Trust A Try

I chose a Vinyl from the pile and turned toward the curious shop owner. He nodded in my direction, approving of my ability to appreciate a classic. An eyebrow raised with his nod, signifying not many women my age would’ve picked it, but something about me didn’t lead him to ask further questions. Something likely related to his planted stance behind the counter, tapping his pen to The Miseducation of Lauren Hill, flipping through a catalog that predates the music it accompanies. He was just as Mother described. Tall, relaxed, and obnoxiously opinionated in the realm of music. I was told so much about him that I knew exactly who he was, the first time I stepped foot in his store. Yet once a month, I entered his shop, and not a speck of recognition ever crossed his face.

“You know…I think it’s what they would want.” I could feel a tall stature behind me and prepared to ignore his attempt, but I couldn’t think past the cologne that was all too familiar to my nostrils.

“And who are…they?” I spun slowly in his direction, keeping the vinyl close to my chest for protection.

He nodded toward my selection buried beneath my grasp while waving his own for curious eyes to see. It was instinctual to roll my eyes to the back of my head and turn down his weak attempt, despite the curiosity his aroma brought. He caught on, smiling from the side of his mouth, able to admit that his reference to a failed nineties couple was bad taste to begin a conversation.

“Ok…that was corny, I get it.” He followed me down the aisle. “However, if three records are bought, there’s two free tickets to open mic night. And I don’t know about you, but…an open mic on a Friday night? A highlight.” I could tell he was used to getting his way. His tall stature, charm, and contagious smile led to rejection occurring few and far between, yet he missed the obvious during this interaction.

“We only have two.” I continued to flip through a familiar genre.

“I’ll let you pick the third one. You obviously have good taste. Maybe we can share custody of it or something.” I could see his smile out of the corner of my eye but refused to let him know.

“So, I get a free vinyl, and you get two tickets to an open mic? Doesn’t sound fair.” I picked a Janet from the pile, combing its condition.

“Your right…. You should get to go to the show too. It’s a date.” He gestured to my selections, and I paused, allowing him to stir in the possibility that his plan would crumble. However, just as a drop of sweat released from his temple, I obliged, setting my choices atop his.

I followed him slowly, begging for a record to pop up at me. An interest so profound that I have to have it, have to disrupt the situation I was following into. Yet nothing caught my eye. I either had what I needed, or the selection was purposefully hiding in the stacks. The conundrum of being a collector. It wasn’t about when you wanted it but when you needed it most. And as I combed by Prince and Michael, Mary and Mariah, or Wayne and Cole, I knew they were choices for another day, another visit. Maybe a visit when the man placing our records in separate bags would know exactly who I was.

“Eight?” My benefactor delivered my bag to my wrist and a ticket to my palm. “Nathan. But everyone north of Jersey calls me Nate.” He outstretched his hand, and I looked at it for a few seconds, releasing a smile to match his and answering his request.

“I’ll meet you there, Nate.” I accepted my bag and brushed past him to the door, only releasing it as it pushed open, his number scribbled across the back of the receipt. I turned to him, ignoring the bell ringing overhead. I thought about it but said nothing as he conversed with the man behind the counter. They were close, and I hoped I could ignore the bad taste swelling in my mouth at the sight of them together.

***

I was prepping by 6:45 but didn’t think that was something he should know. I followed all the rules, ignoring every instinct to save his number, raise my hopes, or send anything that would construe that this night had been on my mind in the days following our interaction. I had paced my hallways, changed my shoes four times, and listened to each gifted vinyl during the process.

When the clock struck seven, I prepared. I called Jerome, the surviving member of protecting my best interest, and he had his doubts as usual. I could hear in his voice that his concern exceeded the state of the world and its unknown variables, but jealousy ran through his tone. He hadn’t said anything. Predictable for his type. He hoped I would. That one day, I’d blurt out that my love for him exceeded my need to keep searching, but we both knew that wouldn’t happen. I had been waiting for his confession since adolescence, just as he waited for a sign of acceptance.

So, I listened to his portrayal of concern. As I strapped my shoes up my calf, I adjusted the causal shorts and the top deemed appropriate by his need to video chat. I could feel him watching as I guided the night’s shade across my lips, and I could tell he was holding back. I paused before grabbing the tissue, begging him to stop me, but he didn’t. I blotted the access and dismissed the phone call, sending a text about future plans we’d make.

He knew better than I that this search was necessary. One doesn’t just fall into the arms of their soulmate and just know. A few frogs are required, and though it hurt, we knew the end goal. He texted back a confirmation, and I gazed at the clock realizing thirty minutes had passed, and my fifth pair of shoes and second wardrobe change would have to do. I grabbed my bag, taking a brief glimpse at my apartment. I paused the Janet that graciously supported my montage and released a breath, hoping I would return and continue in.

***

I’ll admit, knowing I was twenty minutes from the club gave me comfort. I could run in these shoes and possibly make it home with only minor attacks to my heart along the way. I knew the most complicated part would be sitting through the acts taking advantage of the word “open,” and finding conversation of an exciting expression between intermissions.

However, it wasn’t as bad as I expected it to be. The level of cringe was minimal, and I could tell by Nathan’s consistent gaze across the table he had an inkling of how the night would go.

“You never told me your name.” He joked as he sipped his drink.

“You never asked.” I watched the next act, ready her guitar over her shoulder.

“I’m asking now.” His glass tapped the table as she adjusted the stool.

“Nola.” I crossed my legs as a heavy breath escaped her mouth. She strummed a chord in preparation before locking eyes with a familiar face somewhere in the crowd. Evident by her smile of confidence as she began to sing an original song, I could tell she had similar taste as I did.

