Love Songs

A lot happened to Russ in the short course of a week.

The most recent thing that happened was noticing that there is a tattoo on the foot that is poked out from under the sheets, but the tattoo is far from the only thing different about the foot. This foot is darker in color than the foot he is accustomed to seeing there, and unlike the accustomed foot, on this one the second toe extends beyond the first. The nails on this foot are painted pink, not “her” usual white. It is a different foot altogether than the one he is used to seeing, though it is not an ugly foot, nor is it attached to a bad woman, although it is understandable if you have formed a poor first impression of either her or him, considering their circumstance. Of course, there are other differences besides the foot, differences half remembered from the night before through an alcohol induced haze. It‘s been awhile since he has awakened with “different.” It’s been so long, in fact, that he is uncomfortable with different. Especially he is uncomfortable with the way the different came about.

It began last weekend while tuning his guitar, or rather when he discovered that the notebook he kept beside the guitar for writing down song ideas, lyrics, and chord progressions was missing. Russel was known for his obsessive compulsive bent. His things were almost always where they were supposed to be, but not this time. As he walked the apartment in search of the notebook he became aware of the silence. It was a different kind of silence, a weighty silence; a sullen, heavy silence. Haley was out, somewhere. It seemed she went out more and more lately, but that was all right. It allowed him the time he craved to play, and to create. But the apartment felt so still this morning that it sent a tiny jolt of panic through him. Something felt wrong. Russ stopped looking for his journal. Instead he began looking around for what might be causing his uneasiness. Nothing seemed disturbed, nothing different, but he could not shake the feeling.

He found the journal on the kitchen countertop, where he was sure he had not left it. Haley must have had it, though he couldn’t imagine why she would. She had never shown any interest in it before. In fact, she rarely showed any interest in either his songs or his playing anymore, although there had been a time when she did. Russel grabbed up the journal and returned to his “studio,” which was really just a spare bedroom where he kept his guitars and recording equipment. He picked up the guitar without playing it, rather he pulled it in close to his body and leaned intently into the silence, one hand on the guitar’s neck, the other resting on top of it’s heavy, cherrywood body. That was one of the things that had drawn Russel to the guitar from the very start of his musical journey. He liked the way one was forced to hold the guitar up close in order to play it, unlike a piano, or drums, both of which seemed aloof, as they are always kept at arm’s length. A guitar, on the other hand, is a romantic. Playing one is an intimate experience. A guitar asks to be pulled in close to your heart and stroked like a lover in order to make her sing.

Russel for a long while holding the guitar in the heavy silence, the fingers on one hand muting the strings. It was too perfectly quiet. There was no sound where one should be. He could not quite put his finger on it… and then he did! There was no tick of the clock? Her grandmother had handed down to Haley an old Seth Thomas clock that was her prized possession. Russell often counted off his songs to the steady, quiet tick-tocks it made, but strain as he might to hear it there was nothing today save silence. Still gripping the guitar he hurried into the living room. Just as he expected, the clock was gone, it’s spot on the mantle empty. A quick scan of the room showed nothing else amiss, nor in the kitchen. In the bedroom, he noticed that her phone charger was not on her nightstand, but it was the bathroom which told the real tale. The vanity top was free of her clutter; the make-up, the lotions, etc. which made her up. Cold fingers clutched his heart. Back in his studio he dialed her number, but did not leave a message when the inhuman, monotoned voice asked for one.

It wasn’t long before he found himself back in the studio. After all, there was not alot he could do. Before noon on that same day he was back with his guitar, playing again, feeling a curious freedom in it. As with most creative people Russel’s pain and confusion demanded an outlet. His emotions on edge, he found songs and sounds exploding from the guitar of their own volition. He hit “record” on his keyboard and let music flow. He combined a riff with a progression that he really liked and began to loop it, waiting for the melody and words to come to him, sure that they would. He opened the notebook so he would be ready when they came and there it was, on the first clean page.

“Good-bye Russ, I will always love you, but I’m tired of playing second fiddle to a guitar.”

