Tish is in no way allowed to wear make-up. She’s too young. But she’s bordering on that age where she’s very interested in her personal appearance. Mickie was waiting for my response. I know that she’ll just follow my lead in this; Mickie is relaxed about things. Relaxed in the best way.
“Fine,” I say. They can wash it all off at the pool later. Besides, Mickie and I have a deep, deep need for coffee at the moment, and there’s a café right nearby where we can sit and still see where the girls are at. Mickie gives the girls a little cash to augment their own, and I’m going to pick up the coffee tab. We stash our bags under the small table and order double lattes.
“She’s getting too big,” I say, looking across the mall and seeing Tish climb up into the chair so the women doing the makeover can have a look at her face. Tish crosses her legs, knee over knee, and suddenly she’s a young woman.
“Yup, they’re growing up,” Mickie agrees. She only gives the girls a glance before she turns back to me. “But how are YOU doing? I can’t believe that you’ve gotten time off already,” she says in an exaggerated voice, rolling her eyes.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“That boy’s ass should have been out on the road a year ago. He’s been sitting in that house, rotting. He should be out doing his thing, not hanging around like some, some hermit.”
“He’s not on the road, he’s golfing.”
“ANYTHING is better than just sitting around the house. I mean, maybe if he was recording or something…” And Mickie, in her oh so none too subtle way, leaves her statement open ended, waiting for me to fill in the blank to her implied question.
“No. He’s not recording.”
“Damn,” she says under her breath.
“Are you interested in working with him?” I’m curious now.
“Yeah, I am. Since I talked to Mindi again. She called the other day and I sat in on a session with her. She’s surprised about A.J., too.”
A.J. Who is this person they keep calling A.J.? I know Alex and from what little I have gleaned over the few encounters I’ve had with people who know this man, A.J. is another entity entirely. I’m piqued about that. Alex is a nice enough person. He’s usually unhappy, though, or even distressed. But this A.J. sounds like he was a lot of fun, and people seem to miss him.
“I suppose he’s just not up to recording,” I say. And that’s about all I’m going to say. I’m not going to get gossipy about Alex. I can’t see that doing anyone any good. He’s got problems. Obviously, at least to me, they’re large problems. I know that I just wrote him off as spoiled when I first came to work for him, because he seemed like some lazy, spoiled rich boy that just flitted around from nothing to nothing all day. I can admit that my first impression was wrong. Oh, I still think he’s more than a little spoiled, and I know that he’s more than a little self-centered and immature. But watching him fall apart for a few days was very sad, and very telling.
I think he’s just too isolated and lonely. And in that respect, I agree with Mickie, and now Mindi, too. Alex should be working. He’s such a wonderful singer. I’ve listened to his group’s CD’s again. I can hear him now; I can hear his voice within the mix of all five voices, even if he’s just adding background bits. I think that he’s wasting his time not working. Not singing. I guess I’m not the only one.
“I guess not.” Mickie plays with the slim stirring stick they’ve given us with our coffee. I play with mine, too. This would be a perfect time for a cigarette, but it’s not going to happen. Not inside the mall.
I glance over to the counter, and the make-up person is applying something to my daughter’s cheeks. I can tell, just from the way she’s sitting, that she’s tickled to be out, to be shopping, and to be getting her ‘makeover’; just to be here. This is pleasing her. This simple, impromptu day. I didn’t think that I would have an entourage when I called to tell Mickie that I would be out for a while, but they all thought that shopping sounded like a fantastic idea and decided to make an afternoon of it with me. We’re even going to go out to supper, which is fine with me today. Not that I would mind cooking, I don’t. In fact I offered to cook for everyone at Mickie’s and she wouldn’t agree to it.
“Do you think he has writer’s block?” Mickie asks me, breaking me away from my own thoughts.
“I don’t know. He never says anything about it at all, Mick. I just keep the house in order and give him three squares a day when he wants them.” I shrug. “I’d never even listened to his group’s music before, other than hearing it on the radio.”
“Then you must be a dream come true,” Mickie says with a laugh.
“What do you mean?”
“Guys like A.J. don’t run into a lot of people who don’t want something from them.”
“The only thing I want from him is my paycheck,” I say. “And possibly for him to pick up his clothes off the floor, although that’s not a necessity in life.” I laugh.
“Well, if you ever get the chance, drop him a hint that there are some of us out here that wouldn’t mind hooking up for a little session or two, okay? In case he’s feeling like there’s no one interested. I know that Mindi said she was going to try and talk to him, but she’s out of town for a while.”
“I’ll… I don’t know what I’ll do, Mick. If it comes up, I’ll say something.” I will, because I think that Alex DOES need to know that there are people who want to work with him, who would like to see him, who think well of him.
I sometimes wonder, more than ever since our conversation the other night, if Alex feels that other people feel about him the way he feels about himself. I can see that even though he’s impatient with his own guilt and that he doesn’t want to keep wallowing in it, maybe even when he should, that he DOES have a lot of guilt in him. At least over his personal life. And I don’t know what kind of bearing that has on his professional life. In fact, I have no idea, really, why Alex is depressed; if it’s about his personal life, his public life, or something in between. I just know that when I walked through his front door and accepted the job, he came as is, with all these problems he seems to have in full bloom.
