Part 4: Sip

Today was the freaking longest day of life.  I swear there were at least seventy-two hours in this eight-hour stint at the office.

Honestly, I should’ve taken the day off, but I hated wasting a vacation day for an appointment – not a date, I really couldn’t let myself go there – that was a mere two blocks from my office.   I would have to take a vacation sometime in the next three months, simply because the bank had a “use it or lose it” policy with annual leave.  Once I reached four weeks of accrued time, I started losing days.  As of today’s date the figure was just short of the four-week limit. 

Vacations meant spending money, though, and spending money was synonymous with depleting my savings account and thereby putting me on the street with a cardboard box and a tin cup.  Yes, maybe that’s a melodramatic way of looking at it, but I got hives when the balance dipped below my comfort level.  Granted, that comfort level got a little higher with every direct deposit, but I simply hated spending money.  There were very few things that could convince me to release my stranglehold on even a single dollar – coffee, my hypothetical future grandchildren and Bon Jovi. 

Since Jovi wasn’t on tour, I had to save for the day when they would be. 

There was no doubt in my mind that it was coming again. 

Even from an outsider’s perspective, Jon was a creature of habit.  Late summer/early fall album release followed by pre-Christmas ticket sales for show dates that would start sometime after Super Bowl.  He took the month of August off from touring and, typically, journeyed to Australia in December. 

That’s how the big Bon Jovi machine usually rolled, and I appreciated the predictability.

Then again, maybe that predictability would shift now that the man in charge was divorced.  It could motivate him to take longer and longer stretches on the road, looking for women to fill his bed.  Alternatively, it could also put him into a funk, causing him to retreat to his very expensive cave and post a troll at the door to scare away the rest of the world. 

Based on the scruff he was sporting yesterday, I wasn’t sure which direction the wind blew on that particular topic.  Maybe I’d ask him tonight over a glass of wine.

Lunchtime came and went at the office with little pleasure.  I mean, seriously.  How much pleasure could a woman derive from a carrot that was already sliced into sticks?  It wasn’t like wielding a whole carrot and a little perversion.  That could be viewed as a good time. 

I’m assuming, anyway. 

Vegetables had never been my forte.  I couldn’t get excited about something that had spent days, weeks, or months surrounded by dirt making a visit to my nether-regions.  I preferred hygienically manufactured plastic and silicone for my playthings. 

I actually preferred a living, breathing man, but my pesky standards kept that from happening as often as I’d like.  Some men considered it appalling that I expected them to have a job and a place to live that didn’t involve either a mother or a wife before I took a ride on (the wild side with) them.

Fortunately, I knew Jon had both a very lucrative job and at least one place to live.  All he had to do was show the proper amount of interest – like saying “hello” – and I’d be his Icelandic geisha for the night. 

I swear it was a good thing that nobody could read my mind.  There were multiple times a day that I could be considered a viable candidate for psych evaluation.  Like now, for example, as I stood in front of the mirror in the ladies room and wished that I’d been born rich instead of smart and beautiful. 

I’m not that conceited, but I had to create bright spots in the never-ending day where I could.  Nobody else knew I was preening about my own beauty in the little black dress with the mandarin collar, deep v-neck and slit up the thigh.  Right now, it looked perfectly business appropriate paired with a black and white patterned jacket and low black heels. 

Come five o’clock, I’d spice things up by trading the jacket for a cashmere wrap – bought second-hand at a thrift store – and upgrading to higher, sexier heels.  A splash of tinted ChapStik and a squirt of my favorite citrusy cologne would complete my transition from office to evening. 

If the fucking evening would ever get here. 

Desperation had me journeying to the diner for my usual two o’clock caffeine break.  I kind of wished they served booze, because I could stand a little Irish in my afternoon coffee. 

Waving to Haley and Jessica, the young girls on duty today, I made a beeline for the counter without looking at anyone else before I sat heavily on the stool.  “Marjorie, if you have any coffee that’s been baking since last night, I’d take it.”

“Rough day, sweetie?” the senior server chuckled sympathetically while pouring the magical elixir that lifted my spirits with its scent alone. 

“Long day,” I corrected.  “If you have anything to spike that cup with, I’d be eternally grateful.”