“That’s a fitting name. I was hoping it wasn’t something ugly. That would be a disgrace.” He whispered over her voice, ignoring her demands of respect for a gentle melody.

“And Nate? What does that say.” I whispered but kept focused ahead as her shoulders straightened and confidence grew.

“That I’m my father’s son. I just choose to ignore the Junior.” He laughed while taking another sip before abruptly setting down his glass to clap for the exiting artist. “In true narcissistic fashion, all his sons have the same initials. All boys too. Lucky, I couldn’t picture a Nathaniela or something.” He chuckled, but I didn’t join in. “Oh!” He pointed to the guy moving the stool out of the way. “He just started working with me. He has this cool name….Terrill…Tem…something along those lines. Anyway, I saw him scribbling in a notebook and told him he had to come to this.” He sat forward for the first time. Thoroughly interested in the poetry flowing from the man’s lips. It was the first time I saw a level of curiosity, aside from obtaining this date. An intrigued mind would’ve wondered how he couldn’t see through a man he’d just met, whose name he couldn’t remember.

“He’s good,” I whispered.

“Yeah. His style reminds me of my dad’s.” He lifted his glass again. “He may have been a crap father, but man, could his lyrics make you feel something.” He smiled, a memory obviously on the surface, as he readied the straw in his mouth. “I really only came to see him.” He gestured to the stage. “We can go now if you want.”

I took him up on his offer, finishing the water I pretended was vodka that even included a requested slice of fruit on the side of my glass. While I finished, he shook hands with familiar faces leaning against the bar. I opted to pay half of the bill. An insight I saw coming as he arrived beforehand, beer already in hand and a tab maintaining the card given. It gave me the chance to pass on further introductions of comrades that’d likely refer to me as a flavor or an objectifying nickname once the evening concluded.

“I’m not trying to be creepy.” He walked close as we headed into the night air, revealing a frequent behavior adapted from his father as he constantly licked his lips before beginning a conversation. “I live like a block from here and listened to I love you, Baby.” He waited for clarification that I knew the song belonging the record he purchased for the tickets. I nodded, hoping his point would find the surface. “It made me think of you.” He fiddled with the watch on his wrist. “You wanna take a listen?” He gestured in the direction of his address.

I smiled. It wasn’t a date for the history books, but I remembered how it felt to see Nathan in the store. His confidence was transitioning to anxiety; I took it as a compliment. He didn’t want to blow his chance, and I appreciated that. So, I gripped my purse until I felt my protection choices beneath my phone and keys and obliged, walking beside him.

We reached the door, and as he typed in the passcode, I pretended to look away, presumably engulfed in my surroundings, detailing where exits lie.

Just as the door clicked open and the alarm rang, I could hear a motorcycle roaring. A bike I rested many carefree adolescent nights on the back of. I took a brief moment while he checked his mailbox, remembering the wind in my hair as the current vehicle lapped somewhere in the distance.

“Sorry, I’m on the third floor.” He smiled, gesturing to my shoes. I fanned away his concern, remembering my preparation to run in the opposite direction a few hours prior.

I followed him up, one step at a time, and he impressively looked back to find me on his heels, not a stop in my stride.

“Trooper.” He joked as we reached his floor, and he turned the corner.

“I wouldn’t wear shoes I couldn’t climb in.” I smiled, and I could tell by the way he smirked, how he took my response.

He stopped abruptly, reaching his hand back in protection, and I grabbed it, attempting to look over his shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” I held on to him, waiting for him to answer.

He pushed the door open slowly, and a breath of relief escaped his lips. He walked in further, looking up at the wet ceiling and the tarp placed across his floor.

“Must’ve been the super. He lets himself in to fix things.” Obviously, he was annoyed, but he peaked down his hallway for confirmation. He jokingly returned, standing carefree on the noisy tarp. “Come in. The coast is clear. He should be done till the morning.” He sat his keys on the counter and patted his pockets for his phone. I wanted to tell him, but I couldn’t. Instead, I took a step inside, closing the door behind me. “You see what I did with my phone?” He turned to see if there was any place he could’ve set it down in the moments we’d been inside.

It took him a few seconds to realize I hadn’t answered. And when he came toward me, standing in the middle of the tarp, I acted. I pulled the knife left on the counter from its position. I thought a pause would come but before I could think, my arm was through the air, and the blade across his throat. I stood still as he dropped to his knees, watching as the blood sprayed down resembling the notes of rain against an awning. I remained still, the knife peeking out of my grasp.

I stood back, thankful for my shoe choice allowing me to reach him without having to be in spray distance. I stood out of Nathan’s grasp. I had the instinct to push him, but there was no need. He lost balance, his body splaying out on the tarp as I answered the gentle triple knock at the door. As time returned to me, I pulled the door open behind me, and I walked carefully toward Nathan’s body. I squatted down, taking a good look at him, finding relief in the fading color of his eyes.

And as I held the blade in hand that once crossed his throat, I stood to the side while Jerome rolled Nate in the tarp, leaving me alone to think about what I’d done. How many times I’d done it. I took Nathan’s phone from my pocket and the bag laid by the door, prepacked with his collection of vinyl, and I froze as his phone vibrated. I gazed at the picture of Nathan and his father saved on his lock screen. A single tear fell down my face as I hoped I wouldn’t have to do it again. I expected the man behind the counter with the projectable lyrics and sons with the same initial to get the gist. With three of his children now missing, I hoped he’d recognize the one he left behind

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