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4. HOUSEGUEST: Come On, Baby! The Elder. Saturday, July 8, 2023.

I'm at Cubby's Hole at 6:30. I could have a 7:00 slot. I go for 7:45. Let me close the show. I'll enjoy the walk home about that time. I do; close the show, enjoy the walk.

She's there! I keep walking. Seems like a long way. She's getting out, leaning on the door. Finally I'm there.

"Hey!" I say.

"Hey!" she says.

I set my case on its narrow end, lean lightly on the butt end. She smiles! Damn! I get a smile from Miss No!

"How are you tonight?" I ask.

"Fine," she says.

"I agree," I say, grinning to myself, not looking at her, as I lay my guitar down, unsnap the case.

Before I can take it out to play, the same noisy car with the noisy boys roars in off Twelfth Street, up Offnere, brakes hard and wheels in, stops sideways over by the storefronts, behind her fancy-smancy car. They all bail out, yelling, laughing, all four doors left standing open, radio blaring. Love an old Chevrolet! A glass bottle rattles on the concrete on the other side! Three are talking and laughing, grab-assing, on the other side of the car. Three are on this side, two leaning on the car, front fender, back fender. Driver's just standing there in between the open doors. His drunken leer is ugly. He sways. I don't care for drunk people.

"Play us a song man!" one guy yells. I don't know which one.

"Can't!" I say. "it's fixin' to rain. I hold out my left hand, palm up, like I'm feeling for raindrops. I look up. The sky is full of stars.

I snap my case shut, pick it up.

"I'm gonna go before the 'rain' starts," I tell her doing a one-handed air quote as I say 'rain'. "You... should go too. I...don't want to leave you here, with..." I don't finish the sentence.

She lifts the bottom of her yellow sleeveless blouse, pulls her key fob from her waistband, pops her trunk, walks back there.

"Put your guitar back here," she commands.

Kind of... in a daze, maybe I"m dreaming. I walk over there, put my guitar in her trunk. I see her purse there. There's some gear. I don't get a good look at what it is. Zippered D-bags, big P, big D, on a big duffle bag. Maybe she's going on a trip. Maybe workout clothes. She looks like maybe she goes to a gym. She closes it.

"Get in," she says, beeps the fob to unlock the passenger door. I go to that door, open it, thinking how I'm getting a ride in her fancy-smancy car, and start to get in. I thought she was getting in, but she's walking over to the boys, the men. I stand back up. She's talking to the driver. I start to go over with her but she turns back toward her car. She doesn't look at me. He doesn't either. He looks terrified! He turns, says something that terrifies the rest of them! They all turn and noisily get in the car. The driver starts it up. The music blares more loudly! I think he turned it up but meant to turn it down. He turns it down really low. There's some loud chatter, and it seems, one by one, they quiet down. The driver turns the radio down even lower. I can barely hear it. They leave, quietly, the loud muffler chumping slowly, driving slow like respectable citizens.

What the hell? Miss No got skills to soothe the drunken beast!

She gets in. I get in. Nice interior, bright blue dash lights. Very clean. It smells good. She smells good. She backs out, pushes in the clutch, shifts, goes to the exit, out onto the street, up the hill. I start to tell her to turn right to the parking lot at my place, but she's already got her turn signal on.

"Almost down to the end," I tell her. "There's an empty space next to my... that's my gray Malibu." Two spaces are assigned to my apartment. Sometimes visitors will take this one, usually after the person they're visiting knocks on my door and okays it. "Back in," I tell her, "so your headlights don't shine on everyone's apartment." All the cars are backed in. She stops, backs in, parks. I figure she's just going to turn around and go. She turns it off, pops the trunk, gets out. I get out. She locks the doors.

"Can I come in?" she asks, without looking at me.

"I... I...," I stutter. "I guess. You're... older than fourteen aren't you?"

She laughs out loud! It's a good laugh!

It almost startles me! I first perceive it as Miss No with a loud beginning with mean-assed, defensive words to come! It's not! No; she's... genuinely... She's laughing. She regains her composure.

"I'm twenty-five," she says.

"No way!" I say. "No way! I'm gonna need to see some I.D.!"

I'm sincere. I guessed she could be anywhere from a low of sixteen, driver's license, to maybe nineteen, twenty tops.

She's laughing again, not so burst-out boisterously, but laughing or... a little, cute little, three syllable chuckle. I'm waiting for I. D. I don't even know her name. I really wish she'd show me I. D. She doesn't.

"Uh... right here, 137," I say and lead the way up the walk. "I thought you were just a young kid," I say. "You're a..." She cuts me off,says,

"If you say 'old lady' there might be violence!" Now I'm the one busting out laughing. I look at her. She's not grinning, arms crossed, eyes on the door.

I tell her, "I was going to say... a... mature young woman, capable of making her own decisions!"