The familiar paper cup found its way into my hand, and Marjorie didn’t even have the decency to look disappointed when saying, “I got no booze.”

“Dammit.”  Flicking out my debit card, I held it out to her anyway. 

“Nope.  I can’t take that.”

“Why not?”  No wonder the woman had no booze.  She already drank it all.  

The teased, coppery head that reminded me of Flo from that seventies’ TV show nodded at something behind me.  “He already paid for it.”

My first idiotic, irrational thought was that Jon had returned.  That’s where I stopped the thought train, though.  The psychotic ideology that he simply couldn’t wait another four hours to see me was held at the station and buried in the lost luggage for my own safety. 

It was a good thing, because when I turned, Jon was nowhere to be seen.  The “he” who had paid for my coffee was his partner in crime from Tuesday – David Bryan – and he was looking right at me.

This was… certainly unprecedented, but odd, too. 

I thought back to Jon’s remark that David would love me and wondered if that’s what brought the curly-haired man also known as Lema or Joker back to the diner and had him paying for my coffee. 

There was only one way to find out.

Sliding my tush off the stool, I tried to remain calm while approaching the man whose back was against the wall and had long legs stretched out along the booth’s seat.  Crossed ankles and the fugliest skull-patterned shoes I’d ever seen hung off the edge while one elbow rested on the table so that he could curl his pianist’s fingers around a half-empty mug of coffee.

It wasn’t as hard to maintain my composure today.  I’d like to say that’s because I’d become mentally acclimated to the thought of chatting with rock gods, but the truth was, I just wasn’t into Dave the way I was Jon.  He was a good looking guy and reputed to have a killer sense of humor, so I had to assume it had to do with my pesky standards.  He was married, to the best of my knowledge.

“Thank you for the coffee.”  I expressed my appreciation with a smile as I lifted my cup in an affirming non-verbal show of gratitude.

“You must be Tiny.”

Navy blue eyes were lazily taking in my attire, my shape, my loose hair and, finally, my face.  All of this inspection was accompanied by a lazy smirk that would likely piss me off if I could read his mind. 

“You must be friends with the gray headed guy that was here yesterday.”

“I am,” he chuckled, taking the arm that rested along the back of the booth to extend it and the attached hand.  “Dave Bryan.”

“Valentine Fitzsimmons.”

“You got a minute to sit and chat?”  His inquiry was offered as casually as the handshake. 

No.  Technically, I didn’t.  I should be getting back to the office, but since I didn’t have a meeting scheduled and my boss wasn’t the type to time my breaks, I succumbed to the temptation to slide into the booth across from him. 

“To what do I owe the very memorable pleasure, Mr. Bryan?”

One brawny shoulder lifted beneath the white t-shirt that was adorned with a pile of skulls to match his shoes.  “Returning the coffee favor.”

Using my thumb to trace the edge of my coffee's plastic lid, I reminded, “You did that to an entire diner, from what I hear.”

“Not me.  That was the other guy.  I still had an outstanding debt, which I hate, so here I am.”

I didn’t believe him, but what difference did it really make?  I was getting the opportunity of a Jovi lifetime, so I was going to sip my coffee and see if everything I’d heard about him was true.  At least that’s what I kept telling myself. 

In addition to being cheap and caffeine-addicted, I was also a truth junkie.  Bullshit wasn’t my favorite thing, even among social strangers.

“I said something stupid yesterday and your friend mentioned that you’d love me.  That doesn’t have anything to do with your presence here today, does it?”

“Yeah, well, you know…” He gave her a crooked smile.  “It might.  Tell me what you think about turtle soup.”

I could feel my forehead furrowing tightly.  This wasn't witty repartee, this was just weird, but since we were sitting in a booth in a very public diner, it couldn't get too much weirder.  Right?

I decided that I was curious enough to let my mouth rattle off what was rolling through my mind.  

“I think of turtles without their shells, like the tortoise and the hare Bugs Bunny cartoon, then I think of him swimming on his back in a pot of broth in a turn-of-the-century swimsuit, followed by wondering if people use the shell as a bowl.   That brings me to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles – heroes on the half-shell and all that.  If you’re asking for a recipe, I don’t have or want one.”

