From:
K<dancing.midnight@XXXXX.XXX
To: Claudia Bonn@
XXXXX.XXX
Hello
HFG,
How
are you? Sorry I didn't write more last
night. I was practically
unconscious. Rehearsals are mentally
exhausting. I couldn't even string a
thought together.
I
have a pretty busy day. I hope I can get
out early enough to make it on time.
That would be embarrassing.
XOXOX
SNB
______________________________________________________
Fri, Jul 13, 2012 at 10:42 AM
From: Claudia Bonn@
XXXX.XXX
To:
K<dancing.midnight@XXXXX.XXX
Uhhh,
yeah, where's the bass player?! That would be embarrassing : )
Don't
worry about being brief last night, I know how mental work, especially creative
work, can be. Sometimes, it's more exhausting than anything physical.
So,
this is a funny conversation between Maggie and me last night. We never have
girl talk; we usually talk about our kids some, but mostly philosophy, religion
(she's completely irreligious), politics and such. She is an MD, very
intelligent, and a little nutty, but then who isn't? So, last night, she says,
do you know what you're going to wear? So, I told her I was going to wear
jeans, but then I was going to wear a skirt because maybe we'd want to go into
the bathroom.
Maggie:
What?! You're going to wear a short skirt and no underwear, and let him fuck
you in the public bathroom?
Roya:
No. I'm not going to do any such thing. I'm going to wear underwear.
You
get it? I hope you don't mind that we talked about this. Women always do. She
knows it's just a joke and neither of us is going to do such a high-risk thing.
I
love you, SNB. You're going to be awesome tonight!
XOXOXO
HFG
_______________________________________________________
Fri, Jul 13, 2012 at 11:04 AM
From:
K<dancing.midnight@XXXXX.XXX
To: Claudia Bonn@
XXXXX.XXX
I
got it, did she? Underwear wouldn't stop
me. In fact, jeans wouldn't stop
me. It is a lot of fun to think about. So I haven't met her, but she already knows
my biggest secret. Yikes. On the other hand, I wish I could tell
someone. I want to shout it out loud,
but I can't. It is a strange feeling.
Tonight
will be awesome. It is actually hard to
concentrate on work today.
See
you tonight.
SNB
_______________________________________________________
Fri, Jul 13, 2012 at 11:26 AM
From: Claudia Bonn@
XXXX.XXX
To:
K<dancing.midnight@XXXXX.XXX
It's
hard to translate things without the benefit of tone and inflection. That's why
in writing, choice of words are so important. I could've chosen better.
What's
your biggest secret, me? I thought I'm your only secret?! : ) Don't worry, she thinks all this is
delicious. She isn't a prude. After a lifetime of Catholicism, she's
discovering sexuality. Besides, you know a fair amount about her too. I wish
you could tell a friend, someone who you know doesn't have loose lips.
I
won't write you anymore today. I have lots to do, and I want you to get all
your work done on time and get out of there.
I'll
see you tonight! In a skirt. I won't tell you whether I'll have panties on or
not : )
XOXOXOXO
Me
______________________________________________________
Fri, Jul 13, 2012 at 11:37 AM
From:
K<dancing.midnight@XXXXX.XXX
To: Claudia Bonn@
XXXXX.XXX
I
imagine I have some secrets I keep even from myself. You are the only substantial secret.
Have
a great day. I love you HFGw/op
_______________________________________________________
The place was in the basement of a pre-war on the Upper Westside, and had once been famous. Metal stairs led down to it from the street. Upon entering, a smell of dank mixed with spilled booze smacked you in the nose. The dive was dark and fairly crowded. There was no sound of music. Maggie and I had arrived while the band was on break after its second set, as planned. I looked around and
made out Kevin milling around with some people in the next room where the stage was set up under a low ceiling.
In the dimness, people looked as unrecognizable as silhouettes. I didn’t know if
the group included his wife. All I knew
about her is that she is 5’2” and has a haircut as short as a man’s. I preferred
to not see her. Maggie and I sat at the bar and ordered margaritas from a crabby bartender. We had only taken a sip when Kevin came up behind us. He had obviously been on the lookout. We turned around on our stools, away from the bar; Kevin was facing it with his back to the room. He was wearing a blue and red jersey and had an American flag bandana wrapped around his wrist. It keeps it from chafing against the bass when he plays, he says. I introduced him to Maggie. She was raised in the suburbs of Chicago, and has friends in Minnesota whom she had visited the Christmas before. So, she and Kevin spoke about the state and its winters. I just listened, looking from one to the other, all the while aching for Kevin to give me a glimpse of recognition, a shadow of a glance that said, “This is an act; we know better.” But even though, besides Maggie and me, only the bottles could see his face, he looked at me with the eyes of a stranger.
After a few minutes, I slid off the stool and headed to the bathroom. It was just after the bar, rather conspicuous as far as bathrooms go with a couple of sinks lined up in public behind only a parapet. Next to the sinks was a basketful of condoms. I went into one of the two bathrooms and hung up my purse on the hook behind the door. I pulled down my panties and squatted over the toilet. I longed for him to come in, if even just for a kiss. I dried and shimmied down my skirt then flushed with my foot. Then I just stood there for a few moments more. Once it became clear that he wasn't coming, I left the bathroom and walked back to the bar, pretending that a good pee had obviously been the only thing on my mind. Kevin excused himself and went to get ready to go on stage.
Maggie and I bought a fresh round of margaritas and sat at a table right in front. She seemed disappointed in his ordinariness. She wondered what was the big deal. He is just another guy, she said, just a normal, no big deal guy. To her he was just another boring Irish guy like her brothers. To me he was Mr. America, the boy I had wanted to meet since I was thirteen, or to put it more poignantly, I had waited to meet for over thirty years. The spotlights were blinding, and I knew that Kevin couldn’t really see me in the audience, but I behaved as if he could—sitting straight, my long bare legs smoothly crossed, sometimes swaying lightly to the music, sometimes bobbing my foot to the beat. The band played well. He played as I expected him to, matter of factly without much fanfare, or rock star posturing. Sometimes, his face was intent as he worked his wheels to make it sound good. Sometimes, he played with a long gaze and a contented expression of a happy boy. But he was always aware and always humble. I wondered where his wife was, I wondered if she had noticed me. I wished Kevin would look at me, but reminded myself that he was blinded by the glare.
Once the show ended, Maggie and I returned to the bar. Supposedly, we didn't know anybody in the band, so why linger near the stage? Kevin came to talk to us, like he said he did with all the other people who came to see them play. We told him how great the band sounded, but then a waitress came up to him and said that she had given his cut of the pay to his wife, and pointed to a gaggle of people on their way out the door. Kevin said a quick good-bye and hurried after them like a wayward puppy.
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