Rachel puts her palms on top of his hands and leans back, looking up at him. She lifts his hands away from her shoulders and holds them a second before letting them go. “No, but she will,” she says, nodding at Tamsin.
Tamsin blushes and starts to protest, but Shane doesn’t look at her. He smiles down on the top of Rachel’s head. He takes Rachel’s hand and pulls her to her feet. “Come on. We’ll do some Black Crowes. Or some of your stuff. You can use my guitar.” Tamsin sits back in her chair, relieved, but a little disappointed. Frankie sidles up to the table, scoops up the old glasses, the dregs of their milky concoction diluted with melted ice. She deposits a fresh drink an inch to the left of a cocktail napkin.
The Love Dogs move about the stage, repositioning mikes, swapping picks. The bass player quickly changes an exhausted string. Greg hunkers down behind his drums. Glumly, he watches Rachel tweak the keys of Shane’s guitar, bending her head close to the body of the instrument. Shane lowers his mike to Rachel’s level. She makes an experimental strum, then waits. Greg taps one-two-three-four on the high hat, and the lead guitar slides into the beginning of “Love Junkie.”
“Put myself on the line one too many times,” sings Rachel, “irrational and romantic--need I need say more?” The dancers curl around each other, hips and arms churning and rubbing. The room warms. Rachel’s voice winds around the feet of the dancers, low and bittersweet. She lifts the microphone off its stand and holds it close to her lips. “Too many years of putting out and feeling down.” Shane keeps the rhythm on the fish bell. Greg opens his mouth to join Rachel on the chorus, but sees Shane’s warning frown and shuts it again.
Plaid Shirt has temporarily left his vigil near the pay phone and is whirling around by himself in a corner of the dance floor, his eyes closed, his scraggly goatee pointed at the ceiling. Above the music, the cockatoo screeches its version of the song.
Plaid Shirt has temporarily left his vigil near the pay phone and is whirling around by himself in a corner of the dance floor, his eyes closed, his scraggly goatee pointed at the ceiling. Above the music, the cockatoo screeches its version of the song.
An old man with a long, ragged beard and tattered overcoat comes in the side door of the bar. He has a stack of well-thumbed papers under one arm, and although it’s warm tonight, a tired woolen scarf is wound around his neck. He moves from table to table in a friendly way, shaking hands like a host and greeting several people by name. He’s also begging for change, which he gets, along with an occasional one- or five-dollar bill. He whisks these into the pocket of his overcoat before moving on to the next table. The old man negotiates his way across the dance floor, pausing now and then to join in. He executes a couple of tricky jitterbug steps with a pretty secretary, twirling her under his arm and back into her partner’s embrace and never losing his grip on the stack of papers. When he reaches the back of the room, he checks the pay phone coin return slot before entering the men’s restroom.
Onstage, Rachel is singing another of her own compositions now, accompanying herself on Shane’s guitar. The music swells, and Rachel’s words rise above it, cool and clear: “Ten thousand silver blades...are better than what you gave to me,” she sings.
Greg sits numbly behind his drums. He stares at the back of Rachel’s head and idly rotates the drumstick in his left hand. Shane leans close to Rachel’s mike and harmonizes on the chorus. His shoulder touches hers, and she doesn’t draw away.
The old man comes out of the men’s room, wiping his hands on his rumpled overcoat and smoothing his beard. He says something to Plaid Shirt, who shakes his head and points to the pay phone, then gestures at the pet carrier on the floor. Plaid Shirt lifts the carrier to shoulder level, and the old man puts his face close to it. The yellow beak arches out of the small opening. It snags one of the long, grey hairs from the man’s beard. It tugs, and the man laughs. Plaid Shirt laughs and slaps the old man on the back, then sets the pet carrier on the table and opens its door. He holds his fist in front of the open door, and the cockatoo hops right up on it, curving its long toes over Plaid Shirt’s clenched fingers. Plaid Shirt holds the cockatoo out toward the old man, who draws back a little. The cockatoo strains forward toward the man’s beard, its yellow beak snapping. The man pulls back farther. Plaid Shirt laughs again and holds the cockatoo up on his fist. He looks over his shoulder at the bar to see if anyone else is watching this.
Suddenly, the air is full of white bird.
Greg sits numbly behind his drums. He stares at the back of Rachel’s head and idly rotates the drumstick in his left hand. Shane leans close to Rachel’s mike and harmonizes on the chorus. His shoulder touches hers, and she doesn’t draw away.