I was going to say, 'old lady'.

"What'd you say to those guys?" I ask her.

"Oh..." she replies, hesitantly, "I... happen to know... that guy, the driver, isn't supposed to be driving except to and from work. Did you see the yellow license plates? That's a... convicted drunk driver. I... called him by name, reminded him of that, that he's on probation, asked him if he'd been drinking, which of course I know he has, and told him he should probably head for home."

"How... did you know all that?" I ask her.

"Work," she shrugs. She takes the storm door from my shoulder, holds it open.

We go in. I'm embarrassed. The place looks like a man's apartment, junk, old man's apartment, newspapers, ugly stuff next to cutsie knick-knacks, books everywhere. Experience tells me no one is coming so I don't worry about what it looks like. Then, someone comes. I made a fresh batch of vegetable-beef soup today. That smell might drown out anything else I've become nose-blind to. The vacuum cleaner's sitting there in the middle of the floor. She notices, says,

"I like how you have the vacuum cleaner out, like you might jump in and start cleaning at any minute!"

"Don't be rude," I tell her. "Remember, I'm just a man. We can't help it."

She looks at me, grins, reaches and touches my left shoulder. I like it. There's no malice. It was Miss No making a joke.

"Are you hungry?" I ask.

"A little," she says. "I ate at home before I came out."

"When was that?" I ask.

"About five-thirty," she tells me.

"I made soup today," I tell her. She follows me into the kitchen. I did most of the dishes earlier. It looks halfway clean in here. Junk, boxes of books though. Box on the table.

She stands next to me, looks in when I take the lid off the crock pot.

"I want some potatoes," she says. I reach for a bowl, set it by the pot. I wash my hands at the sink, dry with a paper towel. I start selecting potatoes with a soup spoon. It's still hot. I turned it off when I went to Cubby's. "I want some carrots," she says, looking in. I'm fishing out potatoes. When I have a layer in the bottom of the bowl I fish out carrots, make another layer. She says, "Is that cabbage?" I tell her it is. She nods. I add a layer. There's celery and onions in with the cabbage. I've stopped being selective and just spooning in whatever gets in the spoon when I put it in the pot.

"There is celery, carrots and cabbage, the three C's," I advise her, "potatoes, onions. I cooked the beef roast overnight, fished out the beef, shredded it, put it in the fridge, chilled the stock in the fridge, skimmed off the congealed animal fat, used the beef broth and tomato juice for a stock, put the beef back in, and cooked it again with the vegetables today. I just bring the vegetables to a boil for a while, turn it off, and let it sit there and cook."

I don't tell her about the steak rub and crushed red peppers and minced garlic.

"I can fish out some of the beef and you can eat it like a sandwich," I say. "I have dark rye bread."

She says, "Okay, Chef!" I decide she's a smart-ass, but a pretty one.

I lay a single slice of dark rye bread on a saucer, fish out some beef to make a half sandwich. She takes it, sits at the table. I wonder when the last time I wiped off the table was. I set the box of books off in the other chair. I only have three. Chair number four went the way of the buffalo when the electrician used it to stand on. Patreace offered to have it paid for. I declined to save us both aggravation.

"This better not be gross!" she says, bites into the sandwich. I laugh! I hope it's not gross. Sometimes a batch goes awry! One time I took my first bite and it tasted like plastic. A plastic fork had fallen in at some point and cooked. I had to throw away the crock pot! 'How could that happen?', you might ask. I have no idea.

"I want some of the soup too, the tomato soup," she says, talking with her mouth full. I get a coffee mug out of the drainer and dip out some, pour it over just enough to cover the rest of the ingredients I'd selectively put in her bowl. I wouldn't expect her to take it any other way. Miss High Maintenance No. Get her a spoon, look it over to make sure it's clean. I'm not... used to having a house-guest. I give the contents one stir with the spoon, set the bowl on the table. I tell her it's hot. I set the salt and pepper cellars on the table where she can reach them. I open the fridge, look in. "I have coconut milk. I have ginger ale. I have water."

"Is that wine any good?" she asks. There's a little Zinfindel in a bottle. I had a glass with Petreace Thursday night when she got home from Cubby's and I was still up writing a song.

"Yeah, it should still be good," I tell her. "Is that what you want?"

"I want some water, and then that wine," she says.

"You can't drink and drive," I tell her. "It's not much, as long as you don't leave too soon. Uh... if... you eat all that, and wait an hour after you take the last drink," you might be okay."

"Okay," she says. "Are you going to eat?" she asks.

"Oh yeah!" I tell her. "I love my fresh-made soup!"

I use the coffee mug to half fill my bowl, not selecting in or out anything. I usually eat a full bowl. Sometimes two, when it's fresh! I put a tablespoon in it and set it on the table. I pour a half mug of coconut milk for myself. I give her a bottle of water. I sit down and she begins to eat the soup. No comment. She's eating. I eat. She 'mmms' at another bite of the beef on rye.

