Sometimes things happen for a reason. Sometimes they don’t.
She walked into the bar at 1:37 p.m. I was sitting in my usual spot, three stools down from the cash register. Right as the door opened, letting in all that brightness from outside, the record on the jukebox switched. Out went Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” in went Smith’s fine version of “Baby It’s You.”
Her legs were endless. Her hair was blonde in the bar light. But she was a redhead. The corduroy skirt she was wearing was green. And a little too short. Not that I was complaining about it. She gave the place a once over. Stopping for a moment on me, then moving on to Jerry, the barkeep. The next thing I noticed were her high heels. They were big. But not ugly, slutty, stiletto big. For some reason, they seemed to be a part of her. An extension of her foot. They made only a slight clack sound as she started walked toward the bar. My heart sped up. So far, she was a dream. I was doing all I could not to wake up or let my jaw hit the bar.
She sat two seats down from me. Ordered a scotch and water. Jerry brought it to her quicker than I’d ever seen him deliver a drink. Yeah, the place was empty, but that was fast. I called him over. Told him that. He laughed. Soon, a new song clicked into place on the juke. Rick James’ “Ghetto Life”.
Being me, I looked at this goddess who just stumbled upon my haunt in the reflection of the bar mirror. She smiled. Not at me. But definitely for me to see.
“Hey, Jerry,” I said. “Give the lady another of what she’s drinking.”
“You got it Mr. Jo-hones.”
He loved to say my name like that. It was my pen name. Spelled slightly different than my real name, Jones. That way, all the talk show hosts had to call me that. It made me laugh. I hoped the only other person who knew my silly obsession with it got a snicker out of it to. Despite the way our relationship ended many years ago.
She drank the drink. I watched her. Yet, I was pulled back to her heels. A better man than me once said “there ain’t enough girls wearing high heels in this crowd.” For me, the crowd just got good. Usually, Jerry and I take up these afternoons debating whether or not the original “True Grit” with John Wayne is better than the Coen Brother’s take on it with Jeff Bridges.
I decide that’s as good an icebreaker as any other. Especially since the old buying a drink for the gal didn’t work for anything but a good look at some legs with heels.
“Excuse me. Can I ask you a question?” I say. Not as meekly as usual, I notice.
She looks at me with a blank stare. Not a good sign. The jukebox clicks off. The scratchy sounds of needle hitting wax begins. I wonder what song will break this unbearable silence. Bette Midler’s “The Rose” begins.
I slump down a bit as the notes begin to play.
“I love this song,” she says, looking right at me.
“Really? I say. Why is that?” A bit brazen a response, but I figure I’ll show confidence that I am lacking.
She gives me another look. I can’t place it. Then she speaks again. I have not completely destroyed this conversation.
“It’s a bit cliché, I know, but this song got me through the nights many times. Me, a bottle of whiskey and my thoughts of someone else. And I’m not embarrassed to say so.”
“Fuck right. And you shouldn’t be. It’s the songs that make the pain feel a little less. They step up and take the bullet for you.”
“Exactly,” she says. Pausing for about 10 seconds. “And thanks for the drink. My name is Marla.”
“Randy,” I say.
“Oh my goodness. You’re Randy Jo-hones? The writer?”
“Sadly, yes,” I cringe.
“What do you mean, sadly?”
“I wrote Nick, Nack, Knock. Jabberwock. That’s what people will remember me for. A damn kid’s ditty that turned into a monster.”
“You’re right. You suck,” she said with a wink and a tip of the glass. I looked down at my glass. It was empty. I put on my faux sad face.
That song, which I just called the double N KJ now was what paid my bills. I was drunk one night, strumming on a guitar, listening to Bruce Springsteen bootlegs when one came to an end. I kept strumming and mumbling words. Before I knew it, I’d written a short song. I’d never written a song in my life. I couldn’t read music. But the lyrics just flew out. Probably helped by the eight beers -- Celbration Bocks, to be exact -- and two joints rolled by my ex-girlfriend just two days earlier, and 16 hours before she’d leave me for the tight end for the Denver Broncos at a Lucero show at the Bluebird Café. After finishing the song, I passed out. In the morning, I woke up and read the song. Laughed and put it in a shoebox.
