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Apparently Warren is just a huge ball of surprises. When he picks me up Friday night and takes me to a bar called Blind Billy’s, I am more than a little surprised and disappointed. Irritation narrows my eyes, and my teeth set hard against one another. I had thought we would go to a movie or a restaurant for a real date. My stomach sinks realizing he has brought me to a bar. “You realize I can’t go in there,” I say, drawing back.
“You can. Come on.” We walk up to the door, and the man standing there nods us in, giving a high-five to Warren as we pass. “You’re with the band.” He winks at me and mimes drumming in the air, leading me through the bar to the small stage where three other boys are already setting up. I should have said, “I don’t want to go in there.” But I didn’t, and now I’m here.
“You’re late, dick.” I do a double-take when I see the man connected to these words, as he stands up from plugging in a cable. Except for the stud in Warren’s eyebrow, this man is his doppelgänger. I realize that my mouth is hanging open so I close it with a sharp intake of breath. He makes eye contact with me for a very assessing second before nodding and going back to his business.
“Yeah, yeah.” Warren turns to me, still holding my elbow lightly and leans into me. “That’s Elliot. He’s my brother.” He turns and points to another man, making his way from the bar. “That’s David, not my brother.”
I nod, taking in the unruly, blond hair and the ink creeping up the side of his neck. “How many brothers do you have?”
He raises his eyebrows, puffing out a small laugh, “More than I know.” He laughs again, probably at my shocked expression. I wonder if all the brothers have such old man names: Calvin, Warren, Elliot. Maybe there is a William, Clarence, and Millard in the wings waiting to come out.
“You hungry?” he asks. I am, somewhat, and nod. I’ve not eaten since breakfast and was really looking forward to a restaurant meal, a rare enough occasion in my life. So hungry, yes. Awestruck, yes. My irritation fading as I realize that he’s brought me to see him play in a band. I have finally put together the thought that has been in the edge of my head.
“You’re in a band?” I ask as he settles me at a table, dashing off quickly to bring back a menu. I repeat my question when he comes back.
He nods. “Elliot’s Child.” I must look puzzled, so he adds, “The name of the band is Elliot’s Child.” Recognition hits. I have seen fliers for them at school and around town.
“No way! Wow.” I am sincerely impressed. I am with the boy in the band.
“Okay, now look, I have to go set up. Order anything you like, Do you want a drink?” I shake my head no. “You good then?” I nod as he starts to back away, his eyes still on mine, “Is this okay?” His sudden look of insecurity makes the rest of my irritation ebb away.
“Yes!” I call out, “This is totally okay.” I watch them set up for a few minutes before I realize that I am staring at him and probably look like a lovelorn sheep, so I turn my attention to the menu he brought. Appetizers, a series of fried foods, mozzarella sticks, fried pickles, french fries, and the like. I flip the card over and find the other side has sandwiches and burgers available. I order a grilled cheese and fries, water.
He comes back to check on me once before the music starts, and his eyes land on me several times during the session. The band is good, not that I know anything really about music, but I know what feels good. Warren keeps a nice solid beat and Elliot seems very good on the guitar. David plays bass, like guitar but with four low strings. They all sing, at different times, and sometimes together. The first couple of songs draw people in, and within minutes my nearly empty side of the bar is filled with people. One group is made up of five women and two men, clean cut and smiling. The men are clearly married to two of the women, and the others are along for girls’ night. The tall blonde with an open and friendly smile is the first to take her man to the dance floor, and the others soon follow, after long draws on their drinks.
The third song brings Warren out of his drum cage and to the front of the small stage where he taps the skins with his lithe fingers. He catches my eye and motions me to come to the dance floor. I do. I like to dance, I’m probably not good at it, but it is so dark that as long as I don’t fall over, nobody is going to pay any attention to me. I meet him over by the bongos, and he flips his hand to me as if to offer me the skins. I feel the rhythm and try to set the beat. With less success than Warren. He joins me and soon our four hands are slapping down on the skins, and I am giddy with life. My blood is singing through my veins, and this beautiful, talented, man is my date.
I dance the night away with the cul-de-sac moms, as I’ve come to think of them, and think I have never felt more alive. At the end of the night Warren hands me a set of broken drumsticks, a souvenir of our date.
We finish the night as the bar closes down, sitting around a table. I know I am glowing with sweat and excitement. This is like the Friday Fires, but a million times better. Live music and a dance floor. Dang.
“You guys are good,” I say for maybe the third time. They all three laugh, and Warren is suddenly wrapping me in his arms. I let him because we are all loose and feeling alive and free. Everything is good tonight. “So you liked it?” he asks, and they all burst out laughing.
“Shut up.” I try halfheartedly to knock him off of me, but it only makes everybody laugh harder. I know I am gushing, like a girl with a crush, gushing.
“I think you should write press for us.”
“Shut up,” I say again.
David leans back in his seat, stretching his arms over his head, his eyes lowered to half mast. “Well, boys, I hate to break this up, but I have baby duty in the morning.” Everybody except me around the table groans. “I know . . .” he says and pushes himself up from the table, rocking the pedestal and sloshing Elliot’s beer onto the tabletop. Warren’s hand rockets out and settles the table. Elliot rises from his chair and pounds David on the back, walking with him to the door.
Warren’s arm comes back to rest on the back of my chair, his fingers light on my shoulder. I turn to face to him, my chin low. “I had so much fun tonight.” Warren tugs me slightly closer.
“I’m glad.” He quirks his lip. “Lame for a first date?”
“No. It was awesome.”
Elliot comes back, dropping his hands solidly on Warren’s shoulders.
“Okay, lover boy. Let’s pack it up.” We’ve already packed the van with their equipment, so this is just his farewell.
“Right behind you.” We shuffle from the chairs, and the three of us weave our way to the door.
They slap hands in the parking lot, and Elliot puts his hand on my head, mussing my hair like you would a small child or a pup. “Nice to meet you, Alison.” Normally I would be uncomfortable with somebody touching me like that, but for some reason, on this night there is nothing that can make me feel uncomfortable. I am so happy tonight. I am so alive. We watch him get into the van and drive away.
“Can we do it again?” Warren asks, taking my hand in his.
“I would love that.” I don’t want the night to end.