I promised my husband, who kindly betas all my stories, including the slash, that I would write a het story for him.  My goal was to finish it for our anniversary, but I missed by a month.  I figured I had to get it done for the Fourth of July which plays a major role in this story.  The story contains talk of sex, foreplay, drug and alcohol use, but if pretty mild compared to most of my work.

 

A PRETTY GOOD BLUES SONG

 

Mid-summer 1965

 

His original plan, to take two months and slowly drive across the United States to his final destination in California, was scrapped somewhere between his plane touching down in New York City and retrieving the Ford Mustang a friend had left for him in a remote parking lot.  It was a nice car with lots of speed and style, but possibly that was just what took him outside his safety zone.  Like the name on his passport, Abel Caine, or the idea of attending medical school in a country where he had not lived for many decades, it was one more thing to make him uncomfortable.   Even though supposedly both the car and medical school admission had come without strings, he was never sure.   At least the car was a dark green, not red or even black.

 

Thus he had thrown his pack in the boot and driven for three straight days, stopping only for quick cups of coffee, roadside food, gas, and a few hours of sleep.  Crossing the Mississippi, he realized that even he couldn’t keep this pace up all the way to California, checked into a cheap motel and wandered into a seedy blues club for food and his favorite beverage.

 

The beer was cold, but a local brew that tasted more like the wooden barrels in which it was aged than the hops and barley from which it was made.  The food was greasy but hot and filling.  He was amazed when a fresh faced young singer performed with the band.  His name was Jim, or John, or Joe, he couldn’t remember even a few days later, but he would always remember his singing ‘Just Like Tom Thumb Blues’ with a passion that belied the fact that someone his age would have no idea what the song was about.  Even though Bob Dylan had written some expressive songs at an even younger age, he doubted if this chap had ever left the American mid-west.  Still, it was that young singer who inspired him to take a closer at America.

 

What he decided to do probably was stupid.  Knowing that the next 500 miles westward would look just like the last, he decided to retrace his path back through Illinois and Indiana and travel north to Michigan to visit a friend from back home who had issued him a standing invitation of hospitality.   George wasn’t that good of a friend, but he usually had good drugs and good women and . . .  Abe didn’t have anything more to add.  He just knew he wasn’t doing it for the scenery.

 

After arriving at the flat on the second floor of a century old house, he felt more at home.  He made up for his lack of sleep by spending three days in bed, one of them with two birds who were so stoned that he was certain that once he introduced them to the joys of cunnilingus they went home and practiced on each other.  By the weekend he had forgotten their faces and bodies and was certain he never had learned their names.

 

Sunday night George was having a big party.  On the anniversary of the independence of the United States, his friend from Liverpool was celebrating the “loss of the western colonies.”   Original plans, made sitting around the wooden kitchen table smoking some good weed, included fish and chips, bangers, vegetable buddies and a board stocked with British cheese.  As sobriety and poverty raised their heads the menu was scaled back to purchasing a few six packs of Newcastle for those who would know the difference and playing a lot of Beatles music.  Physicists were like that, big plans and no follow through.  Invitations had been passed verbally through the rather large campus. 

 

Despite the fact that most of the students at the summer session were probably taking advantage of the three day weekend to go home or, like the girls from his bed earlier in the week, to the beach, George expected over 100 people.   Large gallon jugs of cheap white and red wine along with several cases of cheap local beer that was even more watery than that in St. Louis were purchased partially with a crinkled $50.00 bill Abe pulled from his shoe when George ran short of money at the check-out counter.

 

Now he had a vested interest in the party.  Even though large crowds made him nervous, and he had considered slipping off to a movie, part of him wanted to see who would attend this party.  Friends of friends of friends of a person he barely considered a friend.  Still it was Middle America.  What could he expect?

