"Oh, lay off, man.” Greg slaps his sticks together on the metal edge of his snare.
“No, you lay off." Shane leans over and pinches the drumsticks together with one meaty hand. The muscle that runs along Shane’s jaw flexes, just like the bicep of the arm holding the drumsticks. Both men tighten their grips on the sticks and glare at each other, their faces strained and hot. Shane pulls the sticks close to his chest, and although Greg resists, he’s off-balance reaching over his drums, and he staggers forward. Shane lets go with a throwing motion, and Greg reels backward, jostling the cymbals. He jerks himself back into balance, hands clenched at his sides, and makes a lunge toward Shane, but Shane has already stepped off the stage and is headed for the bar. Greg starts to follow, then stops and bends over to sort the snakepiles of cords that connect the mikes and instruments with the amplifiers.
“He’s looking at you,” Tamsin tells Rachel, trying to talk without moving her lips.
“He’s looking at you,” Tamsin tells Rachel, trying to talk without moving her lips.
“I know he is,” Rachel replies in a low voice, holding her glass close to hers. “But it’s over. He just needs to get that through his head.”
Tamsin pushes her chair away from the table. “Gotta go to the bathroom. I’ll help you ignore him when I get back.”
Tamsin pushes her chair away from the table. “Gotta go to the bathroom. I’ll help you ignore him when I get back.”
The plaid-shirted man is dialing as Tamsin passes him on her way to the door marked “Ladies.” He holds the receiver to his ear for an instant, then slams it down and resumes his pacing. Tamsin sees a flash of white against the holes of the cat carrier under the table.
When she comes out of the restroom, the man in the plaid shirt is again holding the pet carrier up to his face. “Whatcha got there?” Tamsin asks. He extends it toward her at arm’s length. Peering through the holes in the door of the carrier, she sees a large white bird. It cocks a bright turquoise eye sideways and peers back.
“What is it? A parrot?”
When she comes out of the restroom, the man in the plaid shirt is again holding the pet carrier up to his face. “Whatcha got there?” Tamsin asks. He extends it toward her at arm’s length. Peering through the holes in the door of the carrier, she sees a large white bird. It cocks a bright turquoise eye sideways and peers back.
“What is it? A parrot?”
“Cockatoo.”
“Does it talk?”
“Yeah, but not in here. Too much noise. Wanna hold it?”
Tamsin shakes her head. Plaid Shirt holds his finger to the carrier and a sharp yellow beak jabs at it through the small opening. “Looks vicious,” Tamsin says, “or hungry.”
Tamsin shakes her head. Plaid Shirt holds his finger to the carrier and a sharp yellow beak jabs at it through the small opening. “Looks vicious,” Tamsin says, “or hungry.”
“Naw, just nervous.” He sets the carrier down again and pushes it back under the table. “I’m waitin’ for a call. My girlfriend’s s’posed to call me. Don’t know what’s keepin’ her.” He goes back to the pay phone and stares at it, rocking back and forth on his heels, his hands in his back pockets.
Tamsin goes to the bar and orders two more White Russians. Myers Afraid-of-Bear is standing quietly, stolidly, by his corner stool. He’s laid a twenty-dollar-bill on the bar in front of him, and he runs his thumb over it gently, smoothing the wrinkles and the folded edges. The biker chicks are deep in consultation. The one with the helmet has set it on the floor. She balances a booted foot on it and leans close to her companion. Her voice is tense. “I don’t care what he does,” she says, “you’re not going up there tonight.”
Tamsin goes to the bar and orders two more White Russians. Myers Afraid-of-Bear is standing quietly, stolidly, by his corner stool. He’s laid a twenty-dollar-bill on the bar in front of him, and he runs his thumb over it gently, smoothing the wrinkles and the folded edges. The biker chicks are deep in consultation. The one with the helmet has set it on the floor. She balances a booted foot on it and leans close to her companion. Her voice is tense. “I don’t care what he does,” she says, “you’re not going up there tonight.”
The other woman sighs heavily. “You don’t understand.” She’s taken off her leather gloves and put them on the bar. There’s a slave ring on her left hand. Its silver chain loops around her wrist and trails across the back of her hand to a heavily-sculpted serpent wrapped around her middle finger. “What else can I do?” she says.
