This is the fourth chapter of a multi-part story about a cross-country trip of self-discovery and adventure, with several different stops and a story at each. I'm writing this as I go, though I have a good idea of what will happen as our main character heads west. Each chapter is more or less a standalone, but there is an overarching story here, and many of the character moments and references will make more sense if you've read it all.
I initially meant this chapter to be a short, quick story, but it developed into something a little more intricate as I started delving into the music, which was a lot of fun to try to integrate. Some songs are here because of their words, and those are strategically placed. Others are here because they fit the sound I think Lizzie, the female character, would have gone for here. The songs I quoted or referenced in this story are listed at the end - not a bad playlist in and of itself.
CHAPTER 4: Sweet Music
Lizzie danced slowly with herself in front of the desk, her hands in her own hair as she swayed, lit lightly from around, and backlit from the screen. I watched her, my head starting to sway along with her fluid movements. I could imagine how moving like that made her feel, and then I suddenly felt it too, like I'd conjured up the sensation. After what felt like a long time but probably wasn't, I went to her, wanting to touch her skin, sliding my hand onto her side, exposed under the halter. As I did, she arched her back and leaned into me. Her head rested on my chest and she let out a little breath, a sigh or a moan or a call, it wasn't clear. It didn't need to be.
Day 13 - Friday, October 5, 2019
There was a chill in the air as I walked down 18th Street toward Baltimore Avenue. The sun was getting low in the sky and a breeze had kicked in from the west. Sweater weather was my favorite kind of weather, though, so there was a spring in my step as I wandered among the street vendors and open studios in the heart of Kansas City's Crossroads district, where the First Friday celebration was in full force.
I'd timed my visit here to make sure it coincided with this monthly event - an evening in which restaurants, studios, performance spaces, and people came together to celebrate KC's art scene. My hotel was only a couple blocks away, and I'd been wandering for an hour and a half now, spending some of that in art spaces featuring all sorts of things I appreciated, though probably didn't understand. I'd texted a few photos to Katie, my old friend the artist, who could do both.
Katie had been the third person to text me this morning, my mother and my cousin Sam being the first two. There had been a few others throughout the day - my dad, three or four friends from high school, another handful from college. And, interspersed among them, was the only one I hadn't answered.
Happy Birthday, Dan. I hear you're moving cross country. I hope it helps. I'm sorry.
Sarah hadn't reached out since the day I'd left the apartment, and neither had I. She could have fallen into a volcano, for all I knew - four months of total radio silence, until 11:47 this morning. When the text had come in, I'd stared at the notification for a while without opening it, knowing already what it probably said but not quite willing to acknowledge its existence yet. When I finally opened it over lunch, I read it twice, then ceremonially tossed the phone to the table, the clatter turning a couple heads at the sandwich shop I was eating at. I hadn't opened it since, but it played over in my head regardless.
I hope it helps.
Fuck off.
I shook the thought from my head for approximately the seventeenth time today - that text, and the absolute mountain of shit that supported it, was not going to ruin my 24th birthday, or my time here wandering the streets of KC enjoying the whirl of color, sound, and humanity around me.
After leaving Chicago - and Zahra - on Sunday, I'd spent a few quiet days in St. Louis. I'd done the tourist things - the arch, a riverboat ride, some bar-hopping, some music. Spent a while in the National Blues Museum, though I couldn't be convinced St. Louis was a better place for it than Memphis. My time there had been mostly solitary, though I'd talked to a few people at the bars. Here, though, in this lively place in a lively city, I felt more ambitious.
I'd started exploring at the center of the party, the corner of Southwest and Baltimore, and had wandered aimlessly from there, taking in the artwork and murals, watching the street performances, listening to the music, sampling the food, striking up conversation wherever. It was sort of freeing, the feeling of floating around in a place I was just passing through, sampling but not staying, traveling in whatever direction struck my fancy and always finding something worthwhile there.
That's why, as I approached an intersection and I heard a voice singing low and feminine and melancholic, I followed it. The depth of it grabbed me and drew me another block west, into the setting sun.
Well I was out there, and all alone
I was searching for a friend
Even with my sunglasses, the glare was too bright to see her at first, and she only came into focus when I got close enough to put the sun to my side. She sat on a chair on the sidewalk, with a beautiful bright mural behind her, a portable amp next to her, a mic in front of her, and an acoustic guitar in her hands. There was no one else who had stopped to listen, though people were passing by here and there; we were now toward the outskirts of the event area. For her part, it wasn't clear to me that she saw anyone who was passing by: her eyes were closed and her face turned slightly upward, so that if she'd been looking, her gaze would have flown over the low slung buildings across the street and into the orange-red tinged clouds above, almost the same color as her long auburn hair.
You saw my need and you came along
With your charm you took me in
She was small. Petite, I guess one would say instead. She looked delicate, thin-boned, with pale skin like porcelain. She leaned over the guitar as her long, thin fingers danced and strummed, her nails painted a deep crimson. But while she was small, her voice was deep and robust and textured and timeless, with a bit of the sound of curling smoke to it, like it came from an old juke joint. She sang in a minor key, slowly, wrenchingly. I'd never heard the song that way, but the interpretation felt natural.
Overnight, you captured my heart
Turned the smoke into a flame
She looked the part, too. She had a small nose stud, and I could see the slightest edge of a tat on her right collarbone, though the rest of it disappeared under her shirt and denim jacket. Her newsboy-style hat was just old enough to look earned, and not old enough to look like she'd bought it secondhand. She leaned over that guitar as though it was a part of her. Yet her face was round and young, with the faintest freckles, giving an innocent tinge to a voice that oscillated between soulful and world-weary.
I can't free my heart from you baby
'Cause you keep it hanging on your string
I can't free my heart from you baby
'Cause you keep it hanging on your string
As others passed by, I stopped, and listened. She built the song brilliantly, letting the desperation of it grow and growl in her rendition, and I was transfixed. She never opened her eyes as she sang, not even to look at the two or three quarters that fell into the guitar case she'd left open from people who walked by while she sang.
Your way of loving is my weakness
You made me yours, body and soul
My mind tells me to leave you
But my heart won't let me go
'Cause you tie me down to you in every way
Turn my pleasure into pain
I watched her every move - her throat quivering as she belted it out, her pink lips forming each word, her left hand sliding expertly over the frets while her right hand strummed, her foot tapping out the beat while her knee, exposed from a hole in her tight jeans, kept time. It was sexy, both in the traditional sense and in the platonic ideal. I felt drawn to her presence.
Every time I try to break loose
That's when you tighten up on your string
I can't hold up to what I'm going through
My heart is weakening from the strain