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

He sat on the tattered couch that George had found discarded on the curb when he arrived in the states and tried not to watch the couple who would obviously be more comfortable in the bedroom had not the consumption of illegal drugs been relegated to those far corners.  With this many people attending, you had to be a little careful with your drugs, George had stated, and he had agreed.

 

Guests arrived.   Most of the men looked and dressed like George and his long-haired graduate student friends.   There were birds of all shapes and sizes, who shared a remarkable similarity in hairstyle, makeup and dress.  It struck him as odd that people whose goal was to stand out from the rest of the population ended up looking so much alike.  He’d fallen into the same rut, too, though, growing his hair longer than it had been for centuries.

 

Incense and candles combined with cigarette smoke to turn the air in the room opaque.  The temperature of the air rose exponentially as the number of unwashed bodies continued to grow.  George stood at the door and made an attempt to introduce several birds who entered the room to him, but Abe concentrated his attention on his beer and the uninterested females continued on to the kitchen or maybe one of the bedrooms.

 

He hadn’t noticed her when she first arrived.  Had he seen her he probably would have been attracted to her tall dark-haired friend.  Truthfully she looked like someone’s little sister, completely out of place at this or any party on a college campus.  She was wearing denim “jeans” rolled above her knees, a sleeveless blouse and tennis shoes.  The jeans were red, the blouse faded madras, and the shoes white.  She looked like she had just showered . . . and her hair was long and shiny.

 

He had become aware of these things because she had gone to the kitchen and retuned with one of the Newcastles.  Looking around the room their eyes had met, she smiled slightly, and he scooted over to make room for her on the couch next to him. 

 

“Hi, I’m Lindy.”  She said to him as she tried to find a way not to have their bodies touch.

 

“Lindy?”

 

“Short for Mary Lindbergh.”

 

“Right.  Abe.”

 

“Like Abraham Lincoln?”

 

“Actually it’s short for Abel.”

 

“Like Cain and Abel?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“Some mothers have such bizarre senses of humor.  There is a girl in the house where I live this summer called Camellia Bush.”  

 

She made a face when he didn’t respond. “You’re English aren’t you?” she asked.

 

“Last time I looked.”

 

He had already engaged in more conversation than he had planned to have that evening.  His goals were to watch, observe and probably get really drunk.

 

“This is really good beer.”  She remarked after several precious minutes of silence.

 

“It’s supposed to be a little warmer, room temperature, but the room temperature of a British pub, not this room.”

 

“If it were room temperature here, I guess you could call it tea.”

 

“Guess so.”

 

“So you must be a friend of George’s.  My roommate Carole got the invitation from his undergraduate assistant John.  She’s  . . .”   He stopped listening and wondered if the girl would ever stop talking.   He really didn’t care about her roommate or George’s assistant, or, although he would never let her know or suspect, her.  His goals now had changed slightly, ignore her, get her drunk . . .

  

“I think I’m out of beer.”  She rested the empty bottle on his blue jeans clad knee.  “I’ll save your seat if you get me another.”

 

“Helpless?” 

 

“No, it’s just that when I came in George said to me.  ‘We have beer and wine, but we’d rather you drink wine.’  I told him that I’d prefer beer, and you should have seen the look on his face when I fished around in the refrigerator and found this.  I doubt if he would give me another one, but probably would let you take two.”

 

“Why don’t you drink the wine?”

 

“White wine makes me mean and red wine makes me barf.  That a good enough reason for you?   And before you ask, I prefer dark beer.  I always liked the spring when we could get bock beer.  My father said they made it from the dregs left after the winter’s brewing.  Cleaning out the vats.”

 

“American girls usually don’t drink beer with their father’s, let alone discuss it.  I’m not sure you’re even old enough to drink.”

 

“I’m not. Why do you think I’m at a sleazy party and not in a bar?  It’s hell to be twenty.”

 

He was about to make some comment about her looking fifteen when he realized that she had already drawn him into a longer conversation than he had had with the women in his bed over the past few days.   His first thought was to go off for the beers and not return.  He could slip into the pot smoking room where he knew she would never go or out the back door into the cool of the night. 

