sure that will change once the buzzer goes off.

I walk down into the pit and climb aboard my untrusty steed. Residual sweat, pride, and fear all palpable on the old leather strap.

If I were the praying type, this would be the moment to beg. Can I even get hurt here, though? What do the laws of time travel and physics allow?

BUZZZ!

The alarm blares, and we’re starting to slow turn. Easing in. For one second. Then the motor of the bull revs up, straight from zero to ten, and I’m tossed to the right so hard I lose the reins and flip over sideways, somehow doing a full body roll midair. After what feels like five minutes but is probably more like a half second suspended in the dank bar air, my feet miraculously land first, at the same time, level on the ground, like I’m some pro Olympian freaking medalist. Whoo! The landing doesn’t stick, however, my grand moment fleeting, and I end up tipping over, straight down on my face. Right along the edge of the bull cage next to our table. Bea, gazing down at me through the metal bars, laughs as hard as I’ve ever heard her.

“That was glorious! Not even two seconds!” She’s applauding with great vigor.

I start to stand—slowly, because this aching body of mine is still very much the 2016 model, closer to four decades old than seems possible—using the metal cage bars for support. “Okay, I see how it is. I assure you, I will not be such a boisterous blowhard when you go flying off. I have respect. For you, and for the nature of this beast.”

“A blowhard? I hope that only came out for the sake of alliteration. And you know what? I don’t really need to show you I’m stronger by making an ass of myself up there. Convincing you to ride that bull proves it already.”

Shit. I can’t believe it. I mean—she’s right, I did just do exactly what she asked me to do. No matter how much I despised the idea.

Impressive work, really.

I latch my hands around the bars to start climbing up and over the rails between us—to confront her maybe, persuade her to get up on that bull. Or to show her I’m not as inept as I just looked here in the bull pen.

As I grab for the top rail, Bea puts her face right up to mine.

I don’t know what she’s doing or why, I just know there’s suddenly no space between us, not an inch, and her lips—those lips that are both achingly familiar and wholly brand new—are practically grazing against mine. I can smell the Zima on her breath, the White Tea and Ginger and our generic motel bar soap, and beneath that, something else, something powerful, too much so—the kind of familiar scent you come to recognize only in the people you’re closest to, the ones you know most intimately. A scent that’s somehow both totally nondescript and yet as unique as a fingerprint.

It’s a smell that makes me want her.

Just her.

Right now.

I hold myself for a beat. Waiting.

But when nothing comes, just those sharp gray eyes of hers drilling straight into mine, filled with more questions than answers, I gently tug a strand of her hair. She goes to reciprocate, reaching a hand up along the brim of my hat that somehow managed to stay put during my epic tumble. Remembering, only as her finger catches, that it’s not my actual hair underneath—but a gnarled Kid Rock wig.

She lets out a low, throaty laugh and pulls back, grabbing my shirt collar as she forces me up and over the gate. Rougher than she needs to be, but a good kind of rough.

My feet hit the ground; the moment ends. I shake my head to clear the fog.

What the hell was that?

And . . . why didn’t she kiss me?

There’s light applause for our off-the-cuff wrestling match—definitely not for my performance on the bull. It feels like the right time to leave, before we get even more deeply on people’s radars. If we’re not too deep already. The food here isn’t delicious enough to risk a time travel infraction. Bea, though, seems oblivious to the attention. She has this happily deranged smile on her lips—those red pouty lips, which I’m clearly staring at again, because I’m suddenly incapable of looking anywhere else—as she sips the dregs of her can. Like she really got one over on me.

“Doubly strong, it would seem.” She laughs and then drops her drink to come in for a hug. A good one, every inch of her body pressed up tight against mine. Her head catches me just between my collarbones, resting there for a moment.

My heart beats faster, and I wonder if she notices.

Wonder if hers is speeding up, too.

“We should go,” I say, my lips brushing against her temple. “Fly under the radar.”

“Good idea.” Her breath is hot against my neck. She lets go of me then, too quickly. I immediately miss the feel of her in my arms. “I think you’ve earned a little swing. Let’s go to the Blimp or whatever.”

“The Mint, thank you very much.” I laugh, collecting myself. “And it’s the best decision you’ve made tonight. Well, that and your conniving ways with the bull ride. Good for you, bad for me.” Or not so bad at all, considering where it got us.

Bea curls her arm around mine then, like a classy lady in an old Hollywood flick, escorting her cowboy home.

As we exit the saloon doors onto Sunset, a steady stream of people still meandering down the sidewalk, my eyes are hit with a giant billboard for The Sixth Sense.

I stop mid-step, Bea’s arm dropping from mine. “Hold up. I know what we have to do, Bea.” I point to the ad.

“You . . . want to see a movie? Rather than go to your precious minty swing thing?”

“What can I say? I’m a movie buff through and through. I bet Cinerama has it playing. We could catch the late-night showing! And I could totally go for pretzel bites and fake cheese for dinner, since I got robbed on the cowboy munchies.” I turn to her and press my hands together, pleading. “Pretty please? We know the ending, sure, but to watch it on the big screen one more time? The bigger the screen, the bigger the apparition!”

She laughs. “I do love that movie—and the neon-orange cheese sauce. I also find it appealingly meta to watch it in our current purgatory state—purgatory-like, since we’ve definitively decided this is no afterlife. Speaking of seeing dead people—see that big van of nuns passing us?” She points to an old Ford fifteen-passenger ride filled with devout elderly women, windows down, peering down their noses at the debauchery of the street. “They’re definitely dead in our timeline. So . . . we’re basically Haley Joel Osment’s character, right?”

I’m not sure the time travel math adds up, but still. I laugh. Hard.

“So, shall we walk then?” I reach for her hand, and she takes it. Twines her fingers around mine.

We begin the long journey down Sunset, taking in the familiar towering palms, the bright lights, the cathartic sense of organized chaos.

It hits me in a fresh wave—that I’m here, in 1999.

With Trixie.

No...

This time, I’m with Bea.