“I’d appreciate it. I mean, there’s no use in him not doing something, when people want to do something with him. I might even make a few calls around, get some other people interested. Put a little pressure on him. I know that there was some talk about him doing something a few months back, but nothing ever came of it. And I know that there are issues with Jive.”
“Jive?”
“His record company.”
“You’ve lost me, Mick.”
“Yeah, well, that one’s a little lost on me, too,” she says with a laugh. “They had problems.”
“Who had problems?”
“Backstreet and Jive. I know that’s part of why A.J.’s on an extended time off.” The stirring stick in her fingers snaps. “I tell you, sometimes there’s just no cutting a good deal with anyone. These companies, they take advantage of these kids trying to get into the business.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call Alex a kid,” I say.
“He was when he started.” Mickie sighs. “That’s why I like session work. It’s pretty steady, it pays well, and you don’t have to deal with record companies that much. Sure, there’s no ‘fame’, really, but there’s a lot of prestige.”
“I think, maybe, that fame’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” I say. And that’s the truth, because if fame is what got Alex to where he is, anyone could do without it. I like the way Mickie thinks.
I take another look over at the girls, and there are several other people at the makeup counter now. And one of them catches my eye and waves to me. I’m startled at first, because I don’t know anyone, and then the figure says something to a young woman beside her, before heading for the table Mickie and I are sitting at.
It’s Nyle.
“Hello, stranger,” Nyle says, when she gets close to us. She pulls up an empty chair and sits down.
“Hi, Nyle.” She seems so out of place not being at Payson Library. “This is Mickie Harper,” I say, gesturing to Mick. They nod to each other.
“I see you’re at the usual weekend stomping ground,” Nyle says with a roll of her eyes. She gestures to a waitperson and gives them an order for a tall Mocha Cappuccino before the person can tell her that the café is cafeteria style and she’s supposed to order at the counter. In fact, the waitperson, who is only a table busser, has no chance to tell her that at all because she’s ordering a second round for Mick and I and adding a chocolate filled croissant to it. There’s no arguing with her, it’s in her tone, it’s in her demeanor. The waitperson simply goes to the counter and places the order herself.
“It wasn’t really in the plan for the day,” I say.
“Even better. Spontaneous wallet combustion is easier to take than planned dispersal of funds.” She smiles and turns to Mickie. “Do you live in Malibu, too?”
“Yes,” Mickie says. I can see Mick’s amusement at Nyle’s frankness.
“You’re not a student, or faculty, I’d know you then.”
“No, I’m a musician.”
“Ah.” The sound that Nyle makes speaks volumes. Mickie and I share a look and try not to laugh. “Refreshing. I’m sick to death of academes,” Nyle says, rolling her eyes once more. She swivels her head, the mass of her hair tossing as she does, and looks to see where her coffee order has gone to. She makes a gesture with her hand that I can only interpret as ‘faster’ to the busser, and then turns her full attention make to Mickie and me. “I haven’t seen you around in a few days. Have you read those books? Were they any help? I think they have a lot of practical information about depression. I wasn’t so sure that you were in the market for anything too clinical.”
“They’ve been fine.” I’ve only had the change to read one and glance through the others.
“How’s the patient doing? Any more relapses?”
“No.” I feel Mickie perk up next to me.
“Don’t be surprised if he does, though. It’s fairly common.”
“Yes.” I don’t want to talk about this here. I can see Mickie eating it up, and although I trust her, I’m instantly aware that the smallest slip of information from this conversation could add up to a giant breach of trust between me and Alex. And that thought comes to me like awareness. I crane my head to see Kim in the chair now, getting her turn at glamour. The young woman Nyle had spoken to is watching. I make the leap of connection between the woman and Nyle. “Is that your daughter?” I ask.
“Yes, that’s Erin. Waiting her turn.”
“Those are our girls,” I say.
“Very lovely,” Nyle says, with a smile. “Polite.” I don’t make the immediate connection to that until I realize that Nyle might have had a word or two with Kim and Tish at the makeup counter.
“Thank you.”
Nyle smiles at me. The coffee comes, as does the stuffed croissant. Nyle takes a bite. Mickie and I share a smile over our coffee cups.
“You have to taste this,” Nyle insists, breaking off bits of her dessert and handing them out. There’s no saying ‘no’ to the woman, and the smile on my face turns to a grin. “Isn’t that wonderful?” she asks, expecting no less of an enthusiastic response.
“Delicious,” I say.
“Incredible,” Mickie agrees.
“I love these things,” Nyle says. Then she smiles around a mouthful of croissant. “I love Saturdays. It’s so nice to be out of the library for the day. I work at Payson,” she tells Mickie, who nods with seeming familiarity. “No books, no whining students, no complaining faculty. Just coffee, croissants, and personal pampering.” She sighs, and something in her lets go. That ‘librarian’ in her releases someone else. “Anyone interested in a pedicure?”
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© 2003 Chandrah, Inc.
© 2003 (*> Baby Bird Productions, Inc.