 

“Still waiting for the beer.”  A trickle of sweat ran down her face and made a mascara-edged white line in the fake blush of her cheek.  “I can’t believe how hot it is in here.”

 

“Why don’t I go get some beer and we can go drink it in my car?”

 

“Does it have air conditioning?”

 

“It has windows that roll down.”

 

“Works for me.”

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

 

He took a whole six-pack, even though he realized that his friends would be angry, rationalizing that he had paid for it.  She followed him down the stairs to the Mustang that was parked in the dirt back yard.  The air hung heavy with humidity but at least it was free of smoke.  After receiving and replying to the expected “nice car” comments, he opened her door and pushed the front-seat-back forward.

 

“A gentleman and a cad, I see.  But, I agreed to drink beer . . . nothing more . . . if you don’t mind.  The front seat is more my style.”

 

“Sorry.”  He flipped it to the original position.  She got in, reached for the seat adjustment lever and pushed it to the far-back position. 

 

“Going to make me drink alone.”  She looked up with a smile indicating that he should close the door and take his place on the other side of the car.

 

“Well the music up there is so loud we don’t really need a radio.”  She commented.  She kicked off her white shoes and put her bare feet on the dashboard.  Sitting quietly for a few seconds, she proceeded to walk her bare toes up the windshield. 

 

“What did you do that for?”

 

“Thought it would give you some proof for your buddies in the morning.”

 

“Proof that I let some girl make toe prints on my window. . .” 

 

Then he realized what she was saying and chuckled.  “Don’t we need another set going the other way?”

 

“In that case we’d be in the back seat, but we’re not.  Remember.”

 

“How could I forget?”

 

“Who are you?  What are you doing here?”

 

“You tell me first.”  It was easier to not listen to her talking than to try to make up some story to tell her.

 

“I already told you my name.  I’m here for summer school but I’m only taking one course.  Marketing II.  The rest of the time I work at the library.  I write letters to publishers to get copies of periodicals that have been lost or stolen. . . .”  

 

“Are you going to shut up and let me kiss you?”

 

*  *  *  *  *  *

 

She seemed to enjoy kissing as much as he did, opening to his tongue and allowing him to move his hands freely over her body.   He was unsure if she was giving him mixed signals or was just being a prick-tease.  She even ran her hands down his long lean thighs stopping only when she got very close to what he wished was her desired goal.  Her jeans were too tight to enter without removing, so he stuck to the buttons on the blouse which unbuttoned to reveal a soft lace bra.  He ran his hand along the back and found no clasp.  Realizing it must be one of those new front hook models, he was about to reach for the front, when she took his hand and moved it away.  Guess she wasn’t interest in that either.

 

They stopped to drink another beer which meant that she would start talking again.

 

“You haven’t told me anything about you?  How old are you?  What do you do?”

 

“I’m on my way to California.  I am going to medical school at Berkley.”

 

“Wow, cool.  You must be smart.”

 

“I do well on tests.”

 

“Pretty well I bet.  I know; my roommate tried to get it into medical school.  She was accepted a couple of places but decided to get married instead.  I think she was foolish, but . . . and how old are you.”

 

“Twenty-five.” He tried to pick a number that wouldn’t shock her.

 

“That’s old.”

 

“I started medical training at a hospital in London, but people kept telling me to come to the United States.  Finally decided that I might give it a try.  Was shocked when I was accepted at Berkley.” 

 

“Probably knew someone there, or your father did.  Is he a doctor?”

 

“No.”  He wasn’t sure which question she thought he was answering.

 

“You know George from back in England?”

 

“Yeah.  He kept telling me that I’d like the . . .  girls . . .  here in Michigan.”

 

“Do you?”

 

“Well, the two that I was with the last couple of nights were pretty nice.” 

