Bobbie checked her computer for what seemed like the millionth time. Roc wasn’t picking up her calls, her messages went unanswered, and she was convinced he hadn’t read the email that she’d composed so carefully, confessing the details of her thriving phone sex-on-wheels business. She’d explained how it had started by accident one day with a wrong number, a misunderstanding, and a proposal from the caller. She’d also been two months behind on the rent.
She picked up the remote, shutting off the player and the advance CD of Roc’s new record. She had “Swan Dive” on repeat, and many tears had fallen as it played and replayed. Bobbie was sure, even though he’d never said so, that he’d written it for her. It had been that day a few months ago at El Matador Beach watching the dolphins that had seemed to mark a real change in their relationship. The usually reticent Roc, who could express himself so well musically, had, until then, been affectionate but silent about his feelings. Then, as they watched the sailboats sparkling on the horizon and the surfers bobbing in and out of the waves, they’d spotted a school of dolphins flashing in the late afternoon sun, dipping and diving in the Pacific, just yards from the shore. He’d taken her hand and said, “So graceful, they’re so free. The only time I feel like that is with you.” And he’d smiled so sweetly; she’d wished that he would take his shades off, but it didn’t spoil the moment. They’d stopped at the Heavenly Blessings Center on the way back and fed the swans, and the glow from the day had lasted into her bedroom that night. The next day, he’d shyly played “Swan Dive” on his acoustic guitar for her, and she’d been speechless.
Bobbie’s thoughts turned to the nasty client back-up that must be growing on her voice mail, given that she hadn’t gotten in her car, much less left the apartment all day. She shut down her computer after checking one last time for a response from Roc, grabbed a cold lemonade, and headed for her car with her phone and an extra battery. She had pulled up the ramp and stopped at the curb to check for oncoming traffic when a figure came out of nowhere and jumped onto the hood of the Toyota with a demented grin and a can of Lone Star foaming over onto his hand. Bobbie stood on the brake, and Delray Jackson slid off the hood and out of sight. In horror, Bobbie threw off her seatbelt and leapt from the car. Delray rolled out from underneath like he’d been checking the transmission, something she’d seen him do on more than one occasion.
“Howdy, Junebug. Your trannie’s not quite right, and you might want to air-up the left front sometime soon.”
“Delray Jackson, I’m fixin’ to flatten you.”
“Ahh, Bobbie Jean, you’d never hurt your big old boy, and I know it.”
She glared at Delray as he hauled himself up from under the car and swirled the contents of his beer around, checking for any losses. “What do you want, Delray?”
“You. With me. Makin’ babies in Farcry in a little house with a baba-que, a clothesline, and a mess of dogs in the yard.” He grinned stupidly as she stood, hands on hips, slowly shaking her head in disbelief. “They re-opened the drive-in this year. I’ll bet you didn’t hear about that,” he added hopefully.
No, she allowed as she hadn’t heard the good news about the drive-in before taking a deep breath to calm herself. “Delray, I don’t want any of that. I’m happy here, hard as that may be for y’all to believe. It’s real pretty, it don’t rain but two or three times a year, and I can see the ocean any old time I like.” His puppydog expression still had its goofy charm, and Delray did look good in his Levis, but Bobbie had to toughen her tone. “I like the food, the folks here are real nice, and I especially like being a good long way from Farcry and the likes of peckerwood like you.”
“Whatever blows your dress up, Junebug, but I ain’t leavin’ without you.”
“Oh, Delray,” she said, exasperated, getting back into her car. She lowered the window and looked him in the eye. “You’ll get bored of this place in no time. They’re a bunch of phonies here. You’ll run out of money and patience soon enough waiting for me to change my mind, which is not about to happen.” As she put the car in gear and eased into the street, she heard Delray start to curse and yell.
“I know where his management office is, Bobbie Jean. I looked up the address on the back of one of his CDs in Red Barn Records ’fore I came here. And I brought a little Alabama toothpick with me in case he needs convincing.”
Bobbie knew that an Alabama toothpick was big enough and sharp enough to gut possum, and she felt a bit sick. In the rearview mirror she saw Delray standing in the middle of her street, bowing formally and toasting her with backwash from his Lone Star as the cars navigated around him. She was grateful he didn’t have wheels as she headed down to a favourite vista overlooking the ocean in sleepy Palos Verdes to catch up on a little work. She parked away from the only other car in sight, opened her lemonade, and pulled out a bottle of Very Cherry nail polish. She lowered the seat to full recline, propped her feet on the dash and picked up her cellphone.
“He-llo, my little throbbing cockatiel. You wanna show me your plumage today?”
With the phone under her ear, she painted a toe with one hand, and as she reached for the lemonade with the other, it tipped onto her bare leg. “Oooooohhh,” she squealed. At the reply from the other end of the phone, she continued, “You wanna sing for mama, do you?” She’d have to get one of those hands-free thingies someday.