- Haley

So there it was, not much of a “Dear John“ letter, but one none-the-less. The letter was not enough to stop the songs from coming, however. Russel left the page open to her words and began writing lyrics around them, using them as the core for his phrasings, channeling how they made him feel. With no clock to remind him, no one to interupt him, and nothing at all to remind him that life’s countdown continued outside the apartment’s walls, Russel became lost in his music, playing relentlessly, forgoing sleep, food, and hygiene until his phone rang some three days or so later.

In his scramble to get to it his bare foot kicked over an amp, stubbing his toe with pain. The amp fell over on it’s back, emitting an awful feedback screech.

“Haley?” He knew he sounded too eager, but he couldn’t help it. He was eager. Only it was not Haley.

”Hi Russ. It’s Crystal. How are you?”

“Are you calling because she asked you to?” Crystal could not help noticing the disappointment in his voice. There was a pause while she decided how to answer, truthful or otherwise.

”Yea Russ, I am. She’s worried.”

Wasn’t that just like a woman, to tear a man to pieces and then worry about it. “Tell her I’m fucking fine.”

“Are you? Really?”

”What is this, Crystal? If she’s leaving, then tell her to go already. I don’t need this shit.”

”Yea. I’m sorry, Russ. I really am.”

He waited out the angry reply that popped into his head, knowing that Crystal was not to blame here. She had sounded sincere. ”It’s all right, Crystal. I’m all right. Thanks.” He hung up the phone.

The songs he had written were good. He knew they were good. He felt like they were better than good. Russel walked into “Angelo’s” eager to try them on an audience. Russ was a regular at “Angelo’s” open mike night. There were seldom many “real” musicians here. Mostly it was just a glorified karaoke night, but there were always five or six like himself who had new songs they wanted to try out on a real audience, but even those who only sang recorded cover songs at “Angelo’s” had above average talent. Russel had always tested his songs on Haley before taking them into the public, but these songs would have to come out as virgin.

He’d had a few beers at home, and two more while he waited for his turn on the tiny, make-shift stage. It was just enough alcohol to get the juices flowing without impeding the music. He was half-way into the second chorus of his first song when Crystal came in. She took a seat at the bar, motioned for a beer, and turned to watch him play. He shouldn’t have been surprised, but seeing her struck a wrong note in him. She and Haley both knew he came here on Friday’s. They had often come with him. It did not sit well with him to be checked-up on, especially when Haley couldn’t bother to come see him herself.

It was difficult to judge the crowd reaction when the song was through. It ended with a quiet applause, but those in their seats had turned his way, and seemingly tuned in, so he wasted no time breaking into the next one. A little tipsy, and a little angry, he consciously sang this one to Crystal. It was a song of love lost that quickly became a song of seduction, and played even better that way. He played partially for an absent Haley, and somewhat to the musically savvy audience in “Alfredo’s,” but mostly he aimed it at Crystal like an arrow, playing to her pity, knowing full well the effects a beer or two and a sad song might have on Haley’s best friend. He played with passion this time. He sang with soul. With eyes closed he fired off notes and words with the express design of touching Crystal down to her very core… and the words found their mark. When the song was over his eyes opened to a standing ovation, with shouts of “encore” mixed in. Crystal sat at the bar dabbing a crinkled-up cocktail napkin to dampened eyes. Russel allowed himself a smile, and a bow to the tiny crowd. Haley had made a miscalculation in sending her friend here to check on him. Russel loved Haley, and would miss her, but he was going to be ok.

And now here he was, looking at the foot of a woman he’d just spent a passionate, if loveless night with, the best friend of the woman he did love, or at least believed he did.

Jealousy, Russel realized, allows for even poorer decisions than alcohol. And when the two were combined…

No. Whatever it had been, Love would never survive what happened last night, not when it was with her best friend. Haley was gone to him now, but Crystal was here. Shaking off his feelings of discomfort Russel crawled beneath the sheets and kissed his new love awake, intent on discovering any and all of her other differences.

He’d might as well make the most of it. After all, should a man’s love not be spent on the woman who hears his song.