The old man comes out of the men’s room, wiping his hands on his rumpled overcoat and smoothing his beard. He says something to Plaid Shirt, who shakes his head and points to the pay phone, then gestures at the pet carrier on the floor. Plaid Shirt lifts the carrier to shoulder level, and the old man puts his face close to it. The yellow beak arches out of the small opening. It snags one of the long, grey hairs from the man’s beard. It tugs, and the man laughs. Plaid Shirt laughs and slaps the old man on the back, then sets the pet carrier on the table and opens its door. He holds his fist in front of the open door, and the cockatoo hops right up on it, curving its long toes over Plaid Shirt’s clenched fingers. Plaid Shirt holds the cockatoo out toward the old man, who draws back a little. The cockatoo strains forward toward the man’s beard, its yellow beak snapping. The man pulls back farther. Plaid Shirt laughs again and holds the cockatoo up on his fist. He looks over his shoulder at the bar to see if anyone else is watching this.
Suddenly, the air is full of white bird.
The cockatoo whirs by Tamsin’s head, making straight for the dance floor. She ducks, and the bird swoops low over the dancers. It takes a few seconds for them to realize what’s happening, then a woman shrieks. Her partner cringes and flings his arms over his head. The bird circles the dance floor, then darts toward the open front door, and the bartender snaps a towel at it as it goes by. The bird whirls right and circles the room again. Plaid Shirt jumps in the air, trying to grab it as it passes over him, but he misses by at least three feet and lands off balance, knocking the old man against the pay phone. People are shouting and laughing. The Love Dogs falter a bit--Shane and Rachel have both stopped singing--but Greg keeps a beat going, and the bass gamely keeps on strumming. Some of the dancers shuffle in place to the music; others are frozen in mid-dance, staring after the bird. Frankie closes the side door of the bar, then, as the cockatoo wheels in her direction, holds her tray up in front of her face.
The bird is beginning to exhaust now; it droops lower as it passes overhead. It skims over the bar, heading for the open front door again. It’s just about to pass Myers Afraid-of-Bear for the third time, when Myers raises his arms above his head, as if to intercept a football pass. His huge hands close firmly around the bird, and he plucks it from the air and hugs it to his chest. The cockatoo lets out one terrific screech, struggles briefly, then goes still.
The bird is beginning to exhaust now; it droops lower as it passes overhead. It skims over the bar, heading for the open front door again. It’s just about to pass Myers Afraid-of-Bear for the third time, when Myers raises his arms above his head, as if to intercept a football pass. His huge hands close firmly around the bird, and he plucks it from the air and hugs it to his chest. The cockatoo lets out one terrific screech, struggles briefly, then goes still.
“Don’t squeeze him! Don’t squeeze him!” The young man in the plaid shirt leaps toward Myers, arms outstretched. “Give him here!” he pants.
Myers looks down at the ruffled bird in his hands. He thrusts the cockatoo toward the young man, who grabs it and cradles it against his chest. He soothes the bird’s plumage. He croons to it and covers it with the plaid shirt. He carries it back across the room and places it gently in the pet carrier, then latches the carrier door. Glancing once again at the silent pay phone, the young man picks up the carrier and slowly makes his way to the door and out into the night.
The Love Dogs pick up the dropped thread of Rachel’s song. Her voice rises in the final chorus. The dancers resume their dancing, the drinkers their drinking. Dr. Innes’s lost blonde clings to one of the frat boys who gives a thumbs-up signal behind her back to his pals. The biker chicks lean against the bar, silent, their arms linked, watching the dancers. Myers stands over his barstool and drains another glass.
“Thanks,” Rachel says quietly as the music finally ends. She passes the microphone to Shane, lifts the guitar strap over her head, and leans the instrument against the wall behind the keyboard player. A smattering of applause accompanies her exit from the stage, and she makes a little skipping curtsy and heads for her table and her waiting drink. The drummer taps up a new beat, and the music begins again.
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This is the last post in the on-line version of Walking Pocatello. Thanks to Sherrod Parkhouse for his contribution to some of the photos used with these posts. Thanks, also, to Connie Rodriguez-Flatten for use of some of her photos of Old Town Pocatello at night. Future posts on this blog will be related "Facts Behind the Fiction" and new stories about Pocatello.[To order a copy of the book, Walking Pocatello, call the Idaho State University Bookstore, (208) 282-3237, or send me an email.]