I tell her, "The crock pot makes the beef tender and tasty. Ya gotta watch the vegetables. They can overcook, get mushy. I like them a little al dente, still almost crunchy. I just bring it to a boil and let it sit and cook on low. About a tablespoon of steak rub when I cook the vegetables, a heaping tablespoon of minced garlic, about the size of a hen's egg, and it is... monster! Monster good! I keep it made all the time. I salt and pepper it lightly, the beef and the vegetables when they're cooking. A little chemistry."

We finish about the same time.

"I ate it all," she says. "Can I have my wine now?"

I get the bottle out, pour it into a coffee mug. It fills it about two thirds of the way. If it was a wine glass it would be full. I look at the clock on the wall, say, "Eight-thirty-nine." She gets up, puts her bowl and plate in the sink, runs water in the bowl. She looks around at stuff in the kitchen, takes her wine, goes out to the back door by the laundry room, comes back. I follow her to the living room. She makes a circuit around the room, looking at stuff, stumbles on a box of books, sips from the mug, left hand on the vacuum cleaner as she passes it, goes to the couch and sits at the left end, my right. I turn on the lamp at her left elbow. I can see dust on the table.

"This place is like a museum," she says.

"Yeah, or a flea market," I tell her. I've managed to quit buying dust-collector knick-knacks.

"Turn on your laptop," she commands.

"Okay," I say, laughing. I left it on earlier. I sit in the chair. When I touch the pad it lights up.

"Get up," she commands. I laugh, say, quietly as I get up and pass close to her,

"You're not the boss of me!"

Clickety click, she's searching my browser history, opening documents. She's a whiz! I have Facebook open, Yahoo, Just Plain Folks, and my website. I go to the kitchen, run a little water, a little dish soap, wash up our bowls and spoons, the rest of the dishes I didn't do earlier today. I come back.

"Who's Petreace?" she asks, pronouncing it like it's spelled, 'puh-treece'. I teach her 'puh-tree-kah'. There was an icon on the desktop, labeled Petreace, a video of Petreace's daughter, singing while I played guitar.

I tell her who they are, "My neighbor. Her daughter. Two years old and she can carry a tune. Petreace is a barmaid at Cubby's. She heard me playing out back at the picnic table and told me about the Open Mic nights there."

"I want to come to an open mic night," she says. She scoots the chair back, lays her forearms on the edge of the desk, lays her right temple on them. Oh man! If she only knew how pretty she looks to me right now! Her arms are lean, tan, muscular, her shoulders brown, lovely, her ear, the nape of her neck... Oh man!

"Will you play your song?" I ask.

"No," she says. "I want to hear you play there. And the others. What do people wear?"

"You've seen me coming home," I tell her.

"What do women wear?" she says, just a tincture of exasperation in her tone.

"Some wear dresses, suits," I explain. "I think they come from work, meet people there, eat supper, hear a few acts, leave. Sign-up is at six-thirty and they usually start playing right away. They only go to eight-thirty, if they even have enough acts to go that late.

"What do you want from me?"

I look at her, her eyes closed, her face a blank. I wasn't expecting that question. How could I? I don't have an answer. But... it strikes me as a legitimate one, sincerely asked. I step to her, lean on my left hand on the corner of the desktop, my right hand on top of my left. I see her left eye come open, close, shiny, peep at me through her eyelashes.

"I want you to stop doubting me," I say, quietly. "I want you to trust that everything I say is sincere. Unless, of course, it's a joke. I want you to laugh at my jokes; not punch me in the face. I want you to know that if I say something about a banana getting brown it's not something lewd. I want you... to know me... well enough to never think I would be rude or lewd. I want... everything...a man wants... from a woman... and probably more... because I'm unique!"

I'm being dangerous. I try to be funny, "I wanna dance with somebody!" I sing. I stand up, sing, "I wanna feel the heat with somebody!" I go off into the kitchen, singing a few more words of the song, for no reason, go around the table, come back. She turns her head so her forehead rests on her arms. I think about moving down, closing my lips down the rim of her left ear, just grazing it. I'm not brave enough to try it. I walk over and look out the front door.

"And... I wanna take a ride in your fancy-smancy car!"

I pick up my guitar case from the corner by the door, lay it on the coffee table, take it out, tune it, play my original "Come On, Baby" song, the one I wrote before I wrote the one I played for her before.

"COME ON, BABY" copyright December 13, 2022, by Gary E. Andrews
D XXO232
G 32OOO3
A XO222O
Bm XO4432

(Chorus)
Come On, Baby! Enough's enough! You know, what I want to kno-o-ow!
Come On, Baby! Start it up! Take me, where I wanna go-o-o!

(Verse I)
You're not a little girl, any more!
You get to come and go,
in and out your door!