Three years later, I was on deadline at the newspaper I was pretending to write a column for. It was a weekly rag. Filled with plenty of citizen journalism and fluff. I was the sarcastic voice of the middle-aged white man. At least that’s what my blog’s “About Me” section said. I pictured Michael Douglas in the early to mid-1990s when his trilogy of angry scared white man movies -- Basic Instinct, Falling Down and Disclosure. It made me shudder. But that day, I was on deadline, drunk, and I had no column. The presses were supposed to be rolling in 20 minutes, my editor told me. So, I pulled out double N KJ and came up with a back story. It became an instant hit. Generating millions of hits for our rag in just a couple of days. Then 10s of millions. Soon, 100s of millions.
Hollywood came calling. They asked about the song. The character. They wanted a book. They envisioned a movie, starring Johnny Depp. Soon, I had money. Soon I was asked to be on Oprah’s show on her network. Then Jay Leno.
I turned them both down. And went on Craig Ferguson instead. That made me more famous. The sheer audacity of this nobody to do such a thing. Book sales took off. The movie was not made. But a television series for kids was. Then came the merchandising. Which, I took my cue from George Lucas and made sure it was all mine. This was laughed at when the contract was drawn up. It probably was cried about three years after it was signed. As the double N KJ franchise grossed almost a billion dollars.
I sold the rights soon after. Made out like Bill Gates or Zuckerberg, that Facebook guy. And I stopped writing the stuff. I hadn’t written anything else in three years. It was time to stop. Soon, double N KJ died the fate of all kid’s franchises -- it was replaced by the next big thing. No staying power. Damn, that guy got out at the right time, the biz rags said. I just thought it died because I wasn’t writing it drunk and high on my falling apart laptop listening to Springsteen. So much of his adventures came straight out of New Jersey. Only one blogger caught on too. I met the Boss once. He knew my stuff. Said he loved what I did with Nebraska on season 2. I smiled and took a picture with him. It’s still on the dashboard of my car. Where it’s been since the Polaroid dried that night.
“Barkeep!” she piped up. “Jerry, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jerry nodded.
“Another round for me and my fella here.”
My heart skipped the clichéd beat. I was smitten. Three 45s in and she had me. If she asked me to move to Idaho with her tomorrow, I would. I decided to tell her that.
“You don’t live in Idaho, do you?” I said with a grin.
“No. Why would you ask something like that?”
“Because if you asked me to move to Idaho tomorrow, I would.”
“Good to know.”
We took swigs out of our glasses. The jukebox switched again. Bruce’s “Shut Out the Light” came on. I smiled. My favorite Boss song.
“What were you going to ask me earlier?” Marla asked.
“Huh? Oh, that. I was going to ask you if you thought True Grit 2010 was better or worse than True Grit 1968? I personally think John Wayne kicks Jeff Bridges’ ass. I expected greatness from the Coen Brothers, but I only got goodness.”
“I haven’t seen the new one,” she said. “I saw the original with my daddy one night on cable TV. He said it was his favorite movie. So, I’d like to keep that moment. In fact, I’ll steal your description if anyone ever asks me that question again. What do you think Jerry?”
“I think Randy’s full of shit. The new one kicks the old one’s hiney,” he said.
“I disagree,” Marla said. “Goodness, not greatness.”
“Kindreds man, kindreds,” Jerry said as he polished a shot glass with a somewhat clean rag.
The jukebox clicked again. Del Shannon’s “Runaway” begins.
“This song, right here, is the only song about heartbreak that ever really needed to be written,” I pop out. “And that’s saying a lot, considering how obsessed with sad songs I was. Well, am. If it hadn’t been for Lucero, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking to you right now.”
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
“About being here?”
“No. About the song, silly.”
“Just listen,” I say as Del belts out “I wah-wah-wah-wah-wander…Why… Why, why, why, why, why. She ran away.”
We sit still and listen to the entire song.
“You’re right. From a guy’s point of view,” she says. “But there’s no happy ending.”
“Exactly. There isn’t a happy ending in heartbreak. Even if you become friends again. Why? Because there’s always that little bit of you that thinks “what if?” It’s just the way it is.”
“What are you going to do when I break up with you?” she said.
“I’ll listen to Del Shannon and wonder why.”
“And I’ll listen to Bette and dream of the happy ending.”
“Well, it’s good to know in advance what’s coming.”
“Shut up you fool. Let’s get out of here.”
“I can do that.”
“Which?”
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