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3. THE PRICE OF BEING PRETTY; Showdown At Grimy Gulch.

The fourth Wednesday in June, 2023, June 28th, is Open Mic night. I go, get an early slot. The Sound Guy announces he wants to move the Open Mic to the first and third Saturdays of July. I play, but don't hang out to hear other people play. I'm just not in the mood.

I'm coming down the street. She's not there. Just about the time disappointment registers, she rolls by, pulls in, turns back toward me, parks about where she did before. She gets out, stands by the driver's side door, arms crossed. I keep walking. I don't want another six dollar sixty-six cent devil's pint of ice cream so I don't cross the street. I figure, 'Howdy', tip of the hat, keep on truckin'.

As I get close I'm ready to execute that plan, but she says, loud enough for me to hear at a distance,

"You crossed the street to avoid me!"

I did, yeah. But I ain't gonna tell you that.

I say,

"What? I didn't... Oh. You mean last week, couple weeks ago? No. I just wanted to get some ice cream to take home. They've got..."

I was going to list some ice cream names but she's not having it.

"That hurt my feelings," she says. If it wasn't for her tone I'd apologize. I apologize anyway.

"Oh. I'm... sorry. I didn't intend... I just wanted some ice cream."

"No you didn't." She looks at a passing car. "Play me a song," she says, commands, without looking at me. Her face is pretty, even when she's sullen. She pisses me off! She's calling me a liar and... if I wasn't... a liar... I'd... be... offended!

I'm emotionally drained. Work. The dissatisfaction with the open mic. I forgot a line in a song that is strategic to the whole story. I mumbled through the melody and probably nobody was paying attention anyway. But I knew.

Rather than play words with Witchy Woman, Miss No, I just set my case down, snap it open, off my hat, put the strap around my neck, hat back on. I don't care if it's crooked. I play the song I forgot the line in, a song called, "Of Young Louise". It's a ballad of two old people, one an old woman who has the Singer-Character come and take care of her yard, and her telling everyone that,
"There is no truth to the rumor going around, that a lover took the heart Of Young Louise. A lover took the heart Of Young Louise."

I get it right this time.

She doesn't say she likes it. She doesn't say she doesn't. I really don't give her time to say anything. I play another song. She listens, puts her butt up on the fender, lifts with her arms, takes her lotus position on the hood. I... really... like watching her... move. I play another song. I don't wait to talk between songs. I'm sure she would if I didn't keep starting another song. She's not watching me. I get to look at her. She has a nice blouse on, a white, shiny fabric thing, no collar, sleeves down past her elbows. She looks very nice in it.

Finally, she slips off the hood, says, "I have to go."

Gotta get Daddy's car home.

"Okay," I say. "Good seeing you."

'Nice not talkin' to ya', I think. Being a man, a species who never leaves well enough alone, I ask, "Am I coming up on that list any?"

"What... list?" she asks, maybe remembers, says, "I... didn't put you on my list."

"Well don't let my banana get brown," I say.

"Don't be nasty!" she says, serious and sharp.

"That ain't nasty!" I argue. "It's a metaphor for letting time elapse between one event and another. In time a banana turns brown. It might still be good on the inside, but the outside turns brown. If you leave it too long..."

I realize my explanation goes on too long. She's not... listening. I look at her.

"Is this the world you live in?" I ask, "Where everything's an innuendo? Every comment has hidden meaning? Rude. A lewd comment? I don't live in that world," I tell her. "Yeah, I can see you probably do. It's... part of the price of being pretty. Men do say lewd things to you, don't they? They're artless, like they think it's going to work one of these times and you'll go off with them somewhere. Well, I might think something like that... of course I do. You're a pretty little girl... but I wouldn't say it. The banana thing is just a metaphor for time passing. You don't ever have to take me for a ride in your fancy-smancy car! You don't have to worry about... the... demise of my bananas. You're busy. You stay busy. You have a long list of things to do. I understand. You don't have to put me on your list let alone... get to me on it!"

She grins. I don't know if she's laughing at me; my rant is... kind of... ridiculous. She doesn't want to grin. She hides it, turns away, opens the car door. She steps behind the door and turns back to me.
"Where would you want to go... if I took you for a ride?"

I can't find words to say. I want to say, 'I don't want to go anywhere in your fancy-smancy car Miss No!'

"Anywhere," I say, "as long as it's with you."

Now THAT is how old men flirt. I can't help but grin at her. I regret it, imagine myself, from her point of view, a typical leering horse's ass!

She doesn't say anything. I see a grin start as she turns away, see her grin in profile. She gets in, starts it up, puts it in Reverse, backs out. She stops to shift into Drive. I'm putting my guitar away. I'm not looking at her when she yells,

"That's how old men flirt!" Her tone is... jocular... almost... friendly. Or... is it ridicule?

By the time I stand up she's rolling slowly down to the exit, waits for traffic to clear. I think she grins at me from there, a little flash of teeth, a 'bye-bye' drum-wiggle of fingers on the door. She pulls out and goes up the hill, fast, shifting gears, four-on-the-floor! I didn't hear her do that last time when she left the other way! I watch the taillights all the way up the hill, until they disappear, under the trees, over the hill. I listen, think I hear the car a little longer.

"Bitch could'a give me a ride home!" I say out loud. I regret saying that too. I look around as if someone may have heard me.

Well, I had a better gig here than at Cubby's Hole! Again! Good set! I'm refreshed! And she was less of a b... witch. I didn't let her be one. She said I hurt her feelings. That was interesting. Like it mattered to her that I crossed the street to avoid her. I start fantasizing about what might have happened that time if she wanted to see me enough to be hurt that I crossed the street. I stifle that. Fantasies can confuse reality. I wonder how old she is. Nah! I couldn't get a girl like that in a million years!

I walk down Wednesday night, July 5th, and get another six dollar pint of ice cream. I look at the strip mall parking lot. Stores closed. Lot empty. I keep looking back as I walk back up my hill, put the ice cream in the freezer.

I lay in bed thinking about her grin. I even think about the wiggle of her fingers, think that was a 'wave', intended to communicate 'See ya!', something you'd say to... a friend... you want to see again. I want to see her again.

I'm looking forward to Saturday night, July eighth.