 

“Well, I guess that makes you three for three, or something like that.” She leaned over, kissed him deeply and ran her hand up his thigh again.

 

*  *  *  *

 

At sometime after he had made a move too far and once again been rejected, he realized that he had drunk three of the beers from the six-pack while she had consumed two.  For some reason he found himself reluctant to just take the last beer.  There was an unwillingness to go back into the house for more beer, but he was unsure whether that came from an inclination not to face his friends again or a desire not to break the mood.  Part of him wondered how much of her mid-western, wholesome, and probably virginal reserve would remain after she drank yet another beer.

 

That was an evil though.  He was used to women who had no qualms about a quick shag in the back of a car.  Sometime during the evening she had told him a story of fixing up two friends who got along very well.  She learned that the guy planned to have sex with her friend and then her friend told her that she was considering getting pregnant so that the guy would marry her.  She had to go and tell him not to . . . he had never realized that relationships could get complicated in this way.  Unable to father children, he had usually thought of sex as casual and honestly didn’t care much about the age or sex of his partners.

 

“Want the last beer?”  He asked.  “It’s yours.”

 

“No, you drink it.  I am a sorry drunk.  You wouldn’t want me to barf on your nice car.”

 

“Put that way, I’ll drink it.  But thank you.”

 

“So you were going to tell me what you are.  Besides a future medical student from England.”

 

“And you were going to tell me what you really want to be.”

 

“I am?  Why?”

 

“Because I really want to know.”

 

“You haven’t been listening all night, why should you start now.”

 

“I have, Mary Lindbergh, honestly I have.”  He rolled his eyes back and began to recite some detailed story about her roommate Carole and a guy from California who had come to visit her that summer.  “See . . . I heard every word you said.”

 

“Yeah sure.  But honestly, I want to know about you.”

 

Perhaps it was the beer talking.  He couldn’t remember how many he had drunk before she arrived, but with this last one he was beginning to feel it.   “If I told you anything it would have to be a lie because . . .”

 

“Because . . . ?” 

 

* * * * *

 

He never answered.  Sometime during the conversation darkness had completely overtaken the lingering Michigan twilight and flashes of bright lights began to break the darkness.  A puzzled look overtook his face as he considered the implications.

 

“Fireworks.”  She said as if to answer.  “That’s how we celebrate Independence Day.”

 

“Ah, fireworks.  Revered by ancient Chinese as a way to celebrate auspicious occasions by scaring away evil spirits.  Loud noises do that you know.”

 

“Shouldn’t need to worry tonight then,” she chuckled.

 

“Did you know that the Chinese used firecrackers made of green bamboo even before the invention of gunpowder?   The water in the cells of the bamboo plant cause it to explode when tossed in the fire.”

 

“Frightens the hell out of those evil spirits,” she added. “I didn’t know that.”

 

“Black powder was used in fireworks for centuries before it was used as a weapon; and that story about the cook accidentally discovering it was just a nice story.  Actually it was the work of dedicated scientists who took it upon themselves to mix all known compounds to record the effects for the ages . . .

 

“Or to turn lead into gold, right.”

 

“Right.  Sulfur, saltpeter, honey and arsenic disulphide was the first mixture.  When heated they produce a bright flash of light – not that easy to control.”

 

“And you know this how?”

 

“Alchemy class.”

 

He carefully studied her face.  She seemed to get the humor, but more than that seemed to sense that there was more behind them that just jokes.  He hadn’t seen that in many women recently.  She was watching the sky intently even when the local fireworks ended and all that remained were distant flashes from displays in other areas or a few streaks caused by amateur pyrotechnics. 

 

“I grew up in the country where it is flat for miles.  Sometimes at night you would see flashes on the horizon.  We called it heat lightning and learned in school that it was just regular lightning from storms far away.  I liked to think it was something more, something magic.” 