The band starts up once more. Tamsin hands the bartender a five-dollar bill and he passes her the drinks. She carries them back to the table, and she and Rachel sit and sip and watch the band. Shane leans into the microphone, his mouth wide, his eyes squeezed shut. Tamsin likes the way Shane’s black Zildjian t-shirt hugs his chest and shoulders, the way his long, dark blond hair hangs around his face. Rachel’s scanning the crowd. She points at a small man sitting alone. “Look. There’s Dr. Innes, our math teacher. He’s always in here by himself.”
The band starts up once more. Tamsin hands the bartender a five-dollar bill and he passes her the drinks. She carries them back to the table, and she and Rachel sit and sip and watch the band. Shane leans into the microphone, his mouth wide, his eyes squeezed shut. Tamsin likes the way Shane’s black Zildjian t-shirt hugs his chest and shoulders, the way his long, dark blond hair hangs around his face. Rachel’s scanning the crowd. She points at a small man sitting alone. “Look. There’s Dr. Innes, our math teacher. He’s always in here by himself.”
Ralph Innes is short, nudging forty, wears a lot of brown, and drives a sports car he bought a couple of years ago when his wife divorced him, about the time he started writing poetry. His hair is full and of one solid color, which makes it look like a toupee. In class, he’s very particular. Before he begins his lecture, he arranges his papers in two neat piles--one pile for lecture notes and another for overhead projector transparencies which he lifts with two careful fingers and places, smudgeless, on the glass plate of the machine. His calculator and mechanical pencil are always arranged on the desk exactly parallel to the papers, their top edges perfectly aligned with the top of the stacks. Occasionally, he will interrupt himself to readjust the alignment of these materials before continuing his lecture about logarithmic progression and skewed curves.
Rachel and Tamsin watch as Dr. Innes lifts his beer for a long draught. His eyes never stop scanning the room. Suddenly they lock on three women at a table on the opposite side of the dance floor. He takes another long drink and wipes his lips with a folded handkerchief he takes from his breast pocket. Setting his glass down firmly, he rises and straightens the shoulders of his brown tweed jacket, then walks across the dance floor, stepping carefully around the couples swaying to the Love Dogs’ rendition of “Mustang Sally.” The women see him coming. Two of them--one plump, one slightly sallow--look at him expectantly. Their slim, blonde friend studies her fingernails. Dr. Innes leans close to the blonde, one hand on the back of her chair, one hand flat on the table near her drink. He speaks long and apparently earnestly in her ear. She raises her head and rakes her hair back over her shoulders with one hand, then turns her face away from his and says something to her two companions. They glance at Dr. Innes and giggle nervously. He straightens and takes his hand off the table. He stares at the blonde, but she continues to look away. Slowly, he turns around and recrosses the dance floor. When he gets to his table, he drains his glass, standing up, then counts some coins into the table’s ashtray and heads for the door. He doesn’t look back. The music ends abruptly as the door closes behind him.
Rachel and Tamsin watch as Dr. Innes lifts his beer for a long draught. His eyes never stop scanning the room. Suddenly they lock on three women at a table on the opposite side of the dance floor. He takes another long drink and wipes his lips with a folded handkerchief he takes from his breast pocket. Setting his glass down firmly, he rises and straightens the shoulders of his brown tweed jacket, then walks across the dance floor, stepping carefully around the couples swaying to the Love Dogs’ rendition of “Mustang Sally.” The women see him coming. Two of them--one plump, one slightly sallow--look at him expectantly. Their slim, blonde friend studies her fingernails. Dr. Innes leans close to the blonde, one hand on the back of her chair, one hand flat on the table near her drink. He speaks long and apparently earnestly in her ear. She raises her head and rakes her hair back over her shoulders with one hand, then turns her face away from his and says something to her two companions. They glance at Dr. Innes and giggle nervously. He straightens and takes his hand off the table. He stares at the blonde, but she continues to look away. Slowly, he turns around and recrosses the dance floor. When he gets to his table, he drains his glass, standing up, then counts some coins into the table’s ashtray and heads for the door. He doesn’t look back. The music ends abruptly as the door closes behind him.