Come On, Baby! Enough's enough! You know, what I want to kno-o-ow!
Come On, Baby! Start it up! Take me, where I wanna go-o-o!

(Verse II)
Show me how you shift four-on-the-floor!
Drive me to the mountain!
Take me to the sea!

Come On, Baby! Enough's enough! You know, what I want to kno-o-ow!
Come On, Baby! Start it up! Take me, where I wanna go-o-o!

(Bridge)
You- need to think, a little longer!
You- need to know, where we are----!

Come On, Baby! Enough's enough! You know, what I want to kno-o-ow!
Come On, Baby! Start it up! Take me, where I wanna go-o-o!

(Coda)
Come on, Baby!

Now, I have since decided the line about, "You know, what I want to know" is about carnal knowledge. The Singer-Character's not asking the Love-Interest Character to 'tell' him what she knows about the rainfall in Brazil. He's implying she can 'show' him what she knows about sex. I doubt anyone else would 'get' that but... that's what I'm thinking. I belatedly hope she doesn't 'get' that because she's really being nice and I don't want her to regress to Miss Mean No.

I wait for some reaction. She's asleep! I'm sure she's asleep. She's almost snoring, her breathing deep and regular. I play another song, "Mean Goodbye", in 3/4 time, quieter, sort of quiet voice, muted from how I usually sing it. I lay the guitar in the case on the coffee table, stand, go to her. I lay my hand on her back, just below the nape of her neck. She stirs a little, says, "Can I sleep here?" and quickly adds, "on your couch?"

"Sure, baby," I say. "I'll... get you a blanket.

"She murmurs, "Don' call me baby." She says, "I have to go to church in the morning. Otherwise my mother calls the exorcist." I laugh. She doesn't.

I go upstairs, slowly, thinking... and... not thinking... not knowing... what to think. I get my green fuzzy-wuzzy blanket off my bed, Mom's birthday present to me, get her a t-shirt and some sweatpants in case she wants them to sleep in. I'm... acting like this all makes sense. Icome back down. I only have one pillow. She ain't gettin' it. She's still where she was, at the computer desk. I spread the blanket on the couch, over the seat, up over the back, so if she gets cold she can pull it down. I lift the near end of the coffee table, turn it out away from the couch.

"Here's a t-shirt and some sweats to sleep in," I tell her, "if you want them." I lay them on my guitar in the case. She doesn't move. I sit, move the clothes to the couch, strum some instrumental pieces. It's been ten minutes and she hasn't stirred.

I put my guitar away again, stand, snap a couple buckles to secure it. I go to her, run my left arm under her legs at the knee, put my right arm around her back, pick her up. It's... a bad move. I... don't know why I thought I should do it. She comes up easily enough, but starts to squirm a little, lays back on my right arm, puts her hands on my shoulders.

As I turn to the couch she says, "Don't pick me up! I have Daddy issues!"

Oh man! That... freaks me out a little. I laugh a little, nervous laughter, set her on the couch. She lays down, pulls a couch pillow under her head, rolls onto her left side, away from me. I shut down the laptop, turn off the lamp, decide I'll leave the lamp over the sink on in the kitchen. I usually turn it off overnight. I take the bottle of water she never opened off the table, put it back in the fridge, get her a fresh cold one, set it on the coffee table. Her cup of wine is there. I see it's about one-third full now. I take it to the kitchen, dump it, rinse the cup.

Upstairs in the bathroom I leave a new toothbrush, still in the package, on the sink. I wipe down the sink, wipe my toothpaste spatters off the mirror. I clean the toilet, scrub the inside, sanitize the seat. I take a quick 'rinso' shower. Feels funny to be naked with someone in the house. I put my sweatpants on in the bathroom, so I don't walk out and run into her in the hall in just my underwear.

I wake during the night, hear her going downstairs. I had locked my bedroom door. I thought she might come up and get me during the night, have her way with me, or stab me in the throat with my own butcher knife. I decided sex would merit a knock on the door, demonstrate friendly intent, and I'd risk opening it, frisk her for butcher knives and let nature take its course. I think I hear guitar music. I pull my other guitar over on top of me, strum a few chords. I go back to sleep.

In the morning she's gone. The fuzzy blanket is folded. The sweatpants, t-shirt, folded on top of it. I don't know if she wore them or not. The guitar case is closed, not buckled. The bottle of water is half empty.

I get to go back to bed. I go to check Facebook later and see a Post-It note on the keyboard;
"Open mic, Cubby's, Sat. July 22" Smiley face!

On Messenger Petreace asks, "Who was that little girl I saw leaving your apartment this morning?"

She adds, in a separate Messenger post, "You old Dawg!"

I reply, "Robber. Stole my fried chicken, a stick of butter, and all my rugs!"

Petreace gives me an "LOLOL".

And I get to go back to bed again.