He didn’t laugh.  He didn’t really smile.  David Bryan only smirked around the rim of his coffee mug as he sipped. 

“What do you do for a living?”

Why did this feel like an interview?  Or that psych evaluation I'd been thinking about earlier?  “Financial manager for a major bank.”

“So wealth management?”

It was slightly more complex than that innocuous description, but explaining the details was boring as hell.  Even to me.

“Close enough.”

“You happy doing it?”

Cocking my head curiously to one side, I was completely unfiltered when saying, “As happy as anybody who has to work a nine-to-five job.  It sucks, but I like it better than being homeless or working at McDonald’s.  Are you happy doing what you do?”

“What is it you think I do?” he asked slyly, long fingers perched on the rim of the coffee cup that was once again on the table.  It reminded me of a hand teepee.  Or a spider trying to keep from falling into… a pot of turtle soup. 

“Something with music.”  If he could be cryptic, I could be vague.

“Music makes me happy.  The things I do with it not always so much, but like you, it’s better than flipping burgers.”

That was interesting.  I presumed he had enough wealth to do whatever struck his fancy.  Wasn’t that why he’d ventured into musical theater? 

“You realize I feel like I’m having a conversation with a Jewish Mr. Miagi, right?  Wax on, wax off Daniel-san?”

Pressing his palms together just beneath his chin, David executed a mini bow.  “Miagi Rashbaum at your service.”

I snorted, thinking that nothing I’d heard could’ve prepared me for this guy.  “So what do you think of turtle soup?” 

“I don’t.”

This was starting to feel a lot like Alice in Wonderland.  We’re all mad here.

“You might be just a little too interesting for me to keep up with,” I laughed, feeling like my brain had been stretched like silly putty.

How his eyes could both sparkle and be serious at the same time was a neat trick.  I’m not sure I’d ever known anyone with that ability. 

“Nah.  You’re keeping up fine.”  He uncrossed his ankles and crossed them the other direction.  “Wanna know why I really came here today?”

A quick peek at my watch told me that I seriously needed to be getting back to the office, but I couldn’t resist hanging around for a few minutes longer.  “That would be nice.”

“I'm here partly because I’m supposed to ‘love you’, but mostly to make sure you’re not a whack job.”

I laughed simply because that tied in perfectly with my psychological evaluation thought.  Based on that alone, I couldn’t lie to the man. 

“Oh, I am, but not to a dangerous extent.  Quirky, nutty, slightly off-kilter...  Those are probably more appropriate adjectives to describe me than ‘whack job’.  My question is why you would come here to find that out?  If it was a concern, then why not just stay away to start with?”

“Because my friend doesn’t seem inclined to stay away, and I don’t trust his judgment yet.”

I…  I didn’t know how to react to that.  Equally flattered and appalled might be best way to describe the conglomeration of emotions that were having a catfight in my medulla oblongata at the moment.  In a ploy to buy time or drown part of the emotions, I inhaled a deep sip of my coffee.

“Look, Tiny.  It’s nothing to do with you, really.  He’s newly divorced after a very long marriage.  Normally, I’d say it wasn’t my business, but since this indirect meeting between the two of you happened while I was around, I thought I’d just make sure he gets his sea legs under him okay.  No big deal.”

“Mm,” I murmured noncommittally, my mind automatically going to places both far and wide, many of which resembled the setting of a Dr. Seuss book.   In a font typically reserved for One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish, I could see the writing on my padded cell wall and it said “Rebound Girl”. 

The only thing I really needed to decide was whether that bothered me or not.  Was there a downside to being Jon Bon Jovi’s rebound girl?  Was it a concern that Bon Jovi’s “Bounce” was now playing on my internal Spotify? 

No, and no.

“I’m a tightwad who they have to force to take vacation at work.  The most adventurous thing I do is follow your band around the globe from time to time.  Considering I’ve never turned up in anyone’s bed wearing a slightly wrinkled birthday suit, I’d say you, Tico, Hugh and all the rest of the Jovi Bunch are safe from me – and so is your fearless leader.”

At least as safe as he wanted to be.