That voice. That tune. Those words. Where were they coming from?
Jean looked around her and then up. They were blasting from the goddamn loudspeakers that hung above her head at the Walmart gas island, shoving her back 25 years as she filled her gas tank. She felt shock, then fury.
“You asshole,” she said through gritted teeth but loud enough that the man in the bay next to her looked over in surprise.
“No, not you,” she said. “The man singing this song.”
“Okay, lady, if you say so,” her bay partner said before he turned away, his back stiff and his head bent down, like a turtle going into its shell. It was the same stance Jean herself used to avoid making eye contact with people who talked to themselves as they walked down a city street.
Turning back toward her own car, Jean tried to concentrate on the task at hand. She gripped the gas nozzle’s trigger with a vengeance, as if such force would fill the tank faster so she could escape this embarrassment and this song. She took a deep breath, trying to clear her mind but instead filling her lungs with the sweet, dangerous fumes of Unleaded Regular and the past. The harder she tried to ignore the song, the more she heard the rasp of his voice, so familiar still.
But as she listened, it struck Jean that the production quality of the recording was, well, sophomoric. And the man really could not sing—but neither could Kristofferson, she used to tell him when his confidence and ego needed shoring up.
Those realizations should have given Jean at least a moment of vengeful satisfaction. They should have made her grateful that she no longer spent all her energy supporting his dreams rather than her own, and no longer had to worry if she was enough. The old inadequacy and loss that had dogged her for a decade after he walked away threatened to rise up but soon gave way to the ancient, heady warmth of once having been wanted, adored, needed. She remembered the night early in their romance when he suddenly pulled to the side of a dark rural road on the way home from a gig and turned to her saying, “I’d do anything for you, even get a real job.”
As the gas pump clicked to a stop, though, those memories of desire and promise faded into the hum of the pumps, replaced by the drone of that voice, that tune, and those lyrics that he had written all those years ago. She still knew every word except one.
Another woman’s name, not hers, was in the refrain.
“You stupid asshole,” she said, but this time with a smile. After all, she knew who that song had been written for and, bad as it was, it felt like a confirmation that she had once, for a brief and shinning moment, been adored.
— Katjack
Jean looked around her and then up. They were blasting from the goddamn loudspeakers that hung above her head at the Walmart gas island, shoving her back 25 years as she filled her gas tank. She felt shock, then fury.
“You asshole,” she said through gritted teeth but loud enough that the man in the bay next to her looked over in surprise.
“No, not you,” she said. “The man singing this song.”
“Okay, lady, if you say so,” her bay partner said before he turned away, his back stiff and his head bent down, like a turtle going into its shell. It was the same stance Jean herself used to avoid making eye contact with people who talked to themselves as they walked down a city street.
Turning back toward her own car, Jean tried to concentrate on the task at hand. She gripped the gas nozzle’s trigger with a vengeance, as if such force would fill the tank faster so she could escape this embarrassment and this song. She took a deep breath, trying to clear her mind but instead filling her lungs with the sweet, dangerous fumes of Unleaded Regular and the past. The harder she tried to ignore the song, the more she heard the rasp of his voice, so familiar still.
But as she listened, it struck Jean that the production quality of the recording was, well, sophomoric. And the man really could not sing—but neither could Kristofferson, she used to tell him when his confidence and ego needed shoring up.
Those realizations should have given Jean at least a moment of vengeful satisfaction. They should have made her grateful that she no longer spent all her energy supporting his dreams rather than her own, and no longer had to worry if she was enough. The old inadequacy and loss that had dogged her for a decade after he walked away threatened to rise up but soon gave way to the ancient, heady warmth of once having been wanted, adored, needed. She remembered the night early in their romance when he suddenly pulled to the side of a dark rural road on the way home from a gig and turned to her saying, “I’d do anything for you, even get a real job.”
As the gas pump clicked to a stop, though, those memories of desire and promise faded into the hum of the pumps, replaced by the drone of that voice, that tune, and those lyrics that he had written all those years ago. She still knew every word except one.
Another woman’s name, not hers, was in the refrain.
“You stupid asshole,” she said, but this time with a smile. After all, she knew who that song had been written for and, bad as it was, it felt like a confirmation that she had once, for a brief and shinning moment, been adored.
— Katjack
“Whatever you say, lady” was perfect! Enjoyed this piece. The last paragraph, especially.
ReplyDeleteI really like this piece. This line: "his head bent down, like a turtle going into its shell. It was the same stance Jean herself used to avoid making eye contact with people who talked to themselves as they walked down a city street." Such a perfect description.
ReplyDeleteAnd this: "those memories of desire and promise faded into the hum of the pumps, replaced by the drone of that voice, that tune," how songs can transport you back. Look forward to more.
What a volley of emotions! Good memories, not-so-good ones. The difficulty of living with an artist and sharing that person with the world. The gritty reality of the gas station. Good piece! ---Macoff
ReplyDelete