 

“Like what?”  He hesitated to travel to this uncharted territory, but at the same time was interested in what she had seen and what she thought it might be.

 

“Some sort of transfer maybe.  Of life force or energy or knowledge.”

 

“That’s a romantic notion.”

 

“I wouldn’t think a scientist like you would understand.”

 

“You should be a writer, not a marketer or whatever you said you were studying.”

 

“Wow, and I thought you weren’t listening.”

 

“I was, more than I usually do, anyway.”  He noticed she had not replied.  “Hey, I have an idea.  Why don’t we drive off someplace where we can overlook the town and watch for more fireworks whether celebratory or transfers of life force, energy, or knowledge.”

 

“Great idea, except . . .”

 

“Except.”

 

“One, I think you’ve had too much beer to be driving anywhere.  Two, this is the mid-west.  By the time you reach someplace with  enough difference in elevation to overlook anything you’d be outside the populated area.  Three, I have to be home by midnight.”

 

“What are you bloody Cinderella?”

 

“No, just the college’s way of insuring that its maidens remain pure and chaste.”

 

The unnamed females he had bedded earlier in the week were neither, before or after.  “Don’t they realize that you can . . . ?”

 

“I believe it is just to make parents feel good about sending their daughters off to the big bad world of college.  But I chose to live in their housing, and I thus have to abide by their rules, unless of course I want to spend the rest of my evenings this summer in the company of an elderly housemother.”

 

“Well, if you won’t let me drive, can I walk you home?”

 

“I have to go inside and find my roommate.  We came together, we leave together.  That’s our pact.”

 

*  *  *  *  *  *

 

A quick walk through the house found Carole sitting at the kitchen table toying with a plastic glass of wine and listening to John and George discuss politics in the Physics Department.  Abe realized that he had been right about his friend’s limited ability to have a really good time.  Lindy insisted that the two of them could navigate the few blocks to their dorm without escort despite a somewhat gentlemanly insistence from Abel.

 

She made an inquiry as to the location of the WC, or as she called it the John, and pulled him into the back hall with her. 

 

“I don’t want you coming with us.”  Flat out, mater-of-fact.  “I have a pin-mate.”

 

“Pin-mate?”

 

“Boyfriend.  More than that.  Engaged to be engaged.  He’s away working this summer.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“And if you walked me home I’d want to kiss you good-bye.  I don’t trust Carole, or someone else who might be coming home at the same time, not to tell someone else, and eventually it would get . . .”

 

“I guess I’ll just have to kiss you now.”

 

He pulled her close to him and into a kiss.  It was only standing in the hall that he realized the great difference in their heights necessitated an uncomfortable arching of his back.  They should be in one of the bedrooms where it would be a lot more comfortable . . .

 

“This boyfriend of yours, Mary Lindbergh, what does he think of mystical transfers of life force, energy or knowledge.”  He said, still holding her hands, but pulling back to look into her face.

 

“What?”  It took a while for it to register, and she shook her head.  “Boy, you are good.  Amazing really.  Are you sure your name isn’t really Bond, James Bond.”

 

“Do I look like a man with a license to kill?”  He said as he thought about the sword which he still carried with him, though not used for almost two centuries, stashed inaccessibly in the trunk of his car.

 

Carole came from the kitchen with a concerned look on her face.  “We’d better get going, it’s almost midnight,” she commented.

 

“Do I have time to pee?”

 

“Thought that was what you were doing . . .” she looked at Abel and then Lindy and shook her head.  “Hurry.”

 

“Fare they well, Mary Lindberg” was all he could say.

 

He felt uncomfortable standing in the hall while she used the WC.  He knew they had made their parting so he ducked into one of the rooms where he knew marijuana was being smoked.  The birds in that room obviously didn’t live in dorms.  

 

Tomorrow he would start for the west coast again.  He wished he’d remembered the singer’s name; the story of tonight would make a pretty good blues song.

 

McJude

June